Could I get a ticket into the changing room, Max?
Best,
Judy
2009/7/28 Max Richards <[log in to unmask]>
> Changing Room
> (Petone Beach, Wellington 1949)
>
> Thirteen, and restless, pleased
> to be given time to himself,
> that long warm summer day,
> walking to the beach, food
> and drink and swim gear
> in the little bag on his shoulder –
>
> not that he’s a swimmer,
> but a long walk, in or out of the water,
> and watch the sun go down,
> that will be as good as it gets.
> Parents – surprisingly OK
> about a late return; they trust him.
> Time he looked after himself.
>
> Entering the changing room at the beach,
> for the first time – it’s another world!
> Outside is all quiet family groups,
> after ice-cream, or near the water, or in it.
> Inside is men, big men
> (and a few boys), most of them naked.
>
> He puts down his things, begins to change.
> All along all the benches, in slow motion,
> perspectives of muscle and skin,
> some few still completing their exposure,
> some seated so they can survey the scene,
> some massaging themselves with sun cream,
> some – can it be? – massaging each other.
>
> The biggest man he’s ever seen – naked,
> in one huge hand what seems a tiny towel,
> stomping the length of the hall.
> High windows let sunlight down
> on his thick bronzed neck, shoulders
> and flanks, as he passes through hazy air
> to what must be showers, open to all eyes.
>
> Others already stand there, letting
> the water fall splashingly jetting
> from their matted wet heads down
> their nakedness, past their private parts,
> to their great wet feet, and wooden slat –
> through which the water drains somewhere
> away, perhaps to sea.
> Smaller boys, he now notices, share
> the same open showering space.
> Everyone’s enjoying themselves, also
> (in some sense new to him) each other.
> Is that how it is in the women’s room?
>
> No! he’s not showering here, not now,
> no need, though after he’s been
> in the salty sea, maybe he ought to later.
> But he’s drawn that way a few paces,
> breathing heavily,
> tightening his togs’ waist cord,
> his eyes on the men facing his way,
> so intent on their own water-life, their own skin.
> How large those penises, and behind
> each one, those testicles, and what strong thighs.
>
> His own lanky body shrinks from anyone’s touch,
> even lately his mother’s, and school brings daily
> setbacks when he misses a catch, or is shouldered aside,
> or the girls prefer his well-made schoolmates.
>
> The big man is walking back his way,
> gaze falling on nobody; surely
> his penis is swollen – jutting, swinging.
> He shouldn’t be looking –
> the whole place is menacing,
> thrilling, inviting, repelling.
> Out, quick, to the fresh air,
> and the cheapest ice-cream
> and where sunshine is what makes things warm.
>
> Max Richards
> 29 July 2009
>
>
>
>
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