Locker Room Reflections: Insecurity and Fetishization
The Armor and the Exit
The transition happens the moment I open my locker.
As I pull on my jeans and my hoodie, I am literally and metaphorically covering up. The vulnerability of the shower stalls is replaced by the performance of the public. I check the mirror one last time—not to look at my body, but to make sure the mask is on straight. Jaw set. Shoulders back. The "fit guy" persona engages like a safety lock.
Walking out of the gym doors is jarring. The humidity of the locker room is slapped away by the biting wind of the parking lot. I get into my car—my steel bubble—and the silence is deafening.
This is the "comedown." The endorphins from the lift are fading, replaced by that familiar, hollow ache. I grip the steering wheel, looking at my hands. They are calloused and strong, capable of lifting hundreds of pounds, yet they feel incapable of holding onto self-worth.
The drive home is where the dark thoughts settle in. I pass the blurred lights of the city, feeling like a ghost inside a machine. I am admired, I am watched, I am wanted—but I am not known. I am a walking contradiction: a man who has built a temple that everyone wants to visit, but no one wants to pray in.
The Digital Meat Market & The Ghost in the Machine
When I get home, the isolation doesn't end; it just changes mediums. I sit on the edge of my bed and the blue light of my phone illuminates the room. I open the apps.
If the locker room is a silent judgment, the apps are a noisy marketplace. Here, I am reduced to a stat sheet. Height. Weight. Size.
I scroll through the grid of headless torsos and aggressive bios. My profile is there among them, curated to attract. And it works. The notifications roll in. The "taps," the "woofs," the fire emojis. But if you look closely at the messages, the dehumanization is staggering.
“Pics?” “Hung?” “Top?”
They don’t ask my name. They don’t ask how my lift was. They treat me like a vending machine: insert validation, dispense sexual gratification.
I look at my own photos—cropped, filtered, angled to maximize size and vascularity. I have become my own marketing manager, selling a product I don't even like. I am effectively catfishing people with my own body; they think they are getting a dominant, confident stud, but they are getting a man who needs reassurance just to exist.
It feels less like dating and more like listing a used car. They kick the tires, check the engine specs, and if the "features" (my endowment) match their fetish, they make an offer.
It creates a surreal dissonance. I am trapped behind a glass wall of my own making.
To the men on the screen, I am a fantasy—a jagged, cyberpunk beast of muscle and meat. To myself, I am just soft, nervous flesh.
I turn the screen off. The room goes black. I am left alone with the body that everyone wants and the mind that no one sees. The adoration for my size feels like a consolation prize for a contest I never wanted to enter. It’s a bitter pill to swallow: to realize that to the world, your value is measured in inches and plates, while your soul sits quietly in the corner, starving.
....but what if it was a movie scene?
The lighting is harsh, fluorescent, humming with a low electric buzz. Steam drifts from the showers, obscuring the background.
DEREK (40s, muscular, imposing) stands before a row of mirrors. He is shirtless, towel low on his hips. He looks impressive, but his expression is vacant. Sad.
He leans in. Traces a vein on his shoulder.
NARRATOR (V.O.) The lighting in here is designed to be honest. But usually, it’s just cruel.
Derek flexes. It’s mechanical. A routine.
NARRATOR (V.O.) I see the deltoids. I see the veins mapping the forearm. By any objective standard, the armor is intact. But looking at it… I don’t feel strength. I see a softness that terrifies me.
He looks down. We don’t see what he sees, but we see his reaction. A mix of resignation and dissociation.
NARRATOR (V.O.) And then there’s the other thing. The thing they actually talk to me about. The "gift."
SCENE 2: INT. CAR - NIGHT
Rain streaks the windshield. Sodium vapor streetlights rhythmic flash across Derek’s face. He is driving in silence. The isolation is palpable.
NARRATOR (V.O.) They call it a "blessing." I call it being a trophy hunter’s prize.
Cut to: His hand gripping the steering wheel. Tight. White knuckled.
NARRATOR (V.O.) There is a strange, isolating paradox to being fetishized. They want the attribute, but they don’t want the anxiety that comes with it. They want the aesthetic, but not the man.
SCENE 3: INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT
Darkness. The only light comes from the cold blue glow of a smartphone screen illuminating Derek’s face. He looks tired.
INSERT PHONE SCREEN: A grid of headless torsos. Notifications popping up. "Pics?" "Hung?" "Top?"
NARRATOR (V.O.) If the locker room is a judgment, the apps are a meat market. I am a vending machine. Insert validation, dispense gratification.
Derek scrolls. His thumb moves rhythmically, lifelessly.
NARRATOR (V.O.) I look at my own profile. Cropped. Filtered. A jagged, cyberpunk beast of muscle. I’m catfishing them with my own body. They think they’re getting a dominant stud. They’re getting a ghost.
He locks the phone. The room goes pitch black.
NARRATOR (V.O.) I am a man who has built a temple everyone wants to visit... but no one wants to pray in.
FADE TO BLACK.
I imagine the scene would've had one of these songs playing in the background.
CLOSE EYES - DVRST
Vibe: Driving, nocturnal Phonk. The heavy bass and relentless beat feel like putting on the "armor" before walking into the gym. It’s the sound of building a facade.
MURDER IN MY MIND - Kordhell
Vibe: Aggressive, high-energy Phonk. This captures the intense, almost angry energy of a heavy lift, the "pump," and the competitive stare-downs in the locker room.
Sahara - Hensonn
Vibe: Dark, gritty, and repetitive. It reflects the mechanical nature of the routine—lift, flex, shower, repeat—and the feeling of being a cog in a physical machine.
completely numb - w u s o 命
Vibe: The transition point. Slower, moodier Dreampunk. This is the sound of the "comedown" in the car, where the adrenaline fades and the numbness sets in.
恢复 (Recovery) - 2814
Vibe: Deep, atmospheric Dreampunk. Sounds like rain on a windshield at 2 AM. Perfect for the dissociative drive home, watching city lights blur past while feeling utterly alone.
Remember - Sangam & Yoshimi
Vibe: Melancholic, hazy Vaporwave. It has a sense of longing and lost connection, fitting for the moment you sit on the edge of the bed in the dark, feeling hollow.
Hell Calls - Ghoulie
Vibe: Dark, distorted, and isolating. The sound of the digital meat market. The feeling of being trapped behind the glass screen of your phone, scrolling through a endless void of validation-seeking.
No Message - Hantasi
Vibe: The final track. Empty, echoing, and spacious. The feeling of turning off the phone and sitting in the silence of your room, left alone with the disconnect.
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