“What will you bring to our sanctum?”

As he said that, I thought, Rectum.

The more I was permitted to enter male spaces, the freer I was to observe how men were totally obsessed with each other!

“Huh?” I was too busy thinking of how much anal sex had taken place in the locker room to focus.

He grabbed my shirt and dragged me back out to the shower area, where two men showered under the same head, their hairy butts almost touching. He pressed my back against the wall, and I felt one of his rings against my breastplate, where there used to be more adipose tissue. No one in the locker room paid any attention. They did not want their languor broken.

“You think you’re a tough guy, huh?” this ringed man asked, even as shower spray misted him.

“No, I really don’t. That’s not a hang-up for me.” I tried to stay calm inside my knowledge that masculinity was a farce, a pyramid scheme.

“The sauna is the apex of the male locker-room experience. To gain admission, you must pass a test of wills and prove to the assembled body that you are offering some piece of yourself worth hours of pore-opening, branch-beating, and eucalyptus-fresh male bonding.”

I made rough calculations. I always knew that joining groups meant horrendous and unforetold compromises.

“Have you ever met a trans before?”

He reddened. “I mean.”

I could see his internet search history: “shemale fucking muscular basketball coaches,” “shemale striptease,” “tranny fucks naughty buttholes.”

“Okay, well, what if I offered something that would glorify the hormonal structure of testosterone and the male archetype?”

“Yeah?”

“I could do my testosterone shot in the sauna, naked, and we could all celebrate the yellow, oily substance and the late blooming of my dick.”

The white-gray curls of his chest hair were damp. “All right.”

“On one condition.”

“Yes?”

“That I am allowed to distribute scientific research proving there is no inherent link between testosterone and aggression.”

“I’ll have to check with the Grandmeister.”

“Like from that old TV show?”

“Yeah.” The gatekeeper looked sheepish. “I’ll return in a moment.” He opened the door to the sauna. Closed it, sending a wave of fragrant air toward me.

The grout on the floor had been expertly cleaned and shone white.

I waited and waited, counting squares, straining to hear what the Grandmeister might say. Nothing.

Finally, I left the anteroom. I had to get to my first client.

As I was walking out of the lobby, the guy at the front desk called out, “Penfield Ruth Henderson.”

The Ruth outfitted me in shame: I hadn’t changed my name yet.

“Yes?”

“The Grandmeister will see you next Thursday at nine a.m. No research.”

I bowed my head in deference to the pool’s wacked-out cultural norms and didn’t mention that I might have a scheduling conflict.