Imagine for a minute that I am a gay man living in New York City. Man, that would just be great.

I recently joined the New York Sports Club and, dig this, in it they have a sauna and a steam room. A big, sweaty, unadorned wooden room with naked and semi-naked men unwinding. I went into it just the other day and discovered something about myself. At a very conscious level, I envy the gay.

To the gay, men are women. Follow with me on this 'cause it's brilliant. Yes, to the gay, men are the desired and, even though the gay tend to dress nicer and enjoy musicals, the gay are still men. Which means, they want to drool over, gawk at, quietly snicker amongst and be surrounded by the flesh of their desired.

Could you imagine–-I mean, just imagine–- if I got a membership to the New York Sports Club, just a few shekels a month–-and with that membership I'm allowed to hang out as long as I want in a sweaty room filled with naked and semi-naked unwinding and mostly fit women? Just a fantasy, right? It'll never happen, no matter how hard I prey, yes? But to the gay, the lucky gay, it happens every day of the week. Pay a few bucks, and you get to hang out in the steam with your none-too-obscured objects of desire.

It's a racket.

So, hey, like I say, I just recently joined this gym, and, of course, the first thoughts I have are wishes to be gay. Terrific. The other problem I have is that I screwed up and told folks about it.

I know dozens of people who are members of NYSC and many of them are thrilled with my new interest in fitness. They all wanna work out with me—especially 'cause I've said, "Man, I'll need some encouragement to drag my ass in there . . . " Once there, I realized, I'm going to have to get naked or semi-naked in front of work associates, guys from my neighborhood, old college chums. I just don't want that. Maybe I've just got hang-ups, maybe I'm riddled with security deficiencies, maybe I'm afraid I'll learn more about my feelings toward my friends, but this is a door I don't want to open.

I'm man enough to admit that there's a relatively low number of people that I've purposely displayed my nudity to as an adult. I can't be spreading that exclusive show around to too many.

And I also don't want to have to explain away my inability to shower there.

So now I get to the gym at curious times, hiding in shadows, hoping not to bump into work folks who want to grab their sack and come along—so to speak. And once I get there, alone, it's like a Chaplin film.

If the rough boys are down in the locker room swingin' around like proud lariat champs, I'm very meekly (as meekly as a man of my frame can be) attending to myself at my chosen locker. Very calmly and precisely folding things and waiting for the snake charmers to move away from my area. I do a lot of slow blinking, light coughing, or "doo-dum-doo" humming. I think I've even slicked back my eyebrows.

Upstairs is no better. I'll approach this spinning, cross-engaging contraption, step up, punch in all sorts of pertinent info (like which TV channel I want to watch while I cross-train) begin the motion, then look up into the mirror and see this deep blue ass with some person attached gyrating in and out and in and out in what looks very much like something other than a largely-boxed video cassette. I shake this off, then turn to my right and, noticing the two that are bouncing with such force you'd think for sure she'd qualify for some sort of government subsidy, I . . . I can't help but take a deep and penetrating interest in understanding every hope and dream and goofy li'l guilty pleasure about her. Not to tell you where I stand on the T vs. A issue, but this is often a little more difficult to shake off than what's in the mirror and, undoubtedly, I'll loose my footing and step through the whizzing, whirling, NASA-built tummy-rumbling machine. Heads will turn my way as I nearly topple over the thousand dollar piece of equipment, putting much of the room in imminent domino-destruction jeopardy.

You know, I doubt being gay could actually help this any. This may just be me.

I continue, always wearing a light grey shirt. Grey shows off sweat better than any other color. I don't want anybody to think I'm anything other than all business when I'm at the gym.