The Locker Room Dialogues

Making a pit stop in the locker room after playing tennis at the Greenspring Racquet Club in Lutherville, I overheard the following thought-provoking conversation around the corner from the urinals:

GUY 1: I just can't see any reason for it, to tell you the truth.

GUY 2: Yeah, yeah.

GUY 1: Other than kids, I just don't see any point being married.

GUY 2: Yeah, yeah.

GUY 1: Because there's a lot of GREAT pussy out there.

GUY 2: Oh yeah, yeah!

GUY 1: And so many really nice-looking gals to take out and have fun with.

At this point, I figured I must be overhearing two Twentysomething bar crawling jocko homos, but when I turned the corner to wash my hands I came upon two middle-aged schlubs. The pussy enthusiast was a short, stocky, hairy-chested Moe with a pot belly, while his sounding board was another non-descript nebbish. They looked like they might sell insurance when they weren't being weekend warriors at the club. The conversation continued.

GUY 1: Yeah, so much great pussy out there. That's why I told my son he should go down to Argentina and meet an Argentinean woman. They're unbelievable!

GUY 2: Yeah?

GUY 1: Yeah, when you're young like that you should travel and see what's out there, 'cause I'll tell you there's some killer pussy down there.

I had to give the guy the benefit of the doubt on this point, as my only exposures to Argentinean women have been the muy caliente Argentine mothers I've seen come into the library to get Dora the Explorer videos for their toddlers and who, despite having had their birthing canals breached and their bellies swollen to give new life, STILL looked like exotic runway models.

But then I thought, if this guy's married, how's he know so much about extra-curricular coochie? From field reports from his son, whose sex life he takes such an apparent keen interest in, or has he been getting a little strange on the side? Or maybe he was just a recently liberated divorced dad, enjoying a new found pursuit of happiness in the form of female pudenda. (Maybe even while selling insurance in Buenos Aires?) And then there was the Social Darwinism Factor, to wit: how does some hirsute middle-aged mook who looks Michael Dukakis in a bath towel know from great pussy? (And I realize one's man's Prime Rib is another's Hamburger Helper, so maybe what schlubby considers a great dish might be considered mere gristle to a great gourmand like, say, Mark McGrath or Mick Jagger.) Have women with the aforementioned attribute lowered their standards so low that a locker room lout with biological baggage (he mentioned he had spawned at least one kid) gets to be a player? Either way, it was kind of creepy and disconcerting to hear this talk. I couldn't imagine my dad talking like this around the golf course!

Plato gabbing with Socrates this conversation wasn't! But I was less offended by the locker room talk and more ashamed of my gender when, on my way out of the club, I had to suffer through listening to the Neanderthal Jocks in the clubhouse talk about the NFL playoffs while I had my racquet grip repaired. Is there anything in the world dumber than American football? (I'd rather talk about Argentine babes than frigging Tom Brady!) Here I thought racquet sports had the aura of elitism and snobbery - after all, didn't Tennis adopt its confusing scoring system of "love", "deuce" and so on merely to befuddle the commoners? - but men are men regardless of whether they have their hands on a tennis racquet, grilling utensils, or really great pussy.

And looking over at the Pro Shop's clothes racks, and spying a leopard-skin thong amidst the women's tennis skirts, blouses and jackets, I could see why.

"You sell a lot of these here?" I asked the lady behind the counter, who was just finishing wrapping my racquet grip.

"Oh yeah, you'd be surprised at what's popular here."

No longer! Thongs, pussy, and the pursuit of exotic sex partners - it's still the same old racket no matter how you swing it. Let the games begin.