Bath puffs
Inside the Women’s Locker Room (Part Deux)

Six months hence I would have my sex change surgery, and I felt like a big, fat blob. I had stopped going to the health club six months before, when I began living full-time as a woman, because of the obvious locker room dilemma. But now I was feeling quite comfortable in my female gender role, and I decided I was just being silly missing my workout program. I decided to back to the gym.

I was still worried about the locker room situation, but I thought I could get by. After all, I thought, women do not parade around totally naked in the locker room! (In this, I was wrong, as you shall soon see.) I had a good, firm tuck, cock back and balls up like the big girls, and I never showed an unnatural bulge in any of my clothes. The more I thought about it, the more I thought I would have no problems. Nevertheless, I decided I would take the precaution of choosing a different health club than the one I had been going to for years. I didn't want to take the risk of somebody recognizing me, or even getting that curious look on their face and asking, "Where do I know you from?"

So it was that I packed my gym bag at noon on Friday and headed for a health club I had never been to before. I paid for a day pass, saying (truthfully) that I wanted to check out the facilities because I was interested in becoming a member.

A lot of guys and gals form the local business parks were rolling into the club for their lunchtime workouts. I walked into the women's locker room and looked for an open locker.

Oh my, was I surprised! Contrary to my expectations, there was a lot of nakedness on display. All around me, women were stripping down to their underthings and less, and pulling on leotards and sport bras. I suddenly understood why Victoria's Secret and Fredericks of Hollywood were so successful. Lacey brassieres, satin panties, bustiers and thongs were much in evidence. I presume many of the ladies were wearing their good undies because they planned to head out for the evening directly from work.

I also could not help but notice I was in the minority with my AA-cup breasts. Most of the women were quite well endowed in that area, and more than a few were candidates for breast reduction surgery. Nipple jewelry proved to be quite popular, sales spurred, perhaps, by the Janet Jackson Superbowl incident. Downstairs, Brazilians outnumbered the bushes and labia rings winked and twinkled here and there.

The women ranged in age from early twenties to late fifties, but most of them appeared to be in their thirties. Regardless of their ages, most of the women were in good shape, which makes sense, because they work out. A few needed to do some more work on their bellies and thighs—okay, some needed a lot more work!

Having experienced all my life how surreptitiously men check up women, I was surprised to notice the women openly gazing at each other, appraising each other's bodies without embarrassment. I began to get nervous—very nervous!—as several women looked me critically up and down. Would they notice anything wrong about me? Worst case, would someone shriek, "There's a MAN in the locker room!" I relaxed when I realized they approved of what they saw; in fact, some seemed jealous of my tall, thin physique. But I got nervous again when I realized I would have to change under possible watchful gazes.

I had worn my workout shorts and tennis shoes to the club, so I didn't need to worry about my downstairs just then. I pulled my Tee shirt up over my head and unhooked my generously padded bra. I knew I had enough breast development from being on hormones for almost a year that my chest would not be a reveal, though it would certainly not be envied! I pulled on my sport bra and I was good to go.

I was not surprised to see that the women chatted gaily with their neighbors as they changed their clothes. A lot of the talk seemed to be about husbands and boyfriends, and sex, sex, sex! I overhead one pretty, petite redheaded recounting that she had taken home one of the girls from purchasing the night before, as a mid-week treat for her husband. Apparently the buyer was happy to have dinner and quite a bit more. The woman the redhead was talking to, who apparently had just met her, giggled and said, "You should invite me over for dinner sometime!"

On the other side of me I heard a woman asking, "Where's Felicia?" Another pretty voice answered nonchalantly, "She won't be here today. The boss is boning her for lunch."

I also overheard several conversations about the club's trainers, and which ones were happy to provide private, after-hours "training" sessions, and who was hot and who was not. I made a mental note to find out which trainer was Rick.

Slightly giddy from the experience so far, I wandered out of the locker room and joined a jazzercise class for an hour. Most of the other women in the class wore skin-tight, lycra shorts and matching tops or sport bras, but a few wore "regular" baggy shorts like me. The class was fun, but I nearly died, I was so out of shape! I also learned painfully that tucking is not the way to go in a jazzercise class. I decided I needed to find a more comfortable solution the next time I worked out.

When the class finished, we took our sweaty bodies back to the women's locker room. My mind had been fully occupied with sweating to the oldies for the prior hour, but now I started to worry about how I would accomplish a shower and a change without a devastating reveal.

Back in the locker room, a few women were just arriving, but most of us had been in the jazzercise class and were stripping off our sweat-drenched workout clothes. I saw that most of the women headed for the showers wrapped in towels, but some just carried their towels in their hands, unembarrassed by their nakedness. A few women were going to the showers with their panties still on, and I figured that solved part of my problem. I left my panties on and, with my large bath towel wrapped around my body, I headed toward the showers too.

I had expected to find private shower stalls, but that was not the case. The shower room was one big, open area, tiled floor and walls. The shower heads were on several poles free-standing in the middle of the room. Women left their towels on hooks in the anteroom and took their soap and colorful net scrubbers into the shower room. Some women went into the showers still wearing their panties or swimsuit bottoms, so that's what I did too. I prayed that my tuck was as good as I thought, that it stayed put, and that none of the women observed me too closely. I hung my towel on a hook and strode quickly into the shower room.

The hot showers kicked up a goodly amount of steam which served as good camouflage for me; I breathed a sigh of relief and said a silent thank you to God. Women continued to chat with each other as the steaming hot water streamed over their bodies and they soaped up. I saw some women soaping up each other's backs—and fronts, too, in a few cases. It didn't seem to be anything sexual, mind you. It just seemed once you started soaping up somebody, why stop at their back?

As I was rinsing shampoo out of my long, wavy, red hair, I was startled by a loud rapping sound. I nearly jumped out of my skin! I looked around and saw women not startled, but surprised and smiling. Then I heard the deep, resonant voices of some of the club's trainers. "Panty check!" they yelled. "Panty check!"

As three handsome, ripped trainers invaded the shower room, a half-dozen women shrieked and ran over to the walls, hands-up and feet spread in the classis search-me pose. Other women looked on with amusement, while the rest looked bored and simply went about their business. Panty check? I had no idea what this ritual was, but I had a feeling it could have very bad consequences for me and the little friend in my panties. I froze with terror, hoping that by remaining motionless, I would be invisible to the muscle-bound, male trainers storming into the shower.

The women who were spread-eagled and giggling against the walls called out taunts like, "Check me!" "I'm hiding something!" and "I've got something for you!" And let me tell you, it was not just the younger women who were choosing to participate in the panty check. Quickly it became clear to me that the trainers were interested only in the women at the walls, but my heart continued to pound.

Much to my amazement, the grinning trainers strode over to the women against the walls and searched them quite thoroughly—probably a consequence of 9/11, I suppose. In some cases, the searching was not done with only hands; in fact, it appeared that a fairly thorough search could be conducted with no hands at all! I watched with astonishment, water streaming down my naked body, as the panty raid went on for about ten minutes. Then, satisfied that no weapons or contraband were present in the showers, the trainers stormed back out of the women's locker room. Ha, some panty check, I thought. They didn't find the one thing that was clearly not supposed to be in the locker room, and that thing was in my panties.

The woman next to me, a gorgeous blond with very nice breasts, must have seen the scared look on my face because she told me, "Don't worry, honey, that only happens about once a week, and you don't have to play if you don't want to." I thanked her and talked with her some more about this being my first time at the club. She even soaped my back.

The panty check was the pinnacle of the excitement for me in the women's locker room that first day. I found it easy enough to change into fresh clothing while keeping my towel wrapped around me so there was no danger of showing that which must not be seen. Once I stopped worrying about being outed, I relaxed and enjoyed my time chatting with other women as I combed out and dried my hair.

I did join the club and I've been going back regularly. I don't feel like a big, fat blob anymore, but there is still that four inches and about eight ounces that I want to lose—not in my tummy, but just below it. I've yet to encounter another panty check, but I have learned some other games they play around there, and I found out which trainer Rick is. He's very cute and hunky. I've been flirting with him like crazy, thinking I may try to find out if his reputation is well earned, after I've lost those four inches and eight ounces. In the meantime, I can tell it's driving him crazy that he can't have me.

I can hardly wait for six months to go by, so I can get those inches and ounces taken care of. The I'll have six weeks of healing and I can go back to the locker room without worrying about concealing anything. When that day comes, I've even been thinking that maybe… when I happen to be present at another panty check, perhaps I'll lean against the wall, hands above my head, feet spread, and call out, "Better check out what I've got!"

Note: This has been a totally fictional account of what goes on inside the women's locker room. For the true story, click here.

—Lannie Rose, 5/2005


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