Locker Room Squeaky Clean

One of them drowns in the shower. The other is covered in paper. The third blows himself daily. And the fourth bathes in clouds of gas.

The cleansing rituals of the men in my gym haunt my subway ride.

When I enter, the prune is washing up. He may have broken his back, he may have never lifted a pound. When I leave, he’s still there, showering...looking for sex, no doubt. Even if my workout takes an hour, his shower begins and ends it.

Man has invented numerous drying agents: towels, paper, hot air, silica gel. Some more appropriate than others.

The flag-bearer is creviced, and claims his body's nooks with sheets of off-white absorbent paper. After he showers he plants a flag between his thighs, and flags behind his balls, and one flag for each armpit. He clips his toenails, moisturizes his face, and blow-dries his hair while the paper sheets wave patriotically.

The blower needs a kind of dryness only deserts provide. He places a piece of paper towel on the floor, stands within the white rectangle, takes the blow dryer off the plastic hook on the wall and flicks it on. He blow-dries his pits and crotch, lifting his man-parts and stretching down he pulls apart his ass to reach even his sphincter with the jet of heat. Once his crotch is parched, he dries the rest of his body with a towel.

Axeman dries with a towel but remoistens with Axe body spray, which sends choking clouds into his neighbors' throats. Then he dresses. Then he colognes. So, shampoo-scented, soap-kissed, Axe-sprayed, cologne-bathed, he walks out without a ring on his finger, without lips to kiss.

And my only quirk is I pee in the shower. I am so unstrange.