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Guest Post: The Hirsute Naked Man In The Gym Locker Room Discusses the Hashtag Nude Lives Matter Movement

September 9, 2015 2 comments

Well, I’ve been in somewhat of a blogging drought lately, so I’m going to give sole control of today’s post to some hairy naked guy I met in the gym locker room. I made a deal with him: if he put on his damn underwear, he could write a guest post for my blog. Everyone wins: content is generated for you, the reader, and the pasty undulations in my immediate quadrant are veiled, if only for one night. So here is the first ever guest post on this blog, from The Hirsute Naked Man In The Gym Locker Room.

Hello, blog! NUDITY!!! OLD, NAKED MEN!!!!! HAIRY BACKS!!!!!! SCROTUMS SWAYING GENTLY IN THE GALE PRODUCED BY THE GLORIOUS POWER OF AN XLERATOR-BRAND HAND DRYER!!!!

I apologize. I was using the attention-grabbing tactic of beginning a manifesto with a series of edgy words. So don’t worry, it was all for show.

And now that I’ve got your attention, let’s talk about public male nudity in men over the age of 70. This is a demographic that has been pushed to the fringes of society, marginalized, insulted, and universally regarded as an outdated herd of soured, pickled meatbeasts with nothing important to say.

Well I importantly say this: public nudity serves many purposes in this crazy rat race we call life, which is sort of ironic, because if life really were a rat race, we would all be naked, like rats are all the time. You know what I’m talkin’ about, how they just crazily scramble around and pile up on top of one another, having hours and hours of naked rat fun.

When was the last time you saw a good old-fashioned fleshy pile of humanity, writhing around and whoopin’ it up, just like rats do every day? Time was, we called it Saturday Night. Now? Sheesh, I call it a win if I catch the vague outline of a man’s penis through his fancy dress pants.

Which brings us to the tale of how I landed this gig as a guest blogger. ‘Twas a Monday night. Or was it a Wednesday? Time and space bend in odd ways when you bask in the illumination of nudity, you must understand. Anyways, due to a remodeling job, the local gym has been rather empty lately. So, after patrolling the locker room for a few hours—nude, obviously—I realized I hadn’t seen anyone for a very long time, so I was about to call it a night and take my third steamy shower in the provided facilities when in walks some clothed gentleman.

Excellent, I think to myself, this room could use a fresh pair of bare buttocks. I lurked around the corner, waiting for him to derobe. I can’t tell you how disappointed I was when all the guy does is change from his regular short pants into his gym shorts. And to make matters more ridiculous, he was wearing some sort of garment under his shorts that covered his genitals while he made the switch!

My world was shook—left became right, up became down, all-out bare-assed glory became heavy winter-layering.

So I strut over there, throw my foot up on the bench, and lean my elbow on my knee, a position that is the absolute last word in nude comfort, plus it gives your hammy a bonus mini-stretch, and makes the upper parts of your lower body more readily available to receive any breeze that my happen to be blowing through. And I say to the guy, I say, “What better place than here, what better time than now, is there to be nude?”

He says something not pertaining to nudity, so I press on: “Nice locker room, right. Got showers and everything. Real nice showers,” the implication here being that showers require one to be naked.

Again, his retort has absolutely nothing to do with the action of being completely devoid of clothing, and then he mentions something about a computer blog. Who is this guy? For realsies?!

So, having accurately pegged this guy as a ‘clother,’ I try to coax him out of his shell by explaining to him my method of getting dressed, even though this event is very stressful to me.

I won’t bore you with the details, but when I finally do get dressed, pants are the absolute last thing to go on. Even after the shoes. You’re probably asking yourself, ‘Doesn’t this cause him to wobble, teeter, and stumble around as he struggles to pull his pants over his shoes, grabbing on to whoever is near for support while his anus is exposed and his genitals swing free?’

The answer to that question varies. Sure, there have been times when I lost my balance and tumbled into an unsuspecting locker room patron. Whether or not any of my private parts brushed against that person is up for debate.

On the other end, there have been plenty of occurrences when I successfully pulled my pants on over my shoes, free of any incidental contact with standers-by. In the end, it all cancels out.

Anyways, all this talk of dress has gotten me off track. I, along with my fellow free-hanging septuagenarian brethren, have been hearing a lot about all sorts of lives mattering, with no mention whatsoever about nude lives. Where do we fit in to the mix, huh? Where’s all the coverage of police ruthlessly gunning down an innocent nude man? I haven’t seen any. Did you know that many businesses will flat out refuse to hire a naked applicant that fits all qualifications for an open position? How about the act of segregating us beautiful, naked, hairy nudes into a small locker room?

Hashtag nude lives matter, man.

So, where do nude, old, hairy men stand in today’s society? In America’s gym locker rooms, is where we stand, and soon we shall burst forth from these prisons, walking very slowly, carrying towels but not using them to cover anything up, and coughing every fifteen seconds.

The world will know us.

Hashtag Blog.

-love, the hairy naked man from the gym locker room

Summer

Here are my ideas so far:

-Walk naked through the outfield during a Twins game. You see, generations of streakers have the formula wrong. When you’re running, you give off the impression that you are doing something illegal. But if I hop out of the bleachers out there in left field, naked as a newborn, and confidently strut through the assembly of players all the way over to the stands behind the first-base line, people will just assume that I’m supposed to be there. I might use a flesh-colored body suit à la George Costanza. That is still up for debate.

-Walk naked through a Fourth of July Parade. Again with the nudity, right? Well, as I saunter along with the floats and bands and what-not, eventually the shocked crowd will come to realize that my nakedness is a metaphor for the birth of America. You see, back in ’76, 1776 that is, what was this great nation other than a naked baby? It came shooting out of The Mother of Modern Society, out into the world, covered in the disgusting viscera of afterbirth, ready to take on whatever Earth decided to throw at it. To arrest me for paying tribute to that would be nothing less than treason.

-Tube down the Root River in Lanesboro without clothing. The last two years I’ve done it, I have slathered myself in ridiculous amounts of sunscreen, only to emerge from the water looking like a freaking apple. Might as well try to achieve a uniform burn all over instead of having unsightly tan lines.

-Compose an entire Blog post in the nude. Check that off the list right now. This summer is already looking up.

-Maybe try to get a higher paying job so I can buy more clothes.

Well, it looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me. Here’s the Blong. Some of that laid-back killer Cali hip-hop. Ugly Duckling – Left Behind.

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