And The Award Goes To ...

It's been a while children, and I apologize. But you can't force a good rant. It just comes to you.

So I was sitting in the steam room today ... minding my own business, when it came to me that I need to create some sort of award.

I need to create an award for the gentleman sitting next to me who was slowly and rhythmically beating his meat ... although no one in the room was the slightest bit interested. In fact, everyone seemed to be taking pains not to acknowledge the fact that every stroke was accompanied by a weird squeak, squeak sound. We all just sat there stone-faced, staring straight ahead, while he kept on going ... and going ... and squeaking ... and squeaking.

Hey Tin Man, get out of the steam room, you're starting to rust!

I mean, come on people. There are three simple rules for whacking off in the steam room: 1) Get in. 2) Get off. 3) Get out. It's that simple. And while I understand that marketing, in this consumer culture, is everything, if no one's willing to watch your commercial, they're certainly not buying the product.

For to just sit there and beat ... and beat ... and beat your meat incessantly, ignoring all the unspoken steam room social rules, it's just plain rude. It's like you're daring someone to call you out for being annoying. And when they do, THEY look like the asshole prude.

So sometime soon, instead of sitting there gritting my teeth and telling myself, "Don't say anything. Don't say anything. Don't say anything. He'll die of heat stroke eventually," I'm going to get up and go to my locker. I'm going to retrieve that bright shiny trophy, return to the steam room, and hand him the award he's so obviously trying to win. And the inscription will read, "Nobody wants my cock, and I don't care."

When he gives his speech, I hope he remembers to thank God first.

Nancy Drew and the Mystery Poo

So I was sitting in the steam room ... minding my own business ... when in came these two guys. One was a tallish white guy, very cut, lots of lean muscle. The other was a shorter, stockier, Asian guy, also quite pumped. Both had pretty nice dicks. I could tell this because they were both very "excited," when they stepped through the door. That must have been one erotic rinse off. Talk about dynamic tension.

The tall guy sat on the upper bench while the shorter one took a convenient position between his legs on the bench below. Given my annoyance for those who drag things out in the steam room, I mentally applauded the fact that they wasted no time getting down to business. In no time at all, the little Asian dude was coughing and gagging on the other's cock. He soon moved up to an open seat next to the white guy who, like a true gentleman, returned the favor. As I left the steam room for a cooling shower, the last image was of the little muscle dude leaning back, legs askew, with the big white guy going to town.

Apparently he was quite good, because the two of them came out of the steam room just a few seconds before I entered for my second round. Their vacant seats had not yet been claimed, so I placed my foot on the bench in order to step up to the higher seat. And then I looked down. Just inches from my foot, in sharp contrast with the white tile, were a bunch of little brown flecks. Horrified and not trusting my eyes, I did a double take and peered through the steam for a closer look. Was it? No! It couldn't be. It wouldn't be. Could it actually be ... shit?

Well let me tell you, I will not sit in a steam room where there is the slight possibility of shit on the floor. Call me prissy. Call me what you will. But I can barely take some of the sweat funk I am assaulted with, much less the smell of shit. So I pulled a hasty retreat and commenced washing my foot for about five minutes straight. Still, I wondered if I could have been wrong. Surely to God I had misinterpreted something. I mean, that's just not possible.

Another guy who was in the steam room came out and began showering next to me. The two sex hounds had already left, so I discretely turned to him and said, "I know this is a bit of an odd question, but after I left the shower, were those two guys who were getting it on fucking?"

His eyes got a little bit wide. "Well, no," he said, "they didn't. Why?"

"Well," I said, in an even more hushed tone, "when I went back in, it looked like there was shit on the bench below, and I was just wondering."

He again assured me that there had been no fucking. I finished my shower and returned to the locker room.

As I was getting dressed, I noticed yet another guy from the steam room who had witnessed the sweaty twosome. With the mystery still churning in my head, I turned to him and asked quietly, "I know this is a bit of an odd question, but after I left the shower, were those two guys who were getting it on fucking?"

"No," he said. "I didn't see anything like that. Just blowjobs."

"Well," I said, still unable to let it go, "when I went back in, it looked like there was shit on the bench below, and I was just wondering."

That's when a guy piped up behind me. "Oh, the little guy was getting fingered. I was sitting right next to them. I saw the whole thing."

So now you know how little Nancy Drew solved the Mysterious Case of the Steam Room Poo. Although I was horrified, I did take some solace in my quick eye and keen observation skills. And even though it is a disgusting and depraved tale, as is often the case, there is a lesson to be learned. That lesson is: When you're in the steam room, don't drag out sex, and for Christ's sake, don't drag out anything else, either.

THE GYM MONSTERS

There are monsters loose in the gym, monsters masquerading as humans, monsters who can hide their hideous and grotesque nature from the human eye.  It's like the sci-fi channel, but this time it's real, baby.

I don't know their intentions as they walk amongst us.  As of yet I don't know of any fatal attacks.  But I have born witness to some unwanted advances in the steam room.  A paw here.  A sniff there.  They're like animals ... dangerous ... unpredictable ... animals.  

I was cornered by one once.  I was sitting in the steam room, minding my own business, enjoying a refreshing steam.  Then one sidled up to me.  Realizing its presence, I immediately tensed up and considered my options.  Should I show my teeth?  Should I run away?  It was classic fight or flight.  

I decided to play it cool, so I set my eyes on the opposite wall and didn't move an inch.  He tested me.  His leg "accidentally" fell against mine.  He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye like Susanna Hoffs in a Bangles video, searching for a sign of fear or submission.  

Even though my heart was beating madly, I was as rigid and as cold as ice.  If he can smell fear, I thought to myself, I'm toast.  Luckily, much like the velociraptor, the gym monster's hunting instincts seem to be motion based.  After a few more inquisitive displays, he eventually lumbered out the door.  I heaved a slow sigh of relief.

My experience is by no means singular.  I have heard similar stories and seen the same situation repeated at regular intervals.  That the monsters exist and that they hunt almost exclusively in steam rooms and saunas cannot be denied.  Their intents and goals, however, are subject to ongoing debate.  

Some theorize that the monsters are an evolutionary offshoot of modern humans and that their hunting is more of a sexual ritual, a desire to rejoin the tribes of their distant cousins.  Others, including myself, believe that they lust for gay human blood and would just as happily bite your head off as look at you.

Regardless of their true intent, I think most would agree that they are to be avoided at all costs.  Unfortunately this can be exceedingly difficult due to their substantial camouflaging abilities.  Through my intensive studies, I have found that most gym monsters give themselves away by one attribute which they cannot or choose not to control ... their toenails.

I'll never forget the first time I saw a gym monster and became aware of its presence.  I was in a bathroom stall, taking care of business and absent-mindedly checking out the sneakers of the gentleman in the adjacent stall to the right.  I heard the door to the left stall open and close.  The toilet seat clanked down.  Much like Senator Craig, the monster sat with a wide stance.  His feet were so large they practically passed beneath the partition and into my stall.  And that's when I saw them, those awful claws.  

Gym monster toenails come in various shapes and colors.  Most are yellow or golden brown, often with black fungus around the edges.  They are almost always alarmingly long, and they curl and twist in a manner that matches their owner's own twisted desires.  Though they appear cracked and peeling, they are surprisingly strong.  I have heard of gym monsters rapidly scaling trees and buildings, digging in their claws like a lumberjacks's spiky boot.  When under attack, they've been known to lie on their back in a defensive posture with their claws in the air, a most fearsome sight.  

Once you've seen a gym monster, you'll always be aware of them, always on the lookout.  In some ways, I've been living in fear ever since.  But you can't let the monsters, or your fear, ruin your life.  You must press on.

As in most cases concerning the monsters around us, the best rule of engagement is not to engage.  Just go about your business, avert your eyes, and learn how to freeze the fear and disgust from your face.  If you can master the art of not seeing what you see, you might just survive the monsters of this world.  If you can master the art of not smelling what you smell, you might even be successful.  And if you can do both, well then you just might have what it takes to be a whore, or a politician, or even better, a celebrity!  

See you in Hollywood!

IF I CAN SEE YOUR TOES, YOU'RE STILL BAREFOOT ... AND A DIRTY HIPPY

Okay, so we all know how fags love their kicks.  The more brightly-colored, oddly-shaped, ballerina-styled, spring-loaded, absurd, and just plain obnoxious-looking, the better.  I'll admit that even I will throw down some cash for a pair of running shoes that don't totally fuck with my feet.  If you're a runner, you have little choice.

But when it comes to looking absolutely, 100%, balls-to-the-wall stupid, we do have a choice.  Yes, the world may have our jewels in a vice when it comes to the neon offerings of trainers, but it does not require that we succumb to one of the most hideous footwear inventions in recent memory:  the shoes-with-toes phenomenon.

They're called Five Fingers and made by this company called Vibram.  They look like this:

The first time I saw them in some clothing store in the Castro, I thought to myself, "Well, that's retarded.  Who would buy those hideous shoes?"

I eventually did see someone wearing them, and it was of course ... at the gym.   There he was, Random Gay #304, grinding away on the elliptical trainer in his five toed booties.  Seeing them in the real world, I was forced to reassess my initial reaction.

For in my rush to judgement, I had erred.  You know the old saying: to err is human, to forgive divine?  Well I embraced my own divinity, and forgave myself.  I forgave myself for calling the Vibram Five Finger shoes "retarded."

They are not retarded.  Those little piglet pouches, worn even by heavy people who really do need the arch support, aren't retarded.  No not at all.  They are an abomination.  They are testament to all that is wrong and stupid and pretentious in this world.  They are the marriage of the mod prim, the dirty hippy, and the surfer dude.  And their bastard offpsring is the faggot next to me doing squats.

So don't tell me they feel great.  I don't care about your comfort.  Don't tell me how that's the way nature intended us to get about.  You can get about gettin' outta my face.  Just shut up, put on some real shoes, and go "Wee, wee, wee!" all the way home.

GROOVE IS IN THE SHOWER

I was at the gym the other day ...  Yet again I was minding my own business, rinsing off from another fabulous work out.  In walked this young guy.  He was mid-twenties, nice bod (if a bit squat in the build) with a big mane of shaggy hair.  Not the long hippy hair, just some raggy hipster haircut that trolls the street with a pissy face attached to it.

I'm not even going to go off on the fact that he was wearing his underwear in the shower.  My feelings toward this phenomenon are well documented.  No, this time I was taking the high road.  I was letting that issue slide.  Live and let live, I told myself.  It's not even worth it.  

That's when I noticed the ear buds sticking in his ear and the long white i-cord hanging down ... running around his back ... and traveling up ... to the Ipod Shuffle ... clipped ... into ... his hair.  Arrrrrrggggggggggg!!!!  

Why do these freakshows insist on stomping the last glimmers of goodness from my dark garden of a soul?  Oh well, so here we go.  Read on.  Game on.

So you need to wear your ipod to the shower?  Is your music that necessary, or good, for that matter?  Do you find you clean yourself better to a beat?  Do you miss those dark crevices if you don't have Black Box screaming "Ride on time?"  Does your Pert Plus perform better with the equalizer set to Rock or to Dance?  

And clipping the shuffle to your hair?  What the hell is that?  Are you protecting your investment?  If you were 6'7" that might work, but as you look to be about 4'11" I'm pretty sure your gonna get your hair wet, buddy.  How about you throw on a shower cap and just complete the look?

You need to get over yourself and take a naked shower, sans ipod, like everyone else in the world.  I can remember the day when I couldn't take a shower without a full sound system, disco ball, laser lights, a fog machine, and backup dancers.  But I talked myself off that ledge and so can you.

After my "inside voice" tirade, I went into the steam room.  The fog had dissipated and the boys were behaving themselves.  But there was that tension in the air.  The steam kicked on, and as the room clouded the usual squish, suck, slap, slap soundtrack began.  Except this time the boys were riled up and especially enthusiastic.  I was surrounded by the disembodied sounds of sex.

Maybe, I though to myself, I was a little harsh.  An ipod would be awfully nice right now.  But I have no hair.  Where would I clip my Shuffle.  My nipple?  Maybe my pubes.

WHEN BONEY MET CHACHI

You could tell by the way they walked into the steam room that this was something special, something unusual, something meant to be.

It was hard to put your finger on it.  It was hard to describe, but we all felt it.  And that’s what made it so unique and enigmatic.  For it was no one certain thing.  It was a psychic revelation that existed, not as separate parts, but as a complex interwoven combination of sights and sounds … and smells … that upon execution became its own cohesive whole: the lingering ass grab, the subtle yet erotic nipple tweak, the intimate way they held each other’s genitals as if for protection from the angry hissing steam.  Yes, I could tell that these were two very special men with very special feelings.  They were bathed in a hot foggy steam of love that transcended the piddling motivations of the masses, and it could not be contained.

I watched in amazement as they stood there, embracing, swaying slowly, and sucking face like two seniors at the prom.  They groped each other’s bodies.  They tasted flesh with the hurried frenzy of a fat man at an all-you-can-eat buffet, fifteen minutes before closing.  Their moans and sharp intakes of breath were like a symphony of seduction, and this symphony was the soundtrack to the hottest porno you have never seen.  Yes this was hot, and I made a mental note to myself to always remember this day, this time, this moment.

But I was an intruder in their intimate world.  Not wanting to disturb their reverie, I threw up quietly into my hand and tiptoed to the door.

And that, my friends, was the day that Boney met Chachi.

NO SHAVING IN SHOWER

So I was at the gym the other day, minding my own business ... 

And I'm in the showers ... showering.  I'm standing at the end of the room, at the wall with only a single shower head.  It's the one location where it's an optical impossibility to not survey the entire room in one fell swoop.  Not that I would do ever do that ... and take mental notes.  No, I was minding my own business.  Face to the wall.  Lathering.  Turning around only when necessary in my cycle of wash, lather, repeat.

As I'm making said turn, out of the corner of my eye I notice this older gentleman taking a razor from atop his soap dispenser.  "Shaving in the showers?!"  I thought to myself.  "How rude!"  

Although come to think of it, I've never really understood what's so bad about it.  So you shave in the shower at the gym.  Big woop.  People do it at home all the time.  It's just facial hair.  It's not like it's gonna clog the drain.  I mean, when you think about it, who are these gym Nazis and their signs proclaiming NO SHAVING IN SHOWER?  They might as well say HEIL HITLER!

"Atta girl," I thought to myself, with a smile.  "Buck the system."  

I continued to bathe, face to wall, modest as always.  Then out of the corner of my eye, I notice the same guy bending over in this weird hunching manner.  "What the fuck is he doing?" I thought to myself.  "This ain't no Cirque du Soleil, and the porn studio is down on 14th street."  

So I turn a bit to take more in ... and I come face to face with Ye Olde Man Shaving His Balls In Public.  

Now it's not that I haven't or don't or won't shave my balls.  It's not that I have problems with others shaving their balls.  It's just that I do not, in general, find it exactly thrilling to see a fellow queer bending himself into a pretzel, stretching his balls with a death grip, and trying not to accidentally carve out a testicle fillet.  I find it uncomfortable.  I find it embarrassing.  

For in our quest for that Big Gay Beauty, do we really need to be reminded of how ridiculous we look trying to get there?  No.  We need to shave our balls and bleach our assholes in private, behind closed doors, where no one, not even God himself can see our desperate vanity.  And that, my friends, is why there is NO SHAVING IN SHOWER!

The Tagalong

We never knew he was there, lurking in the background ... until we saw the pictures.  Who was that drunken man?

Second Hand Singing

Locker Room : 2/22/2010

I'm going to make this one simple.  Do not sing in the locker room.  Do not sing softly.  Do not sing loudly.  Do not sing poorly.  Do not sing well.  Do not sing.  Because if you do, no matter how good you are, you sound like a douche.

I had just arrived at the gym and was getting my shit together.  I had my head buried in my bag, making sure I hadn't forgotten my socks, or my underwear, or my towel, or my dick, or whatever.  As usual ... I was minding my own fucking business. Then this queen getting undressed behind me started singing.

Lord help me.

She sounded like an absolute songbird ... a crazy deaf songbird with a speech impediment, but a songbird nevertheless.  And you could tell she thought she had plenty of talent, because she sure was sharing it with all of us.  Unfortunately her bouncy tune was falling more than flat, and it was bathing me in a haze of sound that surely causes the ear cancer.

I immediately thought to myself, "Am I on American Idol?"  Because only on American Idol (and apparently in a gay locker room) do you find people so sure of their talent in the face of a horrible, horrible reality.

I choked back a giggle and glanced around to see if I was the only mega bitch getting a kick out of this unwelcome serenade.  I locked eyes with this shaven-headed hottie next to me (dark skin, nice bod ... if you're reading this, call me) and we just smiled in dismay.  I had to look down, or I know I would have laughed.

The off-tune warbling continued in the background.  I think it was getting louder.  Finally fully dressed, I turned to sit and put on my shoes.

Bad choice.

You see, this whole time, I had no idea who was singing.  I had no idea what he looked like, what he was  wearing, if he was black or white, chicken or daddy.  But when I turned around, whoo boy, I was not prepared for what I saw.  I mean, how could you be prepared for a poorly-singing queen standing there with a silver chain link thong running up the crack of her ass.  And it was thick chain link.

That's when I learned something about myself today.  That's when I took a deep, deep look into the workings of my soul.  That's when I came to realize that I'm a good person, that I have an inner light that refuses to go out in a dark world of pain and treachery.

For at that very moment ... I didn't laugh out loud.  And that shit was funny.

Oh, and if the guy who wears the chain link thong to the gym ever reads this, keep on wearin' that chain, girl.  I like it.  

Steam Room 2/20/10

I was at the gym yesterday.  After a nice 5 mile run, I hit the showers and decided to take a steam.

Now I'm not naive.  I know what the steam room of a gay gym entails.  I used to love nothing more than relaxing and patting myself on the back ... or wherever ... after a hard workout.

I was not however, looking for love in all the wrong places.  I wasn't wanting a connection.  I wasn't wanting tenderness.  A little slap and tickle, then I'd shoot my wad and be gone.  Anything more is just annoying.

So imagine my chagrin when I walk in on these two faggots in this weird reclining embrace, taking up all the space on one of the benches.  One was sitting up, leaning against a corner wall, and the other was laying between his legs.  The one against the wall was doing this stupid pressure point massage thing.   The one laying down was reaching back to caress the other's neck and hair.  Everyone once in a while, through the fog, I'd hear a low moan.  It was so fucking annoying, it might as well have been nails on a chalk board.

Don't have a fucking moment in the steam room, for godssake.  And if you do, don't have a weird earthy, granola, creepy massage moment.  I don't know if I was more annoyed by them taking up seats or the pseudo meaningful "We are communing," looks and moans of bliss.

You say communion.  I say puke.

If you're busting a nut in a steam room.  You're not having a meaningful moment.  You're not connecting.  You're being a dirty horned up gaybob who got turned on by all the hot man sweat and had to squeeze one out.    If you need to make any more of it, you need to get it as far the fuck away from me as possible.

The land of the dirty hippies is thataway.

Drag Queen on Acid

Fisty The Clown