They are everywhere around the swishing, splashing pool, and they are everything -- short, fat, muscular. I am surrounded by hordes of people, I am surrounded by swim meet, and half of my tormentors -- people who push and shove and crowd and yell -- are guys in speedos.

I vaguely remember that some girls squeal and giggle around these guys, these dripping, chlorine-y guys who look naked. I am too tired for thoughts like this, so I look through them, just as I look through their female counterparts, girls in speedos, which isn't nearly the same thing.

It's true, though, that I never think sex around these guys, because I have been surrounded by swim meet for six years. Their asses, in multicolored shapes and sizes, pass me by just as quickly as their faces, unimportant parts of a massive crowd. They all have a blunt triangle in front, and if I cared, I could probably compare dick sizes between the local Mr. Popularity and the nerd who does a 35.26 in 50 Freestyle. I don't, really, and they all blend together, and I don't recall who has a blue bathing suit and who has a red-and-green striped one.

I smile secretly when they put their clothes back on. I like guys in clothes, with everything covered, no triangle, no pale muscles, everything all hidden in soft folds of cotton and denim. This is what I remember, what I notice, because these guys are now deliciously out of context, and I suddenly notice their casual gait, their jagged profile, and their flashing eyes when they laugh.

These were guys in speedos, but now they are just guys. Yet, when I pass them on the street, I laugh a little to myself, because I am the only one who knows what they look like wearing nothing but a tiny little scrap of tight blue fabric.

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