Anyway, part of my gym-time enjoyment is the amenities offered in the locker room. Fresh towels aplenty, aloe-scented deodorant, hair care I don't even know what to do with. Q-tips, oh the Q-tips! Needless to say, I make the most of the locker room and it's bountiful offerings.
However, I've noticed a common trend among the upstanding women members of my gym: they always look at my breasts. Now, I know that we all have lady lumps just the same, but I guess the sheer size and monstrosity of my boobs are enough to turn any head, even if it's of the same sex.
When I first joined the gym, I started sheepishly walking around the locker room, ducking into the shower quickly without showing anything more than my bare arms. But, just recently, perhaps because of a newly-acquired Hawaiian tan, I have been unleashing the goods to the masses of the women's locker room.
I get quick peeps and then a rapid turn-of-the-head as if they weren't looking at all. I get stares that elongate from across the room--and without my glasses on, it's hard to tell just how many freckles they've noticed. I get mirror glances from ladies who are doing their make-up and decide to size me up by my reflection.
These kind of voyeuristic tendencies express two things to me:
First, I would like to pay homage to the first noticeable start of voyeurism in the 17th century when the photographic camera came about as well as skyscrapers and hot air balloons. Sound like nonsense or a bad Pixar movie? But, think about it. Vantage points changed and then we finally had a way of capturing what we were so curious about in the first place: other people's lives. What we do when no one else is looking--who we are when there's no one to see us. It fascinates us, enlivens a certain imaginative spirit through mystery of the visible unknown.
I am reminded of an Impressionist series called The Bathers by Edgar Degas. He capitalized on this understanding of voyeurism and used it to express women in naturally intimate settings such taking a bath. At the time, these paintings were contraband and counterculture in the eyes of a society that had known no art beyond religious pieces or those sanctioned by leaders in society. Degas brought mystery, and in turn, a revived element of life into women that were once only showed in formal portraiture.
The next feeling I got from thinking all eyes were on my melons is that women are bitches. They love to stare you down and compare themselves to you.
I guess I too am culpable of this, but then again, not many people have boobs that can compete with mine. In yo face, wrinkle tits!
