Trapped in a Junior High Locker Room

A few summers ago, I walked into the campus locker room after a long run, planning to shower and change clothes.  It was deserted, as one expects in the summer. But just as I dropped my underwear, the door burst open, and 50,000 kids ran in.

They were beside me, beneath me, above me, behind me, jostling, pushing, occasionally saying "Excuse me, sir," a blur of swim-sleek bodies and wet dripping hair and tiny hands fiddling with locks and swimsuits tossed to the floor.

Probably junior high age, at various stages of pubescence.  Some hard tight muscles, some thin, soft androgyny.  Some massive cocks and low-hanging balls, some nubs and pencil-dicks.  About half of them were aroused.

I grabbed my towel, wrapped it around my waist,  and inched my way through the crowd, murmuring "Excuse me, excuse me" as I collided with the occasional shoulder or arm, butt or dick.  A hand cupped my butt.  Whenn I turned, a freckled kid with braces was grinning "Sorry,  sir, I thought you were...."

Finally I extricated myself from the mass of bodies and found their handler, who was passing out towels as they pushed and shoved their way to the showers, three or four under each head.

"Junior high swim camp," he explained.

"I think I'll wait it out," I told him.  There would be no room for me to shower amid the throngs of exuberant 14-year old bodies anyway, and just looking made me uncomfortable.

Some of the physiques were impressive.  Some of the cocks were impressive.  And aroused.

Was it ethical to notice?









The high school wrestler in this photograph is 15 years old.  He's from Illinois, where the age of consent is 17, so it will be two years before an adult can legally date or engage in a sexual relationship with him.

Is it ethical to notice him?  Can you appreciate the aesthetic beauty of someone with whom physical activity would be inappropriate?

Certainly. Physical activity and aesthetic appreciation are two different things. You can enjoy the attractiveness of your boss, your students, your brother-in-law, your nephew, a stranger on the street, people who you would never consider dating or hooking up with. 

One proviso: no cruising or aggressively staring, which moves from aesthetic appreciation to sexual intent and, outside of a bar context, makes nearly everyone uncomfortable.  Straight men tend to think of it as a threat, and gay men, as creepy.











Another proviso:   Only persons aged 18 or older may be depicted aroused or in a sexual situation in photographs, film, or any visual art.  Teens can be arrested for taking selfies of themselves.

Nudity is permitted, but why take chances?  Never photograph anyone under 18 nude, with or without their permission.  [The guy taking this selfie is obviously in his 20s.]

A third proviso: Obviously, no dating or hooking up.  If your hookup looks young, card him.

Does noticing mean that you are a  p___?

Certainly not.

This is a pre-pubescent athlete.  Notice the big head compared to the body, the soft, square torso, the baby face.  He looks like a child, which of course he is.  You may find him cute, like a puppy dog, but not at all beautiful.
















These athletes are post-pubescent.  Notice the small heads compared to their bodies, the long, lean, muscular torsos, the tight faces.  They look like adults, and which of course they are, physiologically if not socially.

Noticing means that you are attracted to men, not children.

My Terrible, Horrible, Harrowing Walk Home from the Gym

Plains, August 2018

This morning I went to the gym with Bob, but had to walk home because he needed the car to work.  I couldn't run because I was fully clothed.  It's only 2.3 miles, but it was a harrowing experience.

It was a very gray, cloudy day, very humid but not hot, with that weirdly oppressive feeling you get sometimes when things are a little off.

1.  The Crazy Guy. About .4 miles down a very busy street, with cars zooming past at breakneck speed, then cutting around a Kwick-Trip.  Except there was a husky guy in black, with long hair and multiple tattoos, blocking the sidewalk, glaring at me in a threatening fashion, and occasionally hitting himself in the head.

I crossed the street to get away from him, and he watched, glaring and hitting himself, as I walked the long way around.

2. The Muscular Crazy Guy. About .4 miles down a no man's land street with a mental health center, a food bank, a decrepit pizza place, a vacuum cleaner place, a laundromat, and some houses. All deserted and ominous, like the world after an apocalypse.

A muscular guy wearing only short black pants was walking in big circles on the sidewalk and street outside the vacuum cleaner place, talking angrily to himself.

"Not another one!" I thought.  "Is there a wacko convention in town?"

When he saw me, he started yelling -- I couldn't make out the words.

3. I ducked into the used bookstore to get away from him, browsed around the sorry collection of worn paperbacks from the 1970s, and finally bought a history of ancient Egypt that wasn't too dismal.

4. The Stopped Car.  About .5 miles through the "bar" neighborhood of downtown, with saloons, taverns, bars, and gin joints on every block, plus the post office, some banks, the Masonic Temple, and a ladies' strip club.

 I always find the bar neighborhood disturbing, but there's something eerie about it when you realize that all of the buildings are empty.

A car stopped right next to me, and a heavily tattooed guy jumped out.  No place to turn off, so I just walked faster.  I heard him talking behind me.  At the end of the block, I finally managed to turned  off.

5. The Dementer.  About .4 miles through a residential neighborhood, older houses (this was a fashionable neighborhood 100 years ago) with the woods that lead up to a convent in back. 

A tall figure wearing a long black robe and black hood was standing in a yard next to the woods.

It didn't seem to notice me, but still, that was enough.

6. The Breakfast Burrito.   I ran to the gay-friendly coffee house, where I figured there would at least be people.

There was.  A heavily tattooed man --even his fingers were tattooed -- sitting at one of the tables, eating a breakfast burrito.  He looked up and glared at me. I left.

7. The Flamingo. About .3 miles down a busy street, past closed antique shops, a store that sells only olive oil, a comic book store, a bakery, a bicycle shop.  There was someone leaned against the front of the Eagle Lodge across the street, leg drawn up like a flamingo. Just standing there.

8. The Crazy Lady.  I stopped at the gas station/convenience store for a banana.  There was a woman in the parking lot picking up bits of paper. I thought she was an employee tidying up, but she wasn't wearing a uniform, and wouldn't you use a broom for that?

9. The Egyptian. Only .3 more miles to home, across a busy street and up a hill.  The streets in that neighborhood have square stone planters with trees growing in them.  I guess it's supposed to be scenic, but it's difficult to negotiate when there's a crowd, or even two people coming in different directions: one has to wait, or step out into the street.

I saw a guy heading in my direction, and knew that we would both reach the planter at the same time, but I was in no mood to wait.  He wasn't either.  We turned to face each other as we squeezed past: he was my height, thick biceps, square hands black curly hair, black eyes.   Our chests scraped against each other.   He smiled and said "Excuse me."  Middle Eastern accent.

Did I say the trip was terrible, horrible, and harrowing?  I meant fantastic!

 A walk full of hot guys, one shirtless, another who tried to pick me up, a third who brushed his chest against me. Plus I got a book on ancient Egypt, a paranormal shadow person, and a banana.

I decided to go back to the coffee shop and talk to the heavily tattooed guy eating the breakfast burrito.