So there I was in the swimming pool locker room…

(Great start to a story)

I had just about finished getting showered and dressed and was just drying my hair, when in walked Cock Out Man. As you can guess from his name, Cock Out Man had his cock out, proudly dangling away as he swung his hips and gayly (old meaning) strolled past me with a skip in his step. Now, this doesn’t bother me. I’m fine about my physical appearance, but at the same time, I have the modesty to make sure that the amount of locker room penile exposure is kept to a minimum on my part, mainly as a courtesy for the other men there who would inevitably start to feel insecure in my presence (ladies?). Cock Out Man, on the other hand, had no such reservations. Not only was he comfortable with cock exposure, but he stood in the corner of the room, facing outward, flicking around on his phone for a few minutes, without a hint of concealment.

Now, you know how when you already think someone is weird, so you keep an eye (not directly in this case) on them, and suddenly they do something even weirder, and it’s so much funnier because you were already watching them? Well, I had my eye (again, not directly) on Cock Out Man, waiting to see how long he was going to live up to his name. Then something really bizarre happened… the socks went on. Now, this is obviously in staggering defiance of the two golden rules: 1. That you never put on socks without trousers, let alone underwear… and 2. That when in a wet changing room, you save the socks until last so that you can do the tested and true ‘dry feet on towel, pull on socks, put straight into shoes’ method.

So anyway, Cock Out Man had now progressed into Cock Out With Socks Man. Weird. He continued to stand around for a bit; cock out, socks on. I remember thinking ‘What next? He puts his shirt on?’, and almost in spite of my conscious protest, on went the shirt; with blatant disregard to the age-old ‘no top without bottoms’ rule. He then continued to stand around for a bit; shirt, socks and cock. He sat down playing with his phone for a bit, letting his ass crack and ball sack rest hygienically on the wooden bench. I thought to myself, ‘Okay. This is the end of Shirt On, Socks Up, Cock Out Man. By the grace of logic, you will now surely put on your pants, then your trousers, then your shoes, and then be out of my life forever, leaving me to never-endingly ponder the wisdom of your actions on this fateful day.’

It was at this point that Cock Out Man defiantly pulled up a pair of skin tight jeans over his bare cock; snagging it slightly in the metal zipper, making it flop around, like a beached fish, in a way that I saw peripherally and accidentally glanced over at; and then he simply walked out in his socks. No shoes. No underwear.

Now, to the strange Mr Shirt On, Jeans On Bare Ass, Socks up, Shirt On, No Shoes, Cock Out Man: If I ever meet you again, I just want to shake you by the hand (as long as it’s clean), because I’ve never met someone with such flagrant indifference to the very basic foundations that this world was built on. You truly are a maverick, staring straight down the barrel of the gun of common decency and plausibility, and taking an ill-advised left turn onto What The Fuck Are You Doing Lane.

… and for that? I salute you.