Sauna Shenanigans, ep. 4
Enough with all the political stuff, it’s time to get back to what really matters.
Howdy.
So I was using the steam room at the gym the other day. It’s a bit bigger than the sauna, with a bench that goes around the room, meaning there’s room for a couple of people to lay down, should they so choose.
In this case, I so chose, and was laying pretty much flat on the ceramic—or it could have been some sort of porcelain…?—either way, it’s a flush surface. This is important, because a flush surface is what you need to create a suction effect. And this is important, because that’s exactly what happened. I sat up slightly to shift my weight and got a not-inaudible whoopie cushion effect from my lower back. It was just a quick bubble-burst sound, not too prolonged or cartoonish. Very dignified. (“He doth protest too much,” etc… but it’s true, I swear.) Variations of this happen all the time—even the most casual sauna/steam room user would have known what had happened.
Sure enough, the meditative man sitting on the bench across from me did not react in any way.
The middle-aged man on the bench between us, though, apparently did not know what had happened. This was strange, because a sauna/steam-room neophyte he was not—quite the opposite. This was the same fellow, you see, who also enjoyed stretching out in the sauna (which only had room for about four people, sitting). And there, of course, it wasn’t unisex like the steam-room, meaning he did not have to trouble himself with such nuisances as “clothing” or “modesty”. He also happens to be the type to want to squeeze every possible day out of his membership—fair enough I guess, but I’ve never seen him on the gym floor, only in the changing room/sauna area. Invariably, you open the sauna door and see him, and he says “Oh, sorry, I must be in the way—let me sit up.” He huffs and puffs and makes a show of looking like he’s made the offer in good faith, like someone at a restaurant patting around for a wallet they know they left at home. Being a polite, conscientious person, though, you reassure him that he’s not in the way at all, and to lay back down at once, good sir. Having made your bed, you are then faced with the choice of sitting by his feet, knowing that if you turn your head you’ll have no choice but to take stock of his exposed manhood. Alternatively, you can sit on the lower bench below him, letting his sweat drip down on you from above. (Both sides have their obvious advantages—I like to mix it up.)
Anyway, this was the guy who happened to be in the steam room on the day in question. The sauna was out of service for repairs, so he’d been forced to migrate over. He’d thrown a pair of courtesy briefs on, at least, but evidently this compromise had been a source of tension. He was out of his (nudist) element, I guess—and, in such cases, it’s common for things to get psychosomatic. The body keeps the score, and all that. You never know how pent-up stress will manifest: lower back pain, headaches, general fatigue. In his case, apparently, it took the form of indigestion.
Luckily for him, then, I’d provided this Popeye with the spinach he needed to get back on track, gastroenterologically speaking: upon hearing my ambiguous air-outburst, he relaxed, assuming that this was somehow an invitation; a gesture of reassurance that this was a safe space; we were all friends here.
Clearly inspired, he gave an “Mmm. . .” of relief/approval. He then proceeded to pull his knees up to his stomach, hugging them tight while taking some deep breaths—it was clear that this was not his first rodeo. Sure enough, within seconds, he entered his flow state, and proceeded to spend the next minute or so passing a frankly remarkable volume of gas. Not a minute straight, mind you, just intermittently. Still, it was a tour de force: he achieved an impressive range of octaves and key changes and tempos, at what sounded like quite a few different liquid-to-gas ratios and PSI levels. It was a masterclass in body control, akin to a professional eater or sword swallower or whatever.
After a thunderous, triumphant crescendo, he finished on a delicate, poignant diminuendo, leaving the listener hanging on a note of sombre reflection (and yet a quiet hope).
Utterly spent, the human bagpipe puffed out his cheeks and gave a big “Phew” of relief, letting his legs collapse back onto the bench and his arms flop down by his sides. I’d been desperately trying not to stare, but in my periphery I’m convinced I saw him give a nod in my direction, and then look over to the third fellow, with a look of: “Well? We’ve taken our turns. What are you waiting for?” He then closed his eyes and a sleepy, serene smile came over his face. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about…”
I tried to make eye contact with the poor third guy to let him know that the gas-man and I were actually not in cahoots. But it did not seem to work. Deciding that he could no longer abide whatever strange little ritual was being staged by this [G]ay-December couple, he promptly stood up and left.
The gas-man then looked over at me with a “What the hell was that guy’s deal. . .? Did he have a stick up his ass, or what? Good riddance, as far as I’m concerned. Anyway, let’s get back to work.”
But we at least ended on a small victory: in his half-sedated state, I was able to snap a quick picture of him before I got the hell out of there.
Luckily, I found a scrap of paper and a pen just outside the door—never miss a chance to do some product placement! (“Always Be Closing. Always Be Closing.”)
On that note, everyone say hello to the newest member of our community!