We're Naked Under Our Clothes
I am really getting tired of all the nakedness in the locker room at my gym. I know the guys at Ibodera already wrote about this, but today I was forced to endure an unusually high dosage of male nakedness. Naked guys here, naked guys there. I was surrounded, like the Noldor at the Fall of Gondolin. There was no escape. Naked guys weighing themselves on the scale. Seriously? On the scale? You couldn't have put a towel on before you did that? That would have required too much effort?
There's no circumstance under which I want to see a naked man for such a prolonged period of time, unless I'm watching a porn or decide to start hitting for the other team. If you're nasty, hairy, lumpy naked, I don't want to see that. There's a reason no one has put you up on a billboard. If you're handsome, chiseled, Greek god naked, I don't want to see that, either. I don't need anything else pecking away at my insecurities.
What bothers me even more than seeing all the nakedness is knowing that there are all these dudes who apparently have no problem with me seeing them naked. Indeed, they seem to WANT me to see them naked. They go OUT OF THEIR WAY to show me their nakedness. I don't care if it makes me a prude, or insecure, or uptight: by and large, I don't want other people seeing me naked. If you're seeing me naked, (a) you better be my doctor, or (b) we're about to have sex. Otherwise, no Naked Law Revue for you. No display of my dazzling derriere or the obelisk emerging from a pubic forest that is my Pen15. It's just not in the cards.