“Stop me if you think you’ve heard this one before…” (Part 7)

Posted: March 4, 2016 in In Transition
Tags: , , ,

Lord knows the Men’s change room at the local YMCA is the Ground Zero from which all things fucked up and ridiculous emanate and it’s already well documented the strange assortment of weirdos and weird behavior I’ve encountered in there.  I even wrote a list of haloed “Locker Room Commandments” once (click HERE) in an effort to keep us aligned and playing nicely with no awkward weirdness but, apparently, nobody gave a second look.


So now, usually, I just try to get in and out as quickly as possible without ever diverting my eyes from the ground immediately in front of me.  If I thought it wasn’t too weird to sport a pair of those side-view blinder things that see on professional bowlers and race horses, I would – believe me.  However, sometimes there is just no avoiding the strange behavior of some people as their internal idiocy just shines too bright.  And just when you thought you’d seen it all, some moron’s bizarre habit or total douchebaggery suddenly leaps out from the shadows and hits you full impact with all the force of a runaway freight train.

This is exactly  what happened this morning.

Usually I swim early in the morning beginning at 6:30am.  At that time the pool is jam packed with all the old buzzards doing, well, whatever is they do between ends of the pool.  Some swim, some float, some bob, others – who the fuck knows what they’re doing exactly (click HERE) – but as long as they do in any other lane aside from mine I couldn’t give two shits.  For the most part though, they all know me well enough by now to know that I’m there to kick ass and so they pretty much leave me alone to the Fast lane.

It’s perfect.

Anyway, as we all more or less arrive together, most of them will have long since left by the time I’m finished my workout.  In fact, in some cases and entire second wave of morning swimmers and “bobbers” have entered the pool and left again.  It’s just the circle of life at my community pool between 6:30am and 9:00am.

Queue the lions.

As such, I seldom see any of the change room habits these old dudes have as they’re long since gone by the time I emerge from the pool to shower and get changed.  This suits me just fine since I’ve seen enough wrinkled up old man dick to last me a lifetime.

Today, however, one of the second wave “bobber-floaters” – an old man – in the next lane decided to stick around a little longer than usual.

No big deal though, right?

Of course not!

However, what this also meant is that since he happened to excuse himself from the pool only 10 minutes before my own workout, it was very likely I wasn’t going to have the shower-change room to myself as is usually the case when I leave.

Now this isn’t really a big deal either, although I will admit I do look forward to and enjoy that few minutes of peace and quiet after my long swims.  After all, when you’ve been more or less submerged in water in a near sensory deprivation state for approximately 90 minutes to two hours at a time, reemerging into a loud, boisterous environment can be somewhat overwhelming.

Trust me.

So when I exit the pool and enter the change room I am a bit, shall we say, “absent”.  It actually takes me a few minutes to acclimate to dry land and regain the use of all my faculties.  So while I’m in this state, let’s just say that I can be a bit, well, oblivious.  I mean, really, all I’ve had to focus on for the past two hours is the sound of my underwater breathing and maybe the echo of the odd pool fart I squeaked out somewhere mid-stroke. There’s not a whole lot else to occupy your mind and senses.  So, anyway, this was the state I was in when I happened to enter into the change room this morning.

And then it happened…

When you enter into the Men’s change room from the pool area you first have to pass through the showers in order to get to the change room.  I typically do this right away prior to showering as I like to drop off all my pool equipment at the locker, strip out of my suit and grab my bottles of TRISWIM.  Then I proceed to head back to the showers to take care of business.

Between the showers and the lockers area there are two wall mounted hot air driers situated up high that people can use to blow dry their hair.

I know, real men don’t blow dry their hair.


But whatever…the driers are still there.

On this particularly occasion as I was passing through the showers to my locker I was suddenly greeted by a most disturbing scene.  The old man who had left the pool just minutes before me, had decided that he was now going to grab one of the plastic stools out of the showers to stand on and…

…wait for it…

…blow dry his nut sack.


There he was, shoving his wrinkled old man dick into the hair drier while running his fingers through his greying pubes.  Now, think about it, at that level his droopy old man balls were perfectly situated at eye level just a mere inches away from my face.

I was instantly all:



I absolutely gagged.

I just couldn’t wrap my brain around the total train wreck before me.  His testicles dangled there like a day old Tetley tea bag.  Had a bell rung I would have been tempted to go all Rocky on his “speed bag” like this:

Fortunately for this numbnuts (and I say that both figuratively and, very likely, literally) no bell was to be heard.

I mean, seriously?


What would possess someone to – you know – dry their nut sack in a public change room using the drying machine located approximately 6ft. up on the wall?  Clearly, had it been intended to warm your Charlie Brown’s it would be at least waist level! B ut apparently this fact was completely lost on this ass clown.

After I’d dealt with the mental trauma (hours later, of course) I started to wonder what would happen if this old guy, who looked like he had all the physical durability of a china doll.  Honestly, if he were ever to slip and fall from his plastic roost mid-blowjob he’d likely shatter into a thousand like a fluorescent light bulb.

One has to wonder if the reward of a toasty ball sack is really worth the risk?


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