It is well established by now that I am somewhat of a slut. From my sexual escapades out and about, to my adventures in open spaces, having sex where others can catch a glimpse — or load. I have engaged in the arts of performing sex.
While I don’t think of others as an audience, I am always enthralled by the idea of being seen and perceived in a sexual context. Mostly because I always catch a good compliment — or dick — when I do, but also because it enhances my sexual experience when I lose myself in the inhibition of all my carnal desires.
But I realized fairly recently that this feeling was quite limited to queer spaces. You see, the other day I had to go, really bad. I just could not hold it until I made it back home, so I had to resort to one of the — usually — quiet bathrooms in Klarman Hall. To my surprise, every stall was occupied, except for one of the urinals. There was this guy, taller, blonde and definitely my type using the other one. If this was a gay bar I would have gone shamelessly to the stall to his side — which typically do not have divisions to add a cruisy dimension to the experience. However, that was the last thing going through my head.
I told myself it was not that big of a deal, that I needed to go really bad and that no one would care if I used the stall right next to his. Usually, most guys will tell you that they avoid using a stall if there is someone else right next to them. Mostly out of privacy and needing some “alone time” to relieve themselves, but also because it is engrained in the minds of all growing men that is something people usually do not do.
In the end, I decided to just leave, with my bladder screaming at me for giving it such false hopes. And while I could relieve myself in the bathroom conveniently located right below the one I was just in, that lingering sense of shame stuck with me.
Later that week it came back to me, while I was changing back into my clothes at the locker rooms after attempting to restart my lap swimming routine. And while I cannot say I am a frequent user of the pool, I did swim a couple laps. But as I went to exit the pool, I found myself in a locker room that happened to be busier than how I first found it — I was alone when I was changing into my swim trunks. I was somewhat mortified, I could not really figure out why. I mean, it is a changing room that is connected directly to a pool. Everyone else was also wearing swimsuits, and no one paid any attention to my half-naked body. Still, the feeling of possibly being perceived by all those people made me uncomfortable — it also did not help that one of my professors was just walking in as I was gathering my belongings to head to the showers.
What adds to my small paradox with my naked body, is that the same week I was perfectly at ease hanging out — naked — with these two friends that, well you probably know the drill by now. After much reflection — and a couple rounds — I came…to a resolution. It was not the fact that my body was visible to others that made me uncomfortable. If that was the case, I would have felt the same way as I was swimming at the pool where absolutely everyone could see me.
Something about being exposed in such a way — whether it is being in a stall literally exposed, or changing in a locker room partially naked — made me want to retreat to the shame of occupying that space. It gave me comfort to not have to engage in the mental exercise of exposing myself to an external gaze. Not one that came from desire and mutual identification with a shared identity, but the one that opened myself up for a loss of intimacy within a shared space that I assumed would be filled with judgment.
But the truth is, no one approached me. No one interacted with me, and I also did not even gaze at any of the other people changing, we all just blended with the walls as an absence of perception rather than a hyper-monitored gaze that I had made up in my head. For those of you who are also self-conscious, no one is really looking at you either.
JS
The Cornell Daily Sun is interested in publishing a broad and diverse set of content from the Cornell and greater Ithaca community. We want to hear what you have to say about this topic or any of our pieces. If you are interested in entering a submission, please email style@cornellsun.com.
