I came for the light and for the water.

Surely everyone could see my chest scars, through goggles, with swim-cap-squeezed heads, but underwater I was no longer trans because trans presupposed a before and an after, one concrete form and then another. There I was a municipal citizen using a public amenity, following the rules about removing your lock every night or it will be cut off, and there I was, water meeting chemically treated water, and there I was in the medium-speed lane, trying not to get mad when some dude with a back full of muscle passed me, and there I found a little capsule of freedom, letting the managed and scrunched-up body unravel into its nature. I moved without all the noise. Light hit the water and moved across the pool floor, and I knew nothing, I had no commentary, all my effort and plotting and holding-up of chest had earned me one moment of gliding.

You were not technically supposed to use your phone in the locker room, but when I was aching and showered, I took it out and positioned my face against the gray lockers. I was breaking the rules, on top of breaking the social rules about who is allowed to roam safely inside a pack of men.

Set timer. Ran back to bench. Snapped. Posted to my Gram. Sans caption. Hot.

Men were lying on benches nearby, their dicks slumped and peaceful on their legs. They were in their bliss; they didn’t even open their eyes to the shutter-sound of my phone. Happy odalisques, here in this male harem.

I sprayed tea tree oil on my toes and lay back on a bench in the corner, approaching a warm thought about how I’d rather be here, in this damp, moldy locker room, than anywhere else.

Except, maybe, the sauna. I hadn’t ventured there yet because the etiquette was total nudity. And I didn’t think the motley assortment of aging gay dudes, guys who were unreadable in their vulnerable Speedos with slight bellies, and old str8 men who wore their necklaces in the water—sending sparkling reflections across the pool floor—could handle the sight of naked Pen.

Could I?

That was always the question.

Crystalizing crumpets of Cassiopeia! I decided to go for it.

I reasoned: If I get hate-crimed, I’ll either detransition or I’ll become a queer extremist, beating up gaybashers with a bike U-lock like one of my exes.

I slipped on my shirt, left my trunks in the locker, wrapped a towel around my waist, and walked on the slimy floor toward the door marked SAUNA in yellow painted letters, like a sign at camp.

The door led to a damp anteroom. I couldn’t help but remember all the books from childhood where a lost cabinet, a forgotten wardrobe, a branch-covered door always led the (white, cis) character to some enchanted realm.

A beefy guy stared at me. He was shirtless and wore red Adidas track pants. They shimmered in the fluorescent lights, like the night ocean.