The club calls itself the Flounders. They held each other underwater and by the neck, pushed each other up against the wall, and there were many instances of crotch grabbing. They played naked. Maybe it's some gentleman's club ritual that I'm just unfamiliar with. I f the walls of the Intramural Sports Building could speak, I guarantee they would have a few words to say about a certain men's water polo club that meets in its pool every week.
With the Flounders in my pool, I was humbled.
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Awkwardly enough, one of them was a former professor of mine. They held each other underwater and by the neck, pushed each other up against the wall, and there were many instances of crotch grabbing. Trading bathing suits for birthday suits. After about the third week, some of the Flounders started calling me "doll" and ceased their whispers that the "girl" lifeguard was back. I still couldn't get past the notion that I had been set up by employer, and the Flounders were a practical joke. Charitably, the men didn't always play naked in front of me.