Size Matters

Loud male voices can be heard on the far side of the locker room door, and my stomach is in knots.  I cannot believe I am about to do this, but do this I must.  No-man’s land, or should I say “no woman’s land”, is on the far side of the door.  I bite my lip and gently push the door open.

The smell that wafts in my direction is a ripe combination of male body odor and cleaning chemicals, with a moldy undertone.  It smells so different from our locker room that I wonder if we’re the same species.  I pause briefly behind the privacy wall to boost my courage, and then walk around the corner.

Long alleys of olive green lockers stand before me, populated by a raucous group of collegiate track and field athletes in various stages of undress. They don’t notice me for a moment, until my perfume drifts into the room.  They all go quiet and turn to stare at me.  Not a single one turns away or hides their equipment.  This is their turf.

I can feel my face turning bright red under my makeup, but I keep my gaze up and inspect the group carefully and methodically.  Under my gaze, a few of the guys start flexing, one guy alternately pumping his left and right pec muscles so that his chest appears to bounce from side to side.  A giggle nearly spills past my lips.

I put my hands on my hips, and say, “Hi boys.  Don’t stop for me.”

One naked guy, the one with the bouncing pecs, takes two steps toward me and says, “See anything you like, Miss?”

He inspects me, his eyes taking me in all the way from my red heels, up my black fishnets, and finishing at my red halter top.  His eyes are glued at boob level.

I return the inspection, and staring intently at his equipment I say, “Oh my, yes indeedy, but I was hoping for something, shall we say, a bit larger.”

This is followed by loud hoots and catcalls from the other guys.  Pec guy blushes and retreats, his face an odd mix of embarrassment and amusement.

I turn up the heat a notch.  I say, “Guys, I’m here on a mission.  I’ve heard it said that size matters, so I’m here to see for myself.  The guy with the biggest equipment gets an intimate date with me.  If you would like to be included in my inspection, please step forward.”

Three quarters of the group starts forward, shouting, pushing and shoving to be first in line.  One guy crashes against the lockers.  I hold up my hand, and the group stops.  Wow, what power I seem to have.  “One at a time please.  How about a line, side-by-side in front of me.  That’s right, good.”

Never in my wildest dreams had I expected it to go down like this. I walk slowly down the line, inspecting each specimen.  I stop in front of the third guy, the one with the pecs.  From my purse I pull a rubber glove, and snap it on my right hand.  I carefully inspect his equipment, say “Hmm” matter-of-factly, then pull off the glove and throw it over my shoulder.

As I approach the end of the line, I’m beginning to think that this plan is going to backfire.  Fortunately, another guy joins the end of the line.  I walk up in front of him and look down.

I say, “Kind of average, don’t you think.”

He smiles and says, “Perhaps, but this is my equipment.”  With that, he pulls an eight and a half foot javelin from behind his back.

I feign shock, my mouth open in amazement.  “My, now that’s a big piece of equipment.”

Turning to the group, I say, “I think we have a winner.  Thanks to everyone who participated.  You will all be fondly remembered.”

Turning back to my guy, I hand him my card and say, “Call me.”

With that, I turn on my heel and exit the locker room.  I pause outside the door, my heart still pounding, and listen as the guys whoop and holler in the aftermath of my exit.

This will make one hell of a paper for my behavioral sciences class, and I owe Billy a big favor.  I will, however, have to make him work for it since he waited until the last minute to make his appearance.  Nevertheless, he’s in for a fun evening.