HOLIDAY AT THE BATHS

      Here I am again
      In my private cabin, with walls painted
      Flat black. The same sperm rivulets
      From the 70's have been preserved
      On these walls
      For authenticity's sake, I'm sure.
      I'm laying here with the light dimmed,
      Watching all kinds of men walk past my room,
      Pretending to go to some other doorway
      In the dead-end hallway
      Then walking past again, headed back the way
      They came. Human ricochets of
      Sexual compulsion or just
      Normal human behavior? Sometimes
      It's difficult to tell them apart.

      I'm on my back here, legs propped up, reading--
      Strangely disinterested, yet aware
      Of all the salacious content
      Just beyond my door.
      This is the place
      Everyone comes to sooner or later.
      It's just that gay men get here
      Faster.

      A perky twenty-something peers into my room
      Then leaves.
      I'd looked up briefly, but kind of ignored him
      Because I don't like 'em wafer-thin.
      He then returns.
      A longer peer at my body in repose
      Ensues.

      "Man," he says goofily, "That's a big butt."
      He says it as though
      I should be surprised--
      As though all along, I'd thought I had
      George Clooney's skinny ass
      Stapled to my thighs.
      "I'd sure like to fuck it," he says,
      Half-laughing.

      "I've got a better idea," I say with a smirk,
      Trying to sound butch,
      "Why don't you
        Go.
        Fuck.
        Yourself."

      He turns and leaves,
      Inexplicably.

      One guy at the baths who'd seen me give
      Another rude faggot similar treatment
      Once asked me,
      "You didn't grow up as a fat kid,
      Didja?"

      No, I'd said.
      I was skinny and pasty most of my life.
      Until I was 25,
      My two best dyke friends
      Used to try to feed me mashed potatoes,
      Mayonnaise cakes made in Crock Pots,
      And whole milk, compulsively.
      Yes, I used to see my ribs. And
      Yes, I used to feel as though I had no body
      From the neck on down--as though
      My head bobbed on sticks like some
      Human marionette.
      Five years and 40 pounds later,
      I feel better about myself,
      But I find I'm at odds with the current
      Body culture. With the artifice grown
      In the West Hollywoods and Chelseas of the world.

      And so, here in this private black cabin,
      I'm reminded once again
      That I can be alone
      Among my so-called people. This is
      Not a negative pronouncement, just a truth.
      And I continue reading
      Until someone human
      Eventually stops by.

      © Alan Reade, 2011

      Home