the locker room is the only place where being gay feels like a superpower.

steam thicker than berghain at 6 AM, towels barely legal, and then he walks in fresh from back day — lats so wide they need urban planning approval.

i’m trying to put on socks but my soul just astral projected because his glutes casually reinvented physics.

every water droplet on his chest is a personal attack and somehow also a blessing.

this isn’t thirst — this is communion.

this is queer elders and baby gays exchanging “i see you” across generations without saying a word.

the nod across the benches says “your delts are insane” and also “you’re valid”.

the locker room is stonewall, the ballroom, and therapy rolled into one steamy, tile-lined ritual.

so yes, i’m staring. yes, i’m praying. yes, i’m taking mental polaroids for later.

to every king drying off right now: you are beautiful, you are wanted, you are home.

keep taking up space. keep scaring the straights. keep making the rest of us fall in love with ourselves.

amen, awooga, and pass the body wash. 🛎️