Old men in changing rooms

Showers are great. Homemade waterfalls providing an ideal location for sex (if in agreeable company,) masturbation (if lonely,) urinating (if desperate,) singing (if happy) and washing (if absolutely necessary.) Showers however aren’t so great when taken in a public setting. Don’t get me wrong I’ve had numerous fanciful showers scrubbing the taut backs of football colleagues post match. All too often though the shower experience, when forced to mingle with the general public, becomes a needless annoyance.

I have used many public showers. Not that I loiter suspiciously, I play football and dabble with the gym. In the sweaty aftermath of both I regularly find myself thinking, ‘what the fuck is going on in here?’

My non perverted observations/recollections have concluded three distinct stages to male showering in public. These are largely dependent on position in life’s cycle and it is the latter group that are by far the worst.

1) Kids – Excluding the ridiculously young, who would prance around Tesco’s naked if their mothers didn’t clothe them, kids tend to cover up. Typical form is to stand with towel wrapped tightly to waist whilst struggling to zigzag a pair of pants up the legs without anyone seeing your cock. Sometimes the towel becomes loose causing sheer panic, with the owner having to cup his genitals with one hand and zigzag with the other. Puberty is a baffling time, heightening the curiosity of the development of those around you. The showers after P.E class at school are a particularly harrowing affair. I attempted to skip these, or at least be one of the last to get in. I was certain I had a small penis and sensed no need to send it charging into the circus of ridicule. But a small penis wasn’t the only danger. A hefty pubic mound or large penis could also bring pointing and laughter. I remember one geeky lad at my school called Robert Diamond. It was discovered in the showers that he was owner of a particularly long and girthy member… a beast of a penis that bent quite visibly. We would chuckle heartily whilst bellowing the words ‘banana dick, banana dick, banana dick,’ at him. What little we knew… that cunt’s definitely having the last laugh now.

2) Young to middle aged adults – By this stage of life the male has learnt to accept what he’s been given. Sure, there will still be men at home as you read this, secretly engaging in dick stretching techniques in a bid to gain a valuable inch. But generally any laughing is done behind your back and a sense of self confidence has been gained due to the likelihood of your penis becoming pals with several thirsty vaginas. I myself, despite the curse of a small penis, am no longer the person that shied away from showers at school. Nope, I thrive on walking around my London Studio with rosy genitals blowing in the fresh morning breeze. That’s because I’m content with my lot, as are most men at this stage. As such public showers become a no nonsense affair. You take your boxers off, shower and put your boxers back on. There are no attempts to hide the penis or a desire to exhibit them for any length of time longer than necessary. You do what you’ve got to do and that’s the way it should be.

3) Old men – Fuck me what a sight. Despite the dick having shrivelled to the size of an acorn, or in some cases becoming inverted, the old man just loves to stroll around naked for as long as humanly possible. They cannot stay still and are always followed by a trail of fucking Talcum powder. I’ve seen horrific sights; complete with creases, wrinkles and overhangs in all the places I don’t want to see them. There is a rotund old fellow during my Saturday football that stands in front of the mirror, stark bollock naked, using the hairdryer for a good ten minutes… he hasn’t even got any fucking hair. He always manages to have the locker right next to mine, where he then proceeds to splash Talc against his swinging balls. Sometimes I return home looking like I’ve auditioned for the Great British Bake Off. At Swiss Cottage Leisure Centre I regularly enter the changing rooms to the sight of an old geezer hunched over, one leg lofted up on the bench, shaking a towel around his balls like they’re a pair of maracas. Apart from a monk like haircut he is the hairiest man my eyes have ever absorbed. He’s like a furry toad with a black wolf strapped above his knob. Man he sickens me, in comparison to his my cock is an international supermodel.

I feel confident that anybody with experience of public changing rooms will agree that old men pose a particular menace to the eyes. I have even walked into a shower to witness an old man shaving his arse with a bright orange disposable razor. The said man, of course, ended up moving to the shower next to mine so that he could complement me on my tattoos, whilst continuing the process of smoothing his arse cheeks.

I understand that ball sacks get stuck to ones inner thighs and the process of peeling can be ten times more agonising than waxing, but save your ‘Talcing’ for your personal abode. Maybe incorporate it as a prelude to sex, but please don’t do it in the fucking changing rooms I frequent… it’s hurting my eyes.

Her on the train

I can’t get her out of my head
Everything about her just screams
SEX
Her confident pout
Her aching arched back
Her high heels
But especially those long legs of latex
She’s not classically beautiful
But undoubtedly holds a dirty look
Tonight she’s travelling with SEX on her mind
I can read her like an adorably filthy book.

Who is she going to meet?
Dressed in black from scalp to toe
Those shoes hiding a scrawled ankle tattoo
What it says I do not know?
Why isn’t she going out to have SEX with me tonight?
She’s got the type of body that I’d build if I were a womb
Tall
Ample breasted
Sturdy on her feet
And a bottom that I won’t forget soon.

Actually it’s the best behind that my eyes have ever seen
As if her body was built about it
Pert
Round
Powerfully shown off
Appearing almost as if it shouldn’t fit
Her lumber vertebrae arches expertly to it
Shapely black, yet she is white
Stood upright
She’s in a naughty canine position
I envy whoever she is visiting tonight.

She has the most alluring body that I have obsessed over for a long time
And she’s definitely going out for SEX
It hurts because I know that she’s reachable
I just don’t know when I’ll see her next…
I miss you girl on the train xxx

Smoking get’s you places

Back in the day all the big thinkers smoked pipes. I’m no scientist, but stand certain that the intake of tobacco was like ‘miracle grow’ for the brain. Think of the great philosophers, think of the great writers, think Albert Einstein, Sherlock Holmes and Che Guevara. By the 1950’s smoking simply changed shape, you weren’t a Hollywood heartthrob unless you had a cigarette dangling loosely from your lips. Take James Dean and Marlon Brando, men wanted to be them and girls wanted to fuck them. Why? Smoking… without cigarettes they would have just been a couple of incredibly handsome gays.

Even Cartoons saw the potential and jumped on the smoking bandwagon. You’ve all seen Bugs Bunny, Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck and Pluto with a crafty fag in their mouth. Then there were the regulars, the ginger boss from Inspector Gadget and that spinach breath twat Popeye. It wasn’t until the creation of Cyril Sneer from ‘The Racoons’ however, that they hit the jackpot. That crazy pink millionaire smoked cigar after cigar and had a nose shaped like a pipe… what a double whammy.

Things are no different today. Take school for instance, it’s always the boys smoking behind the bike sheds that get the girls and subsequent sticky fingers. The nicotine free are sat in the library blushing as they type ‘vagina’ into a search engine. If you want to be taken seriously as a modern day rock star it is essential that you are man enough to say, ‘fuck you smoking ban,’ and spark up on stage. To this day it is still near impossible to find a cooler sight than Keith Richards with a glowing cigarette tucked behind the head strings of his guitar.

The power of smoking hasn’t been lost on the pornography industry either. During regular outings to porn sites I have found myself tapping away at the keyboard until ‘girl smoking’ appears next to the search option. Each time I have delighted in literally coming across visions of lipstick drenched sluts smoking whilst being pummelled from behind. But in my defence of that discovery (for those that may be offended) it wasn’t in the name of research… I do have a penchant for smoking porn stars.

I could take this non debate further by introducing drug use and how ‘Breaking Bad’ has put Meth smoking on the map of the masses… but there is no need. The title of this blog stands tall and true with the simple use of good old fashioned tobacco. I need not stray away from “real life” either. The anti-smokers will point to the damage it inflicts on ones health, but advice on what’s good and what’s not changes by the hour. Nobody knows. We’ll die when we die. The cleanest living souls known to man can die young and those that smoke and drink daily can live into their late nineties. So take all your research and fuck off, we go when it’s meant to be, don’t try and influence or control life’s lottery.

It’s as clear as the grey matter emanating from a cigarette that smoking is a recipe for success. The indoor smoking ban can’t stop it and never will. Forcing people to smoke outside of pubs and bars has created a useful icebreaker for chatting people up when asking for a light, and it’s always the smokers at work (away from the prying eyes of the office) that get the best gossip and inside knowledge.

The best use of smoking for me is during my journey to and from work. Little is more frustrating than trying to zigzag your way through the Karen Brady and Alan Sugar wannabes. Smoking removes that zigzag and allows one to walk (or more likely strut) in a straight line. The non conforming general public fucking hate smokers. The slightest whiff of a cigarette can cause deformed scowling faces. People immediately let you by or even cross the road to be rid of you. I’ve even heard tales of smokers being asked by commuters to put out their cigarette so they can walk in clean air… the fucking cheek of it.

Waiting at traffic lights become a particular delight, the smoker becomes tantamount to a person that has let go of a highly spiced fart in a crowded elevator. But the most productive of commutable smokes comes with the rain. With the lower sky suddenly littered with umbrella’s getting to work becomes like tackling the ‘Gauntlet’ from ‘Gladiators.’ Spark up however and Wolf, Jet, Shadow and Co soon fuck off. On approaching the umbrella I thrive on aiming my smoke directly into the plastic dome. The owner soon melts to the curb seemingly suffocating in a glass case of emotion.

If a snooty female ever asks me to put out my cigarette on route to work I already have my answer,
‘I’m sorry madam, but I don’t see the giant no smoking sign in the sky… besides, I’m fucking going places.’

‘Not Bumpy!’

The bat cave was dark, probably darker than it should have been. Carrots don’t feature prominently in my diet despite the forceful efforts of my paper wife. I wasn’t in Gotham city; I was at the West Midlands Safari park. As attractions go it’s the most popular of its kind… within a radius of a non impressive amount of miles… it was something to do on a non-descript April Sunday.

The bat habitat was manmade and played host to real life mammals rather than a violent superhero. The darkness made it difficult to admire any workmanship; it was also tricky to locate your loved ones. I knew mum and dad were somewhere, but I didn’t feel the need to be close to them. It was the paper wife I wanted.

Bats fluttered like miniature kamikaze fighter planes. They were impossible to follow, flickering in and out of sight in a dull strobe effect. Some of the girls present screamed mildly, but that’s what females do. They talk babbling crap and worry.
The words of my paper wife echoed in ones mind, ‘it’s ok, they have better eyesight than we do… they won’t fly into us.’ She was right of course, although I didn’t admit it. Instead I quietly thought to myself, ‘I’m not fucking worried.’

I watched the bats, or at least tried to. They don’t stay still, terrible hosting etiquette. Granted I wasn’t personally invited, but if someone enters my home I keep any movements to a watchable pace. Scraps of fruit clung to spears seemingly hovering in mid air. Out of the corner of my eye a large dark blob shuffled and jerked along a rope between them.
‘Fuck me dead!’ The movements were disconnectedly freaky and it was ten times the size of any other bat. It must have been the king, head honcho, numero uno… fuck, it could have been Bat Man himself. My nerves settled as I watched it shuffle towards the fruit with a feeling of disgust at the brow of my throat.

I caught glimpse of another large object leaning against the wooden barrier. I moved in. Tenderly I wrapped my arms around her waist. It felt soft, softer than usual.
‘Big bat isn’t it Bumpy?’ I said.
The bat was wrapped up in its own wings like a badly folded tent. She turned around at the sound of my voice. Her face looked different, almost horrified. My eye sight grew to fighter pilot levels. Her face illuminated so white that she could have been kissing the moon. A look of terror told me her brain was registering matters quicker than mine. I caught up. It wasn’t my paper wife. It was a lady of similar build and coat. She had liked my tender hug but not my voice.

I let go of her quickly, at a comparable speed to someone realising they had put their hand in shit.
‘Oooops, sorry I thought you were somebody else!’ She gave a weak smile that said she was considering calling the police. I moved away. Her actual boyfriend looked on. I apologised as I passed.
‘Sorry mate, wrong girlfriend.’ He looked like a bit of a cunt anyway.

In a slightly brighter room, filled with snails, spiders and cockroaches I found my paper wife. Her waist felt firmer than my victims, more familiar to my regularly exploring hands.
‘You loser!’ she said, when I told her my mistake. It wasn’t the physical act that had embarrassed me, but the fact that I called her ‘Bumpy.’ For years I have been an active protester against pet names and public affection, but age sickeningly softens one. Sometimes even television adverts begin to pull at my heart strings. That is until I tell myself, ‘stop being a cunt!’ For such a venomous, offensive word its quality for goodness shouldn’t be underestimated. Used in the correct circumstances it can stop you from being one and wouldn’t have gone amiss on this non-descript April Sunday. Never again shall I attempt to shower my paper wife with tenderness in the gaze of the public eye. Nobody but Bumpy should ever know that I am a man that calls her Bumpy.

With the last of the animals perused and the Meer cats living fondest in the memory I smoked my way towards the exit. Rounding the corner by the car park a lady hunched over a map. She looked up before I realised that I was staring. To me it registered that she was the lady of mistaken identity. To her I was the pervert that molested her in a cave and had followed her out of the Safari Park. She gave a weak smile. I didn’t hang around to see if she called the Police.