Locker Room Sutra

Headphones off, my s-shirt soaked,
having galloped my body down
the full length of that shore I
try to exercise at least four days
a week -- today 50 minutes on
the elliptical cardio, then upper
body freeweights -- I head
for the locker room in a roseate
funk of maxed-out endorphins.
As usual, I say nothing to anyone
as I walk, passing by an abs
class on my left and a pack
of treadmill-churning votives
to my left, past the attendant
desk where bored trainers
wait for appointments, past
the court where young men
attack the net through each
other, their Air Jordans
squeaking high and spectral
in the looming spaces of
this suburban sportsplex,
gulls above the bouncing
basketball’s whale basso.
And then I’m in the men’s
locker room, the part
of things forever hidden
from our other where we
go about the usual business
but as mess, undressing
and suiting up, peeling
down again to shower
and dressing back up
again. On one TV
ESPN pundits argue
whether Southern
Cal or Michigan should
play Ohio for the BCS;
on the other TV some guy
hollers the ups and down
of stocks on MS-NBC.
The attendant folding
towels is an older
Haitian who always says Hi.
(Hi.) One guy walks in front of
me on the way to the showers,
naked, short and muscular,
perfectly proportioned for
football or rugby, his ass stout
but chiselled his shoulders
fit for one accomplished
at lifting worlds from a squat,
his hands huge, at the ready,
like a wrester heading
back to the mat.
Ahead an old guy, naked too,
has one foot up on the bench
next to his locker and is
drying between his toes
with an air dryer. His balls
hang in a loose sac which
swings slightly as the
guy rocks the dyer back
and forth. Some guy
is sitting on the next
bench down, talking on
a cellphone, apparently
about a patient; he
fires off some instructions
and rings off, heading
back out to the gym.
I open a nearby locker and
pull off my sweaty duds,
throwing them into a
plastic bag which in
turn goes into my gym
bag. I stash everything
back in the locker and,
now naked too, I head
for the showers. Take a
look at myself in the
big mirror where six
sinks are arranged --
not too bad for my years,
pecs high and tight,
belly not too flaccid,
good bulge in the biceps,
the tats on my arms
keeping their strong
outlines -- fish-riding
Arion, the Uffington Horse --
my legs lithe and strong,
my cock bouncing smallish
in a brown thatch of
pubic hair -- could be better,
could be worse.
A guy is shaving with
a towel wrapped
round his hips, he’s fat
& hairy, balding, tired eyes
looking in the mirror
at me -- is he gay? What’s
he doing here? Probably
he’s had a scare and some
doc has read him the riot
act, or maybe he just
needs to be in here more
than whatever must get
done out there on the
floor (come to think of it,
I rarely see him out there).
Walk on by, walk on by.
I get into the shower
room as a guy steps out
of a stall, plain looking
guy, little heavy, average
face, but what a cock he
has! Thick and veiny,
swinging and bouncing
like an eight-inch
sausage as he walks
(I think, his poor wife!
and oh how I would
love to swing such
savage meat!).
I climb in a stall
and turn on the water,
adjusting it toward
hot and then lavishing
under the steamy pour,
washing away the
sweat and stink, my
pores opening further,
exhilarated, making me
feel refreshed, ready for
anything the world decides
to throw at me. I soap
my chest abs pits neck
balls sphincter legs,
wash it all away and step out,
walking over to the towel
cabinet to pull a thick
beige one off the stack,
dry myself off, wrap a
fresh one round my
waist and then head back
toward my locker,
stopping at the digital
scale on the way.
235. Geez. When I
first hit Florida in ‘80
I was around 150 lbs, a
waif rock n roller
with long bleached
hair and a liver
seeped in picklejuice.
I could stand at
the bar in a rock n
roll club and the girls
would come and talk
to me. Yah well.
The row where
my stuff is locker
is packed with
guys going home.
Two guys my age
who I’ve seen at
this gym for years
are talking with
each other as they
dress, rating the
chances for the
Orlando Magic.
They're jocular good
guys, hard-working
at professions
and sport and love,
the one in love
with his wife (as
far as I can tell from
their conversations),
the other in love
with his wife and
child and mistress.
A young guy dresses
up a few lockers
past, furtively pulling
down his gym shorts
and hurrying up his
jockeys, zealous
to keep his privates so.
Next to him a father
towels of his son,
the man lean in
his 50’s sharply
cut grey hair, they
boy’s eyes ablaze
with all our Mysteries
full in view.
All the way down
at the end of the
row an old guy finishes
toweling off, his back
to me, his former
jock’s body now
fully sloping down,
hairless, pearly,
his spine’s archipelago
working down his back
amid liver-spots and
old scars, his ass
skinny and long,
the shadow of his penis
hanging between
his skinny legs -- he
must be 80, God
bless him. I towel
off a last time
and dress back up
into the clothes
my days know me
by, khakis, short-
sleeved shirt, matching
sox & comfortable
brown shoes, finally
fitting on the gods’
equipage -- watch of
Cronos, gold ring
encircling my heart
with my wife,
the eyeglasses of
of Hermes by which
I peer near and far.
I run my fingers
through my damp hair,
trying to comb out
the wildness; then
shoulder up my gym
back and stroll
lightly out of the
dressing room,
ready to go home.
As I pass the
bathrooms a long
low bladdery fart
lumbers from
in there; on the
one TV the
the ESPN pundits
are now sawing
NASCAR’s ruling
body in half.
Two young black guys
saunter in the door as
I head out, fresh
from their battle of hoops,
insouciant, loose,
baggy shorts and t’s
hanging over their
monstrously lean
lengths, their eyes
laughing or suspicious
or arrogant, taking
small notice of
me as I pass, or so
I think. What the hell,
I’m just another aging
white dude still trying
to look and play young,
walking out a little
hurried since I want
to get home to
my wife by 7 and
start our tired evening
together. And the man
who emerges from
the mouth of the
men’s locker room
says nothing of what in
those depths were revealed,
not even here. I walk
past basketball court
and up the long stairs,
smiling goodbye to the
pretty bosomy attendant
working the front desk
(oh for the old life if just for one night)
and walk on by, down the
last hall and out the last door,
into the night where traffic
is thickly streaming,
pouring steel vehicles
into a dark sea's roar
where testosterone
is in full gallop down
desires long shore,
songs of the male body
whose mysteries I door.