It was an interesting afternoon workout — or rather post-workout — at the Y. I mean workouts themselves are pretty boring on the whole, aren't they?  It's the locker room where things start to get interesting.

OK — spoiler alert.  This is going to be a really gay post, so if you're not up to it, better bail now.

So, where was I? 

Oh yes.  Some of the retro-novelty of the '70s up-with-the-people atmosphere of the Y is wearing off.  Azeem's getting on my nerves.  And the fact that they have exactly one rusty old nautilus bench press and it's actually in the locker room — well, that may have worked in vintage porn, but it's not cutting it today.

But otherwise the locker room at the Y never disappoints.  It's a real pageant.  And I do enjoy a parade.  I don't want to sound pervy, because I find people interesting in all stages of undress for reasons that are more zoological than sexual, but I do have to say, yeah, there's a lot of eye candy about, in just about any flavor you could want. 

With the crazy weather lately — it seems a little brisk for mid-May, dunnit? — I've been stopping off for a sauna after my workout.  And not just because I met a hot cop there a couple of weeks ago (yeah, seeing him dressed was pretty revealing in the end).  I'm not a lurker or a leerer, and it actually does loosen you up, and, hey, if you make a new friend or two, what's wrong with that?

Here's what I love about the Y.  You just wouldn't see this at one of those hoity-toity upscale respectable gyms: a dude fully clothed — from the waist up — in what looked to be Goodwill prêt-à-porter, wearing a ski cap, with a purse slung over his shoulder (probably with a brick in it), standing in the steam room when I walked in (in my more traditional white towel and flip-flops).

I want to emphasize that the dude was in a steaming hot steam room, and was basically fully dressed — like to go out on the town almost — except that he was not wearing anything — anything — on the bottom half (pumps would have gone well with the ensemble — missed opportunities!).

And everybody acted as if it were perfectly normal.  I mean, whaddya gonna do?  Choose your battles, right? 

But I have to admit that my initial amusement at the sight of him wore off pretty quick-like.  There's a line, and once it's crossed it totally kills the homoeroticism of the moment.

So I switched to the dry sauna.  I prefer steam — dry saunas are too smothery.  But the view in the dry sauna was much better.  He was precisely my type in every respect (that I could see, of course): dark, lean and muscular — a natural, athletic build, a warrior's mien, and fire in his eyes.  Elbows on his knees, head hanging, sweat dripping from his chin.  Naked but for a big, gold chain with a big cross hanging there between sweaty pecs, and his black boxer-briefs.

Now, I know I've complained in the past about guys wearing their underwear into the showers and the sauna, but some guys can get away with it.  Some guys can get away with anything, really, is the long and short of it.  He was one of those.

We'd made eye contact earlier, but not cruisily.  It was very matter-of-fact.  There was acknowledgment but nothing was revealed.  It was the same when I walked into the sauna.  He looked up, our eyes met briefly, noncommittally, and he went back to the business of sweating in silence.

I had a good, healthy sweat, myself, and hit the showers.  And a minute or two later he came in and took the head kinda kitty-corner across from me.  And this is when it got, um, amazing. 

He didn't take his boxer-briefs off.  No.  He just pumped some soap from the dispenser into his palm, reached down into the front of his briefs and started scrubbing his junk.  I was like, whoa.  It was somewhere between 300 and 5000 times hotter than if he'd been butt naked. 

Seriously.  Just the way he was going at it, really scrubbing away.

And I wasn't ogling or anything.  I was really just minding my own business having a shower.  And I have to admit, it's not that interesting when it's just a bunch of guys in the shower showering, but you throw one shy guy in the mix and it brings that homoeroticism right up to the surface.  It's that "look-at-me-don't-look-at-me" thing, ya know?

He was projecting his certainty that I couldn't resist peeping him back onto me.  Which eroticized the whole encounter in a way just showering like a regular guy would not have.  Mind you:  I was there first, clearly visible from the entrance to the shower room, and there are two private stalls right around the corner that were free had he really wanted privacy.

It reminded me a little of a bar in Le Marais where the go-go boys dance in a shower stall behind a plexiglass screen — this is where porn star Francois Sagat got his start — they shower in speedos or briefs, and tease and tease and tease.  This guy at the Y would fit right in.

But when he popped another dollop of soap on his palm and reached down the backside of his boxer-briefs I was like, OK, this is insane.  Gotta go.  I mean, unless you're gonna start serving drinks, I'm not gonna stay for the show.  And anyway, I didn't bring my wad of dollar bills.

Was it all for me?  I like to think so.  I like to think what we had in the shower was a kind of encounter of a sort.  Very clean but very, very dirty at the same time. 

After I'd dressed and was on my way out, I saw him walking to his locker in a towel (still sexy as could be) with his boxer-briefs balled up in his fist.  He must have stripped down to his birthday suit after I left.  But I have to say, that kind of demure display — with a note of the-laddy-doth-protest-too-much — sometimes it's better than sex.

We made eye contact again — just like before.  Nothing was revealed.