The Door
I moved gyms in January. The old place was fitness-focused, and the work I’m doing now needs more — more machines, heavier weights, serious people in the room. The new gym is exactly that. Since January I’ve trained there in plain men’s kit. Plain black underwear underneath. Nothing anyone would notice unless they were looking, and nobody was.
This week was heavy. A lot going on, and I hadn’t worn anything femme in three weeks. So this morning I packed a matching pink set and decided I’d wear it under my work clothes for the day. The shower room is separate from the main changing area and almost nobody uses it. In and out, thirty seconds, done.
Showered. Towelled off. Knickers on, bra clasped, straps up. I was reaching for my jeans when the door opened.
One of the only people at the gym I actually say hi to. He was heading for the cubicle at speed. I was holding my jeans, frozen. He said “nice knickers, mate,” locked the cubicle door behind him, and that was that.
I sat in the car park afterwards for a minute trying to work out what had just happened.
Here is what I keep coming back to. The only thing that went wrong was the timing of a door. The set didn’t fail. My judgement didn’t fail. I wore something nice under my clothes on a low week because I wanted to feel better, and it worked — until the door opened.
I’m moving across the country at the end of the month, so I have three weeks left at this gym. Tomorrow I’ll nod at him the way I always do. If he says something, I’ll keep it short. He’s a serious lifter and he’ll take his cue from me.
The set is staying. So am I.
