I go to a gym. It’s quite a nice place, in my lovely home city. The people there are, shall we say, rather more liberated than usual.
The locker room is a strange place of dualities, when it comes to nakedness. The older folk, those of drooping flesh and marked skin, walk around like it’s no big deal. They have presumably spent a lifetime in their own bodies, and the vast majority no longer have any fucks to give about modesty. If it’s easier to change without trying to block the view of their fellow patrons with a towel through extensive gymnastics, then change in the nude they shall.
The younger ones hide their bodies. They have more to show, and I assume they will show plenty of skin in the right context, but not here. Not in front of the people who don’t matter. Some do bare all, but most are too insecure. I feel bad for them. I wonder if they haven’t learned yet that no one will judge them for wanting to be comfortable when they work out.
The middle aged run the gamut. Sometimes you wonder about them, and the choice of whether they show skin or not. Some are particular about it, and hide as much as possible; some display their scars and tattoos like trophies of a life worth living. I get so curious about them. Like, what does a pattern of thorny roses wrapped around the arm mean to the bearer? Where did that long thin white mark on the shoulder blades come from?
If only their skin could talk. Still, I like to watch. The pansexual in me always seems to find something to admire in them.