During my terrible year in Philadelphia, I joined the 12th Street Gym, only about half a mile from my apartment.
It was an older facility, kind of musty, but crowded with cute gym rats. Unfortunately it was "gay friendly" rather than "gay." About half of the clientele consisted of gay men, and the rest straight men, who varied in their degree of comfort about being gawked at.
I don't remember even glancing at Duane that day (I never got his real name.) It was around 7 pm, and the gym was packed with the after-work crowd. I finished my workout and took a shower. I remember that the shower room was full. You had to wait your turn to get to a shower head.
I toweled off, and walked back into the locker room.
Just as I unlocked my locker and opened the door, I heard a man yell "Stop looking at me!"
I turned -- everybody in the locker room turned. Duane was rushing across the bare floor. He was in his 40s, tall, black, bald, not terribly muscular. Naked, dripping wet from the shower.
You notice weird things at a time like that. His penis swaying from side to side. The wet marks his feet made.
"F*** fag, stop looking at me!"
The rest of the story, with uncensored photos, is on Tales of West Hollywood.