Photo by Chris Nieratko
Dir: Pat Myne
There are exactly 28 10" x 10" square tiles leading from the entrance of the men’s locker room at my gym to the bathroom. After that there are 19 2" x 2" tiles until you get to the urinals; 14 if the “big guy” ones are taken and you have to use the mini-pisser. I know these numbers to be accurate because I count them two to four times every morning because looking down at the them is the only place I can set my eyes where I won’t have any chance of seeing a naked man. I’ve tried everything else short of keeping my eyes closed entirely, but I fear if I tried that I might walk right into someone’s dick. I don’t understand why everyone in my locker room insists on walking around naked. Is this a common thing at all gyms? My gym is by no means overrun with hard-bodies, no, I work out with theelderly, the obese, the unsightly, the unshaven. These people are real fucking ugly when they are clothed; butt-naked they are utterly repulsive. Yet they saunter around in their birthday suits like they are Adonis, subjecting me to quick glances of their 80-year-old cocktail franks at seven in the morning, every morning. Have you ever seen gray pubes? So gross. Like I said, I try to avoid having to see it; I’ve tried looking toward the wall, but the wall is lined with mirrors forcing me to still look at old dick. I’ve tried to open a locker on my left and my right as I change to act as blinders but when I shut the door there’s a 350-pound naked dude standing right there asking, “How’s it going?” Fucking shitty, fatass. Put some clothes on. That’s another thing: Why do people want to talk to me? I don’t have a friendly face, why ask me how I’ve been? You don’t know me. Just leave me alone and let me get out of there. Maybe if everyone kept their goddamn clothes on I wouldn’t mind the small talk. But these people have no shame. The other day I’m walking toward my locker, which is way in the back row away from everyone else, and I overhear, “Oh yeah, that’s a safe bet. I’ve had my money in mutuals for years. No worries.” I turn the corner and there are two bare-ass scumbags, save for some Adidas flip-flops, chatting it up about investment strategy. How is it possible, I’d like to know, to carry on any sort of dialogue with some guy’s limp Johnson within a foot of your own? The best is they’ve got this contraption that dries your swim trunks in five seconds. Just throw them in there, shut the top, and, BAM, all dry. But it never fails—every morning I walk into the locker room and see some asshole drying his shorts without a stitch of clothing on and a towel draped over his shoulder. Over their shoulder! It’s not like he doesn’t own a towel or he forgot his towel or he is too poor to buy a towel, no, he’s got a towel right there on his shoulder! But he refuses to use it. Doesn’t he feel that breeze on his balls? Why not wrap the goddamn towel around his waist? Please! For fuck’s sake! I feel like I see more dicks in a week than any of these porn sluts and I really can’t take it any more.
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