Despite blogging candidly about peeing, pooping, the time I seemingly shit myself in the locker room (click HERE) and, oh, let’s not forget about being perceived as some deviant who likes to watch roadside animals fuck (click HERE), I am actually a somewhat modest person, especially when it comes to nudity as I’ve already discussed in my post about locker room etiquette. In high school Phys-Ed I would marvel at the other boys who’d casually stroll around the locker room buck naked while I showered in my underpants. Yes, I was one of those poor shy bastards. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against nudity; I just prefer to keep my shit covered up to everyone who’s not my doctor or my girlfriend because the general public doesn’t need to see my intimate bits.
Nowadays I’ve gotten pretty skilled at slipping out of a wet swimsuit or soggy exercise clothes and into a dry outfit without exposing so much as a random fold, pube or crack. Of course, I shower and everything but, even then, it’s all business. I keep my head down and focused on getting back to my locker (discretely wrapped in a towel, of course) and into my street clothes and out of the locker room as innocuously as possible…
…unless someone takes it upon himself to strike up a conversation with me while his monster schlong dangles in front of me like an uncaged python. That’s when things tend to get a little awkward. Because you know what? If you’re naked and you’re talking to me, I’m probably gonna stare at your unmentionables. How can I not? You’re freaking naked, for crying out loud, and you’re talking to me about the weather and how humid is out today while I try not to gawk at your junk. It’s human nature to stare at something that’s out of the ordinary, and an old dude (honestly, this guy was probably older than fire) with a penis you could use for home defense qualifies as being a bit on the “abnormal” side of things. Typically, my encounters with old dudes at the Y never go well. Click HERE for a little reminder.
Take this most recent encounter. Today I went to the Welland International Flatwater Center for an early open water swim which is one of the true joys of triathlon training if you ask me. It’s just you, the mist, the ducks and the peaceful serenity of still water. Afterwards, I made my way to the YMCA for a sauna, shave and shower before heading onto work. Because, you know, nobody wants to smell canal all day long. Anyway, as I plodded towards the shower portion of the program I noticed an old black guy engaged in his own morning cleanse ritual which, apparently, included lathering up his asshole but, hey, who’s judging?
I think it’s an unwritten rule that if given the opportunity to allow for a little distance to exist between exposed naked bits then it is ones responsibility to take that initiative and position themselves as far as possible from the other exposed bit. I call this the ‘Urinal Philosophy’ that guys typically observe at ball games and such. You don’t use the urinal directly next to another dude doing his business if there’s an opportunity to use a free urinal elsewhere and thereby allowing for some ‘privacy’, what little it may be (unless, of course, it happens to be John Stanton). I take this same philosophy to the showers at the gym: NEVER shower directly next to another dude if there’s the option of showering one shower head over, or elsewhere if possible. In this case, I made my way to the other side of the showers altogether as I definitely have a limited quota of soapy bungholes in my day (i.e. zero).
The guy was naked, obviously, gettin’ his scrub on. I quickly glanced in his direction as I walked by when I entered the shower room before looking away because I didn’t want to stare at his ridiculously huge cock. I mean, seriously, this thing was scary. Like way scarier than anything I might have encountered in the canal (for example). It was like a policeman’s baton with a nutsack that resembled something a bank robber might be carrying had it a dollar sign tattooed on it. It didn’t. I checked. I fumbled with the shower faucet and began my quick rinse.
Dandy McDinoschlong: “You think it’s gonna be hot out today?”
Oh god. No. Don’t do this.
Me (staring at the farthest corner of the room): “Hmm?” Maybe he wasn’t talking to me. Maybe he was…talking to himself? I dunno. I just hoped he wasn’t trying to get a very exposed me to talk to a very nude him.
Dandy McDinoschlong: “Do you think it’s gonna be hot out today?” Damnit. Now he had moved over to, you know, talk.
I shot a brief glance back at him and my eyes tractor-beamed back to his gigantic Johnson before I forced them to pull their gaze up towards his face. He was staring at me inquisitively while sudsing his crotch. I flashed back to a previous experience in the locker room a few months ago (click HERE) and, honestly, this couldn’t have been anymore awkward had the ‘Crying Game’ started to play over the muzac system.
Was he lonely or what? Why now of all times and places to strike up a conversation? At the very least, couldn’t he choose a moment when he wasn’t also rubbing and fondling his pet anaconda?
Dandy McDinoschlong: “I don’t mind the heat, but I can’t take this humidity”, he continued.
He bent down and started washing his knees and – I swear – his disco stick plonked itself on the floor with an audible ‘thud’. I bet this man’s poor wife hasn’t walked right since their honeymoon.
Me: “Uh huh”, was all I could muster in response.
Maybe if I ignored him he’d simply go away back to his own shower head. No dice.
Dandy McDinoschlong: “Yeah, I used to live in Florida so I know humidity and this is about as bad as it gets.”
My brain: “Goddamnit, eyes, stop looking at his dick! Look anywhere else! ANYWHERE!!”
My eyes: “You got it, boss!” (immediately flicks gaze to his crotch)
My brain: “Oh for crying out loud…”
Dandy McDinoschlong: “So, you going to work then?”
Me: “Uh, yeah.” Maybe this was my way out but he wasn’t having any of it.
Dandy McDinoschlong: “I’m retired now so this is my only workout before going home to watch television.”
My brain: “I bet just lifting that thing to scrub yourself is a workout! I wonder if you can use that thing to change the channel too?” Damnit! Shut up brain!
Me: “That’s great. I’m late as it is so…”
At this point I would have literally limbo-ed my way under his monstrous black mamba just to get out of there. I was desperate.
Dandy McDinoschlong: “Oh yeah, well don’t let me keep you. Welphaveagoodone”, he offered.
Me: “Thanks! You too!”, I replied as I made my big prison break towards the shower exit, desperately trying to keep my eyes forward on where I was going. I failed.
My brain: “C’mon, one last looksee…” Fuck!
This man’s phallus will forever be etched in my mind. I probably now know it better than my own.
Maybe it’s just me. Maybe every other dude on this planet enjoys chatting with his peers in the shower while nude, furiously washing every wrinkly nook and cranny like a raccoon on crack while discussing the weather, the local sports team, or what have you. Maybe I’m the weird one because I don’t particularly like partaking in conversations while my taint is exposed and vulnerable.
If that’s the case, so be it. Personally, I don’t relish being naked in front of strangers and I don’t particularly enjoy naked people talking to me, so if you’re thinking of striking up a convo with me while you’re bent over with your leather Cheerio thrust up towards the ceiling, please grant me the courtesy of throwing on a pair of pants before chatting me up. Because contrary to what you may think, I assure you that I don’t want to see any of that.