2008 - There is a YWCA a half block from home, it’s small and old and quaint and I swim laps in the pool a few days a week. It’s seldom crowded; I usually have a lap lane of my own. In the locker room an old naked guy, who served in the Korean War and swims about a half mile a day, towel dries his butt crack holding the towel between his legs and pulling to and from, like he’s flossing his taint. He tells me he and his girlfriend enjoy going to an archery range, target shooting. I put on my underpants and allow that sounds like fun. I’m comfortable here in the in the company of naked men. When I was a kid in the 1950s and 60s I had a membership at the Young Men’s Christian Association. Up to that time and nearly into the seventies bathing suits were not allowed. Everyone swam naked and no one gave it much thought.
I walk down to the YWCA one sunny California day and no one is in the men’s locker room except a couple of preteen kids in baggy swim shorts running in and out of the shower stalls. I undress, put on my Speedo’s and lock my locker. I take a quick shower and go out to the pool and swim laps for about forty-five minutes. I press rewind and shower then go into the locker room. I’m naked on a bench rubbing lotion on my knees, wondering why, after turning fifty, all the hair on my legs disappeared, when in walks a doofy-looking employee, a whistle on a lanyard around his neck. He sees me and turns and walks back out. Five or so minutes later I’m dressed and tying my shoes when the doofy-looking employee walks in again then walks out again then a few seconds later walks back in and brings with him some other doofy-looking guy and the two grade-school kids from earlier.
The two guys look at the two kids and the two kids look at me and give affirmative nods to the two guys. The employee says, “Excuse me sir, I’m not saying you’ve done anything wrong, you’re not in any trouble.”
“Yeah.”
“Well sir apparently you were in here earlier and it’s come to my attention you were naked.”
Nobody says anything and finally I say, “Yeah, I suppose I was. This is a locker room.”
“Well, yes, it is. But you can’t be naked.”
“I don’t see that I have a lot of choice. This is a dressing room and I gotta get undressed in order to get dressed again.”
“You can’t be naked, there are cubicles.”
“The cubicles don’t have seats, and I’m handicapped and need to sit when I dress and undress in the dressing room. I’m sorry but this is getting kind of stupid. The purpose of this room is to take off my clothes and put on my swimsuit and vice versa.”
“There are children.”
“Yeah, there are children and what? They’re gonna be traumatized because I have a grown-up penis?”
“Excuse me sir, can I see your membership card?” “Absolutely not. I’ve been coming here for five years, and I’ve only seen you once or twice.” The other doofy guy, who I’ve deduced is the father of the two corrupted boys, has taken them by the hands and is backing out of the room. Something is wrong with the kids, neither one of them giggled or even smiled, when I said penis. I guess I should have said wiener. I wish I was still naked so I could show the boys how to floss their taints. I get up from my bench, zipper my swim bag and walk home.
The next day I go back and keep my daily routine and continue for another couple of years, until we move to a condo. I never see the two kids or their father again and I see the doofy employee every so often and I always give him a friendly smile.
Scot Sothern is an American writer/photographer/artist. He is best known for his controversial black and white photographs and stories of prostitutes in Southern California, whom he photographed from 1986 to 1990. In 2010, he began photographing and writing about sex workers in Skid Row, Los Angeles. Sothern described the photographs as exposés that expose both the women and also the artist behind the camera. Sothern has continued writing, publishing, and exhibiting work globally. He lives In Los Angeles.
