People think that locker rooms are either a gay boy’s dream or nightmare- the truth is, they’re a disappointing reality, at least for me.
The beginning of your non-sensual experience starts with the eager Advanced PE class members ripping open the door to the locker room and letting out the pungent scent of sweat and arrogance like some pubescent version of Pandora’s Box.
You walk into a chorus of hyper-masculinity, shouting “f*g”, “gay” or unintelligible conversations about sports to a breathy crescendo.
There are stereotypically good bodies inhabited by objectively bad people, making it hard to appreciate the six pack of the guy in the corner as he yells slurs while his abs glisten like starlight with sweat. There are also stereotypically bad bodies inhabited by similarly bad people. Rolls of sweaty skin and fat trapping empathy in every fold so all that’s left on the exterior is brash dominance and an unearned superiority complex.
They’re all different ages too, freshman who doubled up so they could take advanced PE second semester- which, enviably so must be sending their GPA’s through the roof, all the way to seniors who’ve come to the deluded belief that this easy 100 will combat their four year streak of F’s and decidedly bleak futures.
You’d think that in this room like a gas chamber with pheromones instead of lethality that my mind would either be full of torrid fantasies or raging anxiety but it’s mostly just disgust. I mean everyone has sparks of sensuality for those they hate but those are much less frequent than the abundant dislike I have for everyone around me.
I am surrounded by a pack of meaty teenagers filled to the brim with themselves who are so engrossed with this golden standard of masculinity that they won’t even put on deodorant because apparently smelling decent is only for girls and homos.
This isn’t to say that I have something against athletes- rather the culture that festers within it like the fungus in the shower corners. Male athletic environments never fail to breed a competitive culture to not only see who can push their body the hardest, but who can push past the bounds of reasonable masculine expression the farthest.
Anyways, the frequent homophobic slurs and accusation are never aimed at me- the one who’s actually gay which, while certainly beneficial, doesn’t do much to temper the raging sea of discomfort and disdain that I inhabit every time I go in there. I’m not entirely sure why I haven’t been targeted, I don’t really keep my sexuality a secret, but then again all my friends are girls so it’s certainly likely that the information just never got to them. I like to hope that maybe they do know though, and they’re just clinging to one last ripping thread of human decency, but it’s doubtful.
I know that if I ever did anything remotely close to hitting on one of them, ever left my makeshift shelter at the front locker next to the quiet freshman, ever looked at them in a way that might suggest anything other than respect or indifference- they’d let go of that thread quicker than a game buzzer beginning.
