"What can I say, honey? It's sort of an 'Everyman' type of place, you know what I mean? I really like the 'Y'. Goddamnit there's something downright egalitarian about that place. It's democratic - democratic in a real older American way, maybe like Walt Whitman or Emerson meant. You know what I mean, honey?" He slapped her butt for good measure.
In that instant, Gregario became moved by his own words and felt goose flesh trail up his leg. He felt his penis grow ever so slightly under his jogging shorts in the beginnings of an erection. In the next moment, though, he sensed the hollow emptiness of his words and became embarrassed. His felt a tickling unpleasant sensation in his lower abdomen and groin, and immediately felt his penis shrink.
What Dick Gregario did not tell his wife that night was that he liked the smell of the 'Y': the faint fecal odor, the light but sharp smell of urine, the odor of sweat mixing with the synthetic fabric of the punching bags and mattresses, and the chlorine smell of the pool that on some gut level he associated with the smell of his own semen.