Locker Room Etiquette

Raunchy locker room discussions amongst the guys have become quite as mythical as the ubiquitous hormonally-charged adolescent boy wet dream of sorority slumber parties - where dreamy nubile beauties frolic together in sheer lingerie while tossing lacy pillows at each other. Sorry to disappoint boys but I have rarely seen anything remotely resembling a luscious Bel Ami production happening in the men's locker room either, where introductory neanderthal grunts translate into steamy uncensored action in heated seconds.

Notice that I said rarely, not never. :P


Come into the locker room!
Regular guys just don't hang around locker rooms exchanging spit, dirty talk and bragging rights - at least not for long. Perhaps there's an unspoken locker room etiquette followed by the patrons but like a hasty two-dollar-fuck, there's plenty of slam-wham-and-bam of the locker doors with intelligible speech kept to a laconic minimum. Change, scrub up and leave.

Unfortunately not everyone attended the same Mr Manners class.

Donned my scrubs this evening to get ready for a brief procedure only to get accosted by a colleague, a friendly, hail-fellow-well-met sort who guffaws loudly at his own jokes and tends to enjoy discussing his impossible exploits. An estimable sort really and one I wouldn't mind sharing a drink and a conversation with.

Of course that's when he's wearing pants.

It was all I could do to stare in incredulity as he stood there discussing internal work politics and medical paraphernalia while clad only in his underpants. Oh my EYES! Seriously. There shouldn't be talk at all in the locker room.

Especially if you're half-naked in your holey stained briefs.

Ever tried to talking to a man ( that you're not thinking of shagging repeatedly ) in his underwear? It's very hard to tell exactly where to look. Whether to stare obliviously at his shiny bald pate or down at his bushy mustache with basmati rice hanging off the edges. Or run over his quivering jowls as he jawed endlessly about the latest stupendous surgical procedures. Of course it would be disastrous ( though I couldn't help it honestly! ) to even peek below that thick neck. His sagging man breasts? The bristly forest sprouting from his hairy back? Or worse that heavy bulging paunch overshadowing his briefs!

Really. Short of possessing an enviable physique straight out of abs-heavy 300 or Men's Health, there shouldn't be any call to strut around the men's locker room while discussing relatively innocuous topics.

Do my eyes a favour. At least put on a fucking shirt dammit.

Simple really. The only time I have to talk with a sweaty half-naked man should be in the throes. And nowhere else. Unless the man himself looks utterly ravishingly delicious in pair of tight, well-packed briefs ( and we all know I'm a firm supporter of the law allowing all personable men to walk around en déshabillé ) - and we do know how terribly rare such a magnificent specimen can be. Even then I'd be much too distracted with all the brawny action going on below his muscular neck to even concentrate on his didactic speech.

Underwear Hunk : I think he should be... bla bla bla.... poor prognosis... bla bla bla.... attempt a procedure... bla bla bla...
Paul : Gah. *Drool*
Underwear Hunk : What do you think? Don't you think we should ... bla bla bla...
Paul : Could you flex your pecs again while you say that?

Thankfully no such distraction exists in a five miles radius around my workplace.

Sigh.