A spring abortion

I was on a roll here for a while. And let the record show I almost made it. See, I’ve amassed enough of those foo-foo trendy shirts with silk-screened baroque abstractions and embroidered tendrils that I realized I could wear one each day for a week and create my own Gay As The First Week Of May wardrobe event. Because sometimes picking my outfit in the morning is the most exciting part of my day. Unfortunately, the shirts are all about as thick and warm as gossamer negligée (why buy ultra-trendy clothes that are built to last longer than they stay in style?) and it’s gotten pretty damn cold here. So I aborted my one-man fashion marathon on the last day and reported for work this morning in a sturdy polo shirt that actually blocked the wind on my walk to the bus. Please don’t see this as evidence of my personal failure.

Speaking of almost-not-there clothes, I need to get Naked Locker Room Guy off my chest. (Maybe I should clarify that statement: I need to get my Naked Locker Room Guy story off my chest.) As you can imagine by his name, this dude finds ways to stay as naked as he can as long as he possibly can in our gym's not-always-pleasantly-scented locker room—literally standing around naked when I change into my workout gear and still being naked when I come back an hour later after my workout. And he doesn’t seem to be doing anything of consequence all that time. He may be standing at the sink, or drying his hands, or rummaging through his locker, but the real purpose of all this non-activity seems just to be pointlessly, unproductively naked. (There’s a Bush Administration metaphor in there somewhere.)

Now, I have no problem with nudity—on any body type—in the locker room; changing clothes and showering and kinda being naked once in a while is the whole point of being there. And this guy isn’t terribly creepy about it. I don’t see him leering or doing anything expose-y or in any way making anyone uncomfortable. And he’s not the stuff of locker-room porno fantasies, so I doubt he’s thinking people are enjoying the view. But seriously. An hour-plus of nakedness almost every day of the week in a locker room that smells faintly of sewage and dirty socks? I don’t get it.

But there’s more. The dude is old enough that his all-over tan has taken on the look of a leather leotard. Which, while not the healthiest of choices, is his own aesthetic and he totally owns it. And I don’t know how to say this next part in a way that won’t be slightly disturbing, but I’ll try to put it as delicately as possible: He’s pretty lean, and his butt cheeks hang apart enough that you can totally … um … see his butthole. As clearly as you could see a cruller on an old pillow. Even when he’s standing perfectly upright. And though I am decidedly not in the habit of staring up people’s buttcracks, there are mirrors on every wall and he works the whole locker room with such omnipresence that his backside is always in everyone’s sight lines and you just can’t help but look at it. Even when you really, really, really don’t want to. And while everyone can see that he’s achieved an all-over tan that is unquestionably all over, is that really an accomplishment we need to revel in together? And if you think about it too long—even though you really, really, really don’t intend to—you start to wonder if he’s ever gotten a sunburn down there. Or if he’s nicked himself shaving it. Or if he’s taught it to wink and wolf-whistle at passers-by.

But! Now that all of that is off my chest, I leave the ponderables to you, dear readers. And since my mind is now free of this burden, I can use it to accomplish more productive things. Like planning my Second Week Of May themed wardrobe event. Which, unlike all those other fashion trends—like The Summer Of The Ankle! or The Year Of The Shoulder!—will not attempt to usher in The Week Of The Butthole!

If you’re lucky.