THE NEED TO SEE AND BE SEEN

Why aren't we men enjoying each other's bodies and energy at the gym anymore?

Why have we let our phones steal the joy of looking, the energy of being present, and the camaraderie that comes from sharing the hard work we put in?

Since moving to NYC in 1990, I’ve frequented gyms all over the tri-state area, BOTH GAY AND STRAIGHT, and have witnessed a devastating repression of male energy in locker rooms since the advent of handheld devices.

One used to walk into a locker room or a sauna and feel a palpable energy in the air—not necessarily sexual, but a vibrant, sensual aliveness. The gaze was direct, forward-looking. Now, with devices in our hands, our collective gaze is downward; even those without a phone seem affected. It's a loss of projection, a fading of connection. (More on that later.)

Just the other day, I watched a man—clearly someone who had spent countless hours sculpting his body—nearly crack his head open as he struggled to change out of his gym shorts, wrapped tightly in a towel like an infant. Why couldn’t he simply undress in front of other men?

Men in America are so conflicted about their bodies. Has anyone else noticed this—the fear, the suppression, the shame? Why are so many men so insecure that another man’s gaze feels threatening? Admiring a body isn’t always a sexual advance, and if simply being looked at, in real time, makes you feel insecure or threatened, there’s deep work to be done.

Is it about penis size? The fear of not being "man" enough to stand nude among others? I’ve witnessed some of the most beautiful energy radiate from men with smaller bodies, simply because they’re confident in themselves and at ease with their own presence.

I miss the act of looking and being looked at—the feeling of seeing and being seen, the electric energy that existed when men were less fearful and more open. We’ve let that powerful energy fade by always looking down, whether or not we’re "connected."

Perhaps our connection with technology is replacing our connection to what makes us truly human—our ability to see and be seen, to share presence and vulnerability. In trading genuine human connection for the constant pull of our screens, we risk losing the very aliveness that once charged the spaces between us.