the locker room
NONFICTION
by Dylan Murphy
everywhere was a battlefield for a closeted gay teenager, but the middle school locker room was the Colosseum. cans of axe body spray were pointed at changing teenagers like guns, spraying millions of intoxicating bullets that lowered the room’s oxygen content and created a haze that hung above us, like a fog above the trenches. the rowdiest of the boys wasted no time smacking their peers' asses while they were vulnerable, or shouting for their friend’s attention just to turn and peel down their boxers, prompting screams and goose-chases. something about the environment of a male pubescent locker room commanded the least homosexual boys to commit the most homosexual acts that could barely be written off as pranks, all in the five minutes we were allowed to shimmy off our skinny jeans, stuff our jackets in the tiny lockers and throw on our athletic wear. it was a few months into the school year, and i had grown comfortable enough with my gym class where i could enter the locker room and not feel a spike in my heart rate. my turf was the row farthest to the right, where my enclave of friends and i calmly, and quickly, changed. there was a mutual understanding between us that the locker room was not a place we wanted to linger in. class had ended, and it was our last period of the day, so i took more time entering my combination and changing back into my regular outfit, although i still kept a swift pace. a friend from the other side of the row said my name as i pulled my shirt over my head, and i looked up. looking up in the locker room was a rare occasion. this was before my classmates started suspecting me, but i knew that in the Code of Male Middle Schooler Masculinity, there was a rigid maximum for the amount of time you could look at someone, especially when it was making eye contact, and get away with it without prompting skepticism. the punishment was much worse than an ass-smack or dousing of axe. my friend finished what he was saying, but before i turned back to the green cement floor i had become so familiar with, i felt someone else’s vision on me. my eyes flickered back to the area my friend was changing in, and i met the brown pupils of a guy standing behind him. not just a guy. adrian. best friend no. 2. his gaze slid down, then back up. he grinned and winked at the same time, a combination that i hadn’t even hypothesized was possible, and my gay heart boomed like a firework with adrian holding the match. he did a circle with his hand and mouthed “hurry up,” before turning to shut his locker, his expression blank while my mouth hung open like a dog’s. my face sweltered, and as i turned back to the floor, i realized for the first time in my life that you could forget you don’t have pants on.
oftentimes i found myself unsure of what i was more insecure about when i was in the locker room—having my shirt off, or my pants? it should be a given that i never had either of those off at the same time in there. secure or insecure, heterosexual or not, another rule of thumb was to never have both off at the same time. few were brave enough to defy this, and most dealt with the consequences. i was undoubtedly the skinniest guy in my grade. most middle schoolers were scraggly and tiny, but i was spared no mercy. i remember changing and a friend pointing out that he could see my ribs in the tiny window that my upper body was exposed.
“thank you for the reminder,” i responded. my friends at lunch asked if i was anorexic once. i didn’t even know what it meant, but i recall the ferocity with which i shouted, “NO!”
the next day, i was in the car with my dad.
“do i have anorexia?” i asked him as we pulled up to a red light. he laughed, a hearty chuckle that i knew wasn’t fake or forced.
“no dylan. you don’t have anorexia,” he stated.
“don’t you think we’d know?” i still think about how differently that conversation could’ve gone if he had turned and saw the tears that had welled up in my eyes. as for my lower half, i was indifferent to its appearance until my percussion teacher called me “chicken-legs” instead of “dylan.” i had three takeaways from that comment: first, no middle schooler is allowed peace with their own body. (how naïve of me, i know. i soon realized that all 8 billion people on earth are denied sanctum in their own temple). second, every part of the body is deconstructible, and will be deconstructed by someone at some point, without your asking or consent. the third, and most harrowing truth for me, was that people take pleasure in dissecting the body, whether through wordplay, blunt comments or even physical action. puberty was upon us, and our shapes were molding in ways that scared some, or emboldened others to further their attacks. while the locker room was primarily limited to verbal remarks that tore at the body, classrooms and cafeterias were playgrounds (playgrounds, too, were playgrounds) for others to assert the inferiority of your body to theirs.
“i can wrap my thumb and index finger around your entire wrist!”
“you’re so bony.”
“i felt your ribs when i brushed against you, ew.”
“how much do you weigh?”
weight was an interesting subject in middle school. i knew i was underweight, but not because my doctor or parents told me. my wii fit told me i was underweight. the bmi index calculator that was the first search result when i googled “how do i know if i’m underweight” confirmed my wii’s findings. everyone was asking if i was anorexic, but not if i was underweight. the number i would tell my friends was never accurate. or maybe it was, i don’t know. there was a long period of time throughout middle school where i didn’t know my weight, nor did i have a desire to. i gauged it off of how my friend’s would answer the question, because i would say “i can’t remember right now, come back to me,” and say a number that was less than theirs but high enough in what was a vain effort to try and kill the eating disorder allegations. but it doesn’t matter what you say in middle school. people will always find a way around it, a way that makes yourself question things you never had to question before.
am i healthy?
do i look like an animal?
what’s wrong with my body?
the weaponization of the body begins in middle school. soon, i would experience how the same qualities my peers turned into my deepest insecurities transformed into targets of sexualization, some remarks by the same people who used to attack them. it was my senior year of high school when i realized that the comments could slow down, the intensity could lessen, but the body would never be left alone.
i remember the hush that would infiltrate the locker room when i dropped the act. i say “infiltrate” because it wasn’t a quiet that fell over the room and engulfed it like a weighted blanket. it crept in from the corners with the first people to witness my entrance. it lurked around the corner as i hastily spun my lock combination, but i had learned to outrun it. by the time my presence was made aware to most of whoever was in the room, i was already leaving. maybe this is the egoist in me, but perhaps my presence in the locker room was exciting for whichever sports teams i was sandwiched between as i hurriedly stripped and reclothed for cross-country practice. would they talk about my sexuality? my twiggy body? why not both? will they explore the intersectionality of my at-risk body and how it’s encouraged in the very community i seek solace in from men like them? who knows, but i’ve had enough people show me what valuable opinions these men share when i’m mentioned in their group chats, and they typically start with “f” and rhyme with “maggot.”
the locker room has made me self-aware in ways that not even new york city has made my head swivel or eyes dart around. i would open the door slowly to try and recognize the hollers and yelps to mentally prepare myself. i would procrastinate leaving class and roam the halls until just enough time had passed where most people had already changed their clothes and i could be in and out while still making it to practice on time. there was no other environment in which i practiced such a compulsive routine simply because of the idea that someone could disturb my body or identity, verbally and physically. but where is the line drawn between a crass prank and trauma? when do the comments become harassment? when i’m aimlessly roaming hallways, when i’m chaining my eyes to my feet, when i’m speedrunning an activity that is simply changing an outfit, when does the locker room become something else? i go to the locker room to change myself but i enter the room and am peeled like bark from a decaying tree.