Schultz: Speaking The Unspeakable — Gays Should Not Share Locker Rooms With Straight Men
By CHARLES C. SCHULTZ
I do not care if I a lose my job. I do not care if family members disassociate themselves from me. I do not care if demonstrators gather outside my apartment and shriek in protest. I demand that everyone accept the truth: I don’t like sharing my gym locker room with homosexual men. Alright, I said it. Now the commissars of political correctness can excoriate me. The denizens of self-righteous liberal dogma can condemn me. I don’t care. I have the right to think and feel as much as the most delicate Jezebel-reading, lululemon-wearing petunia.
Why now, you ask? What prompts this cathartic rant? This Friday evening I went to my athletic club to unwind. It is located in a family area of a large coastal city. Of course, there are gays around. I happen to like the average gay more than the average straight.
Let’s get back to my story. A portly gentleman with whom I have exchanged pleasantries on many a lonely Friday workout eve mentioned that he is gay. He mentioned this because he wanted to distinguish himself from the sicko gay guy at the gym that he accused of attempting to pick up a 15-year-old boy in the steam room. At the time he broke the news, I had just finished undressing and putting on athletic clothes right in front of him. How naive I am, I thought. All these months I thought we were sort of male-bonding. Just two family-less codgers staying in shape in order to attract the odd 30-something female foolish enough to bed with us.
When I finished working out, guess who was there? When I went to the steam room, guess who was there? When I had to drop my towel and pull up my boxer shorts over my bare ass, guess who was there?
Now I don’t even know for certain that this guy was timing his changing to sync with mine. The fact that he is monumentally less attractive than I am does not help matters. The mere chance – or likelihood – that this bloated bald bloke has any increase in the blood flow to his nether regions when my bare ass reveals itself is repulsive to me. And I have the constitutional right to be repulsed!
Everyone on the internet and in print says, “Why should you care if someone changing and showering with you is gay? If he asks you out, just tell him you are straight.” To this, I say “bollocks!”
Consider this scenario: my state legislature passes a law that says that anyone that signs a form under oath swearing that one “feels” like a member of the other gender may use that gender’s locker rooms. I sign one of these forms. That same night I begin spending more time at the gym. The women’s locker room becomes my new sanctuary. The women that see me figure that I am gay or transgender – or whatever – and tolerate my presence. I chat them up and try to be like one of the girls. There is so much to talk about when you are naked – work, traffic, our workouts – and you had better believe that I am savoring every bare shoulder, every pair of breasts and the feint scent of their naked bodies! Am I smelling the scent that comes from between their legs? I am giddy just thinking about it.
Now if I myself were gay, I could see myself seeking the company of young, fit males when they happen to be naked. I would hang out in health clubs. Nay, I would join the Navy and live in a submarine. Sound extreme? Switch the seamen with the nubile, fit young seawomen and you will understand. Imagine living in close quarters with these women. Can’t you just smell their secretions in the air? Even if you were not copulating with them, the endless flow sexual energy would be intoxicating. How much Kleenex do they stock on those nuclear subs?
Now let’s journey back to my experience with my gay locker room mate. Am I really to believe that he is any less excited by naked, fit men than I am by naked, fit women? Am I to believe that he hangs out (literally) in the gym locker room being an innocently sociable guy – walking around naked with men much younger and more fit than he – without any lascivious intent? And am I not to be self-conscious when he is five feet away and I drop my towel and stick out my butt as I pull up my underwear? Hmmm, should I bare my ass or my penis to him? Which is less awkward for me? If I bare my side, he gets to see some of both. Last night I settled on giving him a good shot of my ass. Oh, I hate worrying about this in the locker room. Women would never tolerate this feeling of violation by a man!
This leads to my ineluctable conclusion: gay men should not share locker rooms with straight men.
Don’t get too excited. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I do not advocate a legal ban of gay men in straight locker rooms. This would be too unwieldy a law. Would we need separate locker rooms for gay men and lesbian women? Would the gay locker room turn into a sexual free for all? It just seems unworkable.
Not every problem has a simple, elegant solution. I see only a “least worst” strategy for this issue: gay men should voluntarily abstain from using straight locker rooms. We should “man up” and ask them to get out. Gay men that insist on using straight locker rooms should use them sparingly, go about their business in an efficient manner and leave. They should keep their heads – both of them – down. Straight men should feel free to express their displeasure at gay men stripping naked with them the same way that women would object to a straight man doing so in their locker room. In fact, the violation of the gay interloper might be even worse because at least, in theory, a straight female might appreciate the attention of a large proportion of straight males. In stark contrast, virtually no straight males appreciate sexual attention from gay men. This is especially true when they are naked.
99-percent of straight men can thank me for saying what they feel but are afraid to state out loud.
I have barred the door to my apartment — the one place I can be naked in peace — because the stones will soon be flying through my windows. I can already see the distant pinpoint lights of torches advancing through city streets carried by Hitler’s bownshirts. I can hear the distant mob calls echoing through the night: “HHHOOOMMoophhoobbe….”