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