Insecurities and Undulations

My wife and I are swimmers.

Well, I say swimmers. I should have said, "My wife and I swim." When a local college built a new sports facility and offered community memberships, we joined without a sign-up fee. We fully expected to look like runway models in a few weeks because swimming, we had heard, was the best fitness activity possible. We have rights to the entire place, including the climbing wall, weight room, walking track, basketball gyms, and tennis courts; but we just swim. Like we were ever going to climb a wall. Hell, I make my wife do that at home all the time for free.

It took the longest time for the Grand Opening. We'd get emails about the event--each one advertising a later date, the last one inviting us to walk through the half completed facilities. For weeks after that, Cindy and I had that look on our faces dogs get when they see their humans reaching for the treats.

On the morning the pool opened, we left the bed at 5:30 and were in the water at 6. Our plan was for me to leave for school from there, so I put teaching clothes in my brand new sports bag just for swimmers which looked suspiciously like the bags for non-swimmers at only twice the cost. It wouldn't be until after the swim that I would realize I had forgotten to pack my panties and would dash home, commando, or free balling, I think it's called, before making my way to the school.

What we subjected the real swimmers to, that first morning, is probably criminal public behavior in several states. Cindy actually wore a swim suit; I wore shorts over spandex undies, leftovers from my running days. We were the homeless equivalent compared to the sleek look of the college-sponsored children's swim team.

We stripped to our swim wear in front of their parents, members of the fancier, more expensive fitness club across town, every one. Then we jumped in, sharing the only available lane and gasped and choked the twenty-five yards to the other end. We held onto the side having completely given up on speech, so desperate were we for oxygen, while elementary-school flip-turning racers splashed water in our faces. After what seemed like twenty minutes, we let go and undulated our way to the other side like two geriatric frogs working their way through a sewer pipe.

That was two years ago.

We're stronger and our heart lung machines are better, but the most noticeable change is our swim suits. Cindy's hasn't changed all that much, although hers are nicer. And I totally understand her feeling that if she's going to be in a swimsuit in front of others then her suit, especially at those prices, ought to take on as much responsibility as possible.

My suit has changed too. My hands continually caught the baggy legs of my old swim suit and Cindy suggested a long-leg Speedo, which is the only kind I’d ever wear. When we swam in The Netherlands, a European family would always show up with a Speedo-wearing Grandpa. His suit looked sprayed on, never completely covered his butt, and held his gibblies in a rock-climber’s grip. And then too, there was the hair, coarse and curly; think Chewbaka. Of course, you only saw that when his floppy gut wasn’t in the way.

My Speedo wasn’t as bad, but we were concerned it would give me something Cindy has always referred to as “penile projection.” She coined this term years ago while watching Olympic wrestling. Even the casual observer can see the size, shape, and religion of the competitors. I imagine it’s a practice designed to help spectators decide who to root for. I’ve always cheered for the under-endowed.

I put on my Speedo and was immediately faced with a decision about my thing. I don’t think women have this problem, I mean, ladies bumps point forward, for the most part. I’m sure there’s the odd lady out there whose one boob points any way it wants while the forward-pointing boob hangs next to it, perturbed, embarrassed. And then women reach that age when they point…well…down. But sometimes guys can look like they’re pointing the way to San Jose and I not only didn’t want to point, I didn’t want the lump at all. However, my concerns turned out to be a moot point; when I landed in the freezing water my thing couldn’t be distinguished from the hair.

We’ve met some interesting people in the pool. Of course we don’t know any of their names. We talk about them through a technique used by fiction writers. A character will describe another character and include something like big ears, and from then on he’ll just call him Dumbo.

Not long after we started swimming, an elderly woman began showing up at the same time we did. She had blonde hair, skinny legs, a tiny butt, and huge boobs. The second or third time we were in the pool together I noticed a small stud in her nose; she’s been Nose-Ring Granny ever since.

Perfume Lady shows up smelling like she showers in Eau du Toilette. I can almost see the cloud she walks in—like Pig Pen from the Peanuts cartoon. Whatever she wears must be oil-based. The other day I swam in the lane next to her. It was like swimming around the Exxon Valdez.

The most interesting person we’ve come across in the pool is the lady we affectionately refer to as Drowning Woman. The first time I saw her swimming I thought she was having a seizure. I watched, desperately trying to remember what little CPR I’d learned.

Her swimming style would best be represented by the word "quiver." I think she’s attempting the breast stroke, the one where the legs kick together like a frog’s would. I saw a couple of frogs kick like she does back in 1971, but they had gotten hold of some bad acid. The whole stroke takes about one second. One day I acted like I had water in my eyes just so I could watch her. I swear, she breathed 43 times in 25 yards. Just imagine a bobble head doll in the pool.

But Drowning Woman has never needed our help; she’s just got her own style. I guess we all do. I’m sure real swimmers look over into my lane and wonder about the terrible accident from which I’m recovering. A few weeks ago, one of those real swimmers was in the lane next to me.

He looked about my age, but that’s where our noticable similarities ended. I spotted him before he jumped in—five-ten, about 225. Whenever anyone swims in the lane next to me I always remind myself that it’s not a competition. You know, like the Normandy invasion wasn’t a competition.

I’d been swimming for over ten minutes when he jumped in. I was in full stride and as I turned at the wall, he was just putting his goggles on. I pushed away thinking what a piece of cake this was going to be.

Then he touched the other wall before I did.

I couldn’t believe it. I’d already warmed up; he was just starting. I’d been swimming for two years, and he had to be forty pounds overweight. It looked like he only kicked when he remembered to, which wasn’t often. And his arm speed wasn’t as fast as mine. But oh how he could glide. In fact, he spent the next twenty-five minutes repeatedly gliding past me.

We swam in adjoining lanes several days before our schedules worked out so we were in the locker room together. That can always be an uncomfortable moment. It's not a huge deal if I see another dude's wang, but it is important that no other guy thinks I want to look, even if I secretly do. Again, women have it so easy. They wear their credentials on their chests. Say to a group of women, "Y'all queue up according to breast size," and they wouldn't even have to speak to each other. But for guys that's not possible. And it wouldn't do any good to ask questions. No one tells the truth anyway. I'm suddenly reminded of my favorite joke from junior high. "Yeah, I'm seven inches, WHEN I FOLD IT IN HALF!"

So, one morning after a swim, I introduced myself to the guy, waiting of course until we both had our underwear on, an unwritten law of the men's locker room. “You can look at my pink bits, but you can’t talk to me while you do it.” This is probably the reason my old girlfriends turned on the water when they peed in the next room. I could know what they were doing in there, but if I could hear it they would be mortified. So I complimented him on how well he swam. I can't remember exactly what I said, but I tried not to make it sound like, "Geez, you swim really well for a fat guy."

"Oh, thanks" he said, "I started swimming when I was four and swam competitively through college." Although you can see a whole lot of the people in the pool, you never really know who's in the lane beside you.

Speaking of seeing a lot of people, along with possibly being the most strenuous exercise, swimming has also got to be the most sensual. Once the goggles are on, everything under the water is crystal clear. Where else can I go to get fit and look at so much skin? "Look at so much" is my pet phrase for gawking like a creepo.

But sometimes I simply cannot help myself. Last summer a co-ed got in the lane next to me wearing a two piece. She must have lost a little weight since be bought the suit because at some point I ended up behind her and by the time she touched the wall, I was looking at most of her butt was showing.

I never know what to do in these situations. Is it wrong to mention it? "Hey girl, you got a real pretty butt." Do I help her cover up? She didn't swim much longer, but I must confess I was behind her the entire time.

A similar thing happened again just last week. The college team was in the pool and a single geezer-lane was open right next to a lane with three females. Of course the girls whizzed right by me in their racing suits, which are usually pretty modest, although I occasionally see one, I think it's called a high cut, where the leg holes come up to the swimmer's armpit. But these three suits were appropriate and pretty modest, almost, except for, well, the blue one.

The girls swam single file and passed me one at a time, not quite at the speed of light, and did their individual flip turn at the wall. I didn't intend on taking notice each time they passed but it was late afternoon and we were under the afternoon sun’s rays, which were reflected in my face each time the girls swam by. This is when I noticed something odd about the blue swim suit. For some unexplained but glorious reason, the natural swimming motion caused the fabric, which to this point had been covering the left butt cheek, to creep up toward her crack. In no time her entire cheek was uncovered. It looked like she was swimming in a body-thong; or half a body-thong.

I think I swam the hardest I ever have for several lengths. And then suddenly practice was over and the girls got out of the pool. Then Perfume Lady showed up and I struggled for breath until I too had had enough.

As for our bodies, well, when we began swimming we eagerly awaited a physical transformation. We dreamed of sleek figures that would require an entirely new wardrobe. But, because we were swimming we thought we could eat anything and we did. Well, we didn't really eat anything. We ate everything. We'd swim and then eat at the Chinese buffet restaurant. All you can eat became don’t stop till you’ve got Who Flung Duck in your nostrils. We became very good at this.

Every time someone finds out we swim they always rave a little, "Oh that's so great! That's so good for you!" as though we'd just quit snorting cocaine. It is pretty good for us, I guess, although we aren't ever going to get those new bodies. We'll have to settle for being a little stronger, and possibly living a little longer, albeit in the bodies we've got right now.

Picture Credit: http://amysrobot.com/files/synch_swimming.JPG

Touchy Subjects

When I began my senior year of high school, a couple months before I turned seventeen, one change in our faculty was impossible to ignore; our district had hired a new football coach. Purportedly to have played pro ball, the man was an obvious victim of a mutinous pituitary; he was in a word, a mountain. Along with his coaching responsibilities, he taught sociology, and that’s where I met him.

I had already grown to a height over six feet, something about which my dad felt a mix of pride and fear, although the only way you’d have known that was from his bi-polar comments. “If you get any bigger, I’m going to need a second job just to buy your groceries,” wink, wink, and then, “It doesn’t matter how tall you grow, young man, I’ll always be able to beat your ass!” But my football coach sociology teacher dwarfed me. I liked him instantly, not only because I knew he could crush my head in a single hand, like a walnut in one of those German nutcracker thingies, and never did, but also because he seemed to genuinely like me, something few other adult males had accomplished to that point in my life.

I was especially intrigued by his announcement that he had arranged for our school’s purchase of a Universal Gym, a weight-laden torture contraption of Machiavellian proportions. Around this device several athletes could simultaneously lift, push, pull, thrust, and hoist weights through the use of wires and pulleys while sweating, stinking, and occasionally, under the stress of exertion, soil their underpants.

I had never been an athlete, unless you want to count that brief stint on the junior high wrestling team when I lost four times; twice by pin. On one of those occasions I went into the historical annuls as the opponent whom the state champion pinned in record time, in my memory, before the referee’s opening whistle had finished sounding. And too, there was my single try-out for the high school basketball team on the same night as the dress rehearsal for Guys and Dolls in which I played Nathan Detroit, the male lead.

But fearing I’d come home one day with one of my body parts missing, or stuck, permanently inside another one, my parents refused to let me play football, the sure route to certifiable manhood in high school. All the girls knew that a guy on the sidelines in a jersey, even if he never played, had a better idea of what went on in the back seat of his dad’s car, and was better at it, than the guys who weren’t. I was so non-athletic in fact that my only contribution to the football team would have been a role in the coach’s demonstration which taught the sound to listen for when breaking the bones of an opponent. My lack of muscle tissue, which would surely have muffled the snap, made me the perfect candidate.

Dreaming future physical prowess, I asked my dad that night if I could stay after school a couple of days a week and perspire with some other non-athletic guys. He paused to calculate the approximate disruption to his own comfort as a result of his assent. After coming to the conclusion that it would mean stopping at the school two or three days a week instead of driving right by on his way home from work he grunted with the same enthusiasm he had ever mustered about my aspirations saying that he didn’t care.

Thus began my foray into a program that would at the most reward me with the sexual favors of high school females and at the worst put a little fear into the hearts of those booger-flicking elementary turds on my bus. Nobody messes with a guy whose shoulders take up an entire bus seat. I stayed after school with other stick figures and made my way around the contraption, introducing something previously unknown to muscles unapparent. We had the place to ourselves, the real athletes now in their respective playing areas, having done their weight work the last period of the day while we studied quantum physics and discussed the craftsmanship of each other’s pocket protectors.

I gave this effort all the energy and determination I had. I strained and grunted, lifted and pushed, heaved and hoed making all kinds of manly weight moving sounds, along with the rest; a staccato cadence punctuated by the crack of weights as they returned to their position in the stack. In a few weeks, I could do fifty sit-ups on the incline board in sixty seconds. Along with muscles that were harder when flexed, I had an inner feeling with which I was totally unaccustomed. I was beginning to feel important, able, and dare I say it, more like a man than a boy. However, my new found self-esteem had the life span of a mosquito in a DDT cloud.

The end began one morning on the toilet. It hurt. That little circular spot so actively involved in the going screamed at me. When I squeezed out the last of the pee squirts I screamed, “Son of a Baptist!” because we were. I had no idea what was going on down there. That opening had always been “exit only” and I was pretty certain nothing had entered. It felt like I had eaten concertina wire, had a little trouble digesting one of the razors, and I’d just tried, unsuccessfully, to pass it.

I certainly didn’t talk to anyone about this. We were a pretty insulated family, made up of clinically insulated people. My mom had never farted in my presence; quite possibly, she had never farted at all. So I didn’t feel like I could just hop down the last few steps in our house, lilt into the kitchen and greet her with, “Good morning Mom, how’s your anus? Mine’s killing me.”

But later that day, I did what Cheech and Chong had recently taught me to call “pinch a loaf” and thought I would die. It felt like what might normally occur after eating a hearty meal of tacks in an acid sauce wrapped in a sandpaper burrito. Then during clean up I spotted blood on the paper. Now, I was no stranger to blood in the bathroom, I mean, I’ve got an older sister. She’d leave her mouse beds in the garbage, folded in half, the ends tied together giving them the appearance of Christmas presents. It wasn’t until years later that she used and flushed white cigars. Like I said, we were Baptists.

In our home, spilt blood always led to confession and I finally came clean with my mom about the bulbous protrusion deep in my rectal crevasse. She scheduled an appointment so I could share this horrifying problem with the single doctor, and every other employee, of our small town’s Dr.’s office.

I walked to the clinic after school on the following day and stood in front of a red-haired girl, seated behind a counter, looking like someone doing homework. She’d probably been a student in the high school coincidentally with me, but I didn’t recognize her and hoped she didn’t me either.

“I have an appointment,” I said when she finally looked up.

“What’s your complaint?” she asked.

I hadn’t come to complain; I wanted something fixed. I just stared at her.

She tried again with obvious impatience. “Why have you come to see the doctor?”

I could see several women of various ages shuttling about behind her, working with files, chatting, staying busy.

“I’d rather not say,” I replied sort of half whispering.

“Well I have to know,” she insisted, her voice gaining momentum, “so the doctor can be prepared.”

I looked at the dimple on her cheek, then into her green eyes. I took a deep breath.

“I’m bleeding from my butt hole.”

After sitting on my injury for a ridiculously uncomfortable time, I was called into an examination room where a nurse took my vitals and told me to take off my pants and sit on the table. She left the room. The paper crinkled when I got up there. It was at this moment I had my first sudden realization; someone was going to come in this room and look directly at my thing.

Even I had never looked at my thing.

When the doctor arrived, he wanted me on all fours, my underpants around my knees. If words exist for someone in my position to make polite conversation, well, I didn’t know them. I remained quiet even when he spread my cheeks for a better look. I listened to his breath rushing past unclipped hairs in his nasal passages.

“Uh huh,” he said, which I took as mental agreement, at the least, that anyone growing a crabapple on his anus would be in a great deal of pain.

“I’m going to take a look inside,” he said. I shuddered with repulsion. He might as well have said, “Excuse me, I’m going to drink from this specimen cup.”

And then he opened a drawer and removed a handgun. No, it was a bird’s head, a silvery metal one, with a long beak, a rectangular opening in the top serving as its singular eye. He held it by the neck.

That’s when I had the second realization. He was going to touch me.

There.

Without warning he greased the hinges on my backdoor and shoved that bird’s face so deep in my pooper I thought it was going to stick out my belly button. The room swelled with the sound of air rushing past my nose hairs. The climax of this intercourse came when he spun the beak so he could see all my secrets through the bird’s-eye.

I regained full consciousness just as he was saying something about swollen blood vessels, probably the result of too much physical exertion. “I’ll give you some cream and the swelling will go down in a few days.” He handed me some tissues without explaining why, or needing to, and then he left in the time it took his rubber gloves to shoot into the trash can. I stood on shaky legs and put my clothes on.

Decades later, I look back without regret on the brief time I was a high school weight lifter. Sad though, when I think about it; the only muscle still bearing any evidence of the effort is my sphincter.