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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