Conventional wisdom says that after you get married, you and your spouse stop trying to doll up for one another, gain weight, and turn into asexual potatoes that make people who view you think “Ew” as you pass them.
Well, I am proud to proclaim that however many years deep in this marriage I am: I still got it.
I got checked out at the gym recently, and it went to the point of mild obsession within the span of minutes.
Was it the hot-bod woman the desk clerks call “Boomtown,” or the beautiful blonde with the perky-beyond-words… wait, my wife reads these. Better not get too descriptive regarding all the women I see working out.
(Seriously, though. I would give the blonde the most disappointing 30 seconds of her life)
Well, it doesn’t matter, because it was no woman. As has been my luck in life, I was given an arched eyebrow of interest by the newest homosexual man at the gym.
There are several gay folk (that I know of) who exercise there, and they are fine ‘n’ dandy people. I have no shame in front of them in the locker room, if only because I’d rather they see what I’m packing and be disappointed by the reality than have them fantasizing about me.
(Because as the Bible taught me: all gay men fantasize about every man they see. It’s in the book of Matthew, I think)
Anyway, the other day I was on the upper level—which overlooks the main area—and saw a man exit the locker room wearing a tight muscle shirt and walking with a little extra swish in his step. My Gaydar went “ping,” my shoulders shrugged, and I went back to spinning my spindly legs on the elliptical machine.
The gay fellow made his way up to my level and hopped on a treadmill several machines over. I didn’t realize this until I cleaned off my sweat and turned to leave; he was several yards away, casually glancing at me.
Fair enough; ogling never hurt no one.
I made my way down to the locker room and prepared to shower…
…when the homosexual fellow walked in and walked past me, again, stealing a glance.
I furrowed my brow a little, because mathematically speaking, if he was done for the day, he hadn’t gotten much of a workout. He arrived after I was already upping my heart rate, and was already in the locker room? According to my calculations, he would have only spent around 10 minutes on his treadmill.
And then he walked by again, stealing a glance, and then once more.
Now I was ready to roll my eyes.
Really?
I mean, really?
Did he think he was fooling anyone?
“Whoops! Forgot to get something out of my locker… Oh, I guess I don’t need it, I’ll put it back. No! Wait! Better duck into my locker just one more time…”
Ignoring him, I toweled up and made my way back to the showers, which are little private cubicles.
My new friend took note of my destination.
I scrubbed off my sweat, toweled up once more and stepped out of the shower. Standing at a urinal ten yards away was the President of the Boy George Fan Club.
Now, if you are a woman and unfamiliar of how men pee at urinals, it generally goes like this: stand, stare forward, and pee. You may look down, but not left or right. Especially if there is anyone next to you.
Cut to the scene awaiting me as I stepped out of the shower: the man was standing, arms akimbo, and head cranked to the side so he could look over his left shoulder. It was the least casual stance I have ever seen, and beyond obvious what he was doing: monitoring the shower stalls.
Instead of rolling my eyes, I now wanted to laugh.
I don’t know if this was supposed to make me uncomfortable or flattered, but as I stifled my giggles and shook my head, I was neither. I thought about saying “Oh knock it the fuck off,” but decided I didn’t care enough to.
Back at my locker I did an under-the-towel dress like women do at the beach as he not-so-casually rooted around inside his locker while trying to see what I was up to. I said I’ll change in front of anyone, but not when they’re actively looking for a peepshow.
I think the only thing that bothered me about the whole situation is that actions like those of this particular homosexual are exactly what create homophobia. In fact, I’m pretty sure there are a couple men at the gym that would beat the shit out of him if they were the object of his affection.
And I think they’d be within their rights to do so.
Not because the guy is gay, but because he’s a pervert.
Then again, given his actions, maybe that’s the kind of thing he’s looking for.
I mean, you know those gays, into gerbils, sex, drugs, rock-n-roll… chips, dips, chains, whips… You know, your basic high school orgy type of thing. I mean, uh, I’m not talking candlewax on the nipples, or witchcraft or anything like that, no, no, no. Just a couple of hundred kids running around in their underwear, acting like complete animals.
(Again: Book of Matthew)
