It's like rubbing a pork, brillo pad.
So recently I decided to do something out of pure, brazen curiosity. I've spent my entire life wondering what on earth has possessed grown men to shave their chests. With the exception of very few exceptional looking people I've always thought an adult who did that looks like twelve year old boy. And I do mean a short list. Really - unless you're Brad Pitt, David Beckham or Ryan Gosling I've always thought that the hair-free man resembled an adolescent sea-cow. Or - and this probably says more about me than I should admit - some odd sort of walking penis. And yet at the same time I was acutely aware of that dichotomy that these people think they look pretty damn good. And really that's really the main thing. Sod what I or anyone else thinks. You own your own happiness. You feel attractive - no matter what that looks like to other people (except for people who wear Crocs - you people should be ashamed) - then you get to decide that.
After a very brief dalliance with knowing that every other weekend I tend to wander about mountains half-dressed, I figured balls to it. Shave the lot off. Not out of vanity. Not out of a diligent, metrosexual drive for manscaping. Although let's be clear - if your plums look like one of the planets being taken over by the weird, plant-alien things from Jayce and The Wheeled Warriors then you need to sort that crap out. Especially if your pubes are the same colour green. Actually I imagine that's a fetish thing at a vegan-orgy (and you know those exist - everyone in S&M gimp suits made out of hemp and an acorn squash as a ball-gag) to physically announce, "I know you don't usually eat meat - but this animal is grass fed."
Nope - I shaved it off out of pure curiosity. I was more than prepared to have a damn good laugh at it. And much to my absolute shock I thought it looked better. That slight, inexplicable improvement that you seem to get when you get a tan. Or actually wash. Which is actually annoying. Because it means keeping it up. And shaving around my nipples is just dancing with death. The are very few moments during my day when I'm as focused as I am when I'm doing that. Terrifying mental images of slicing the thing off and it bouncing across the bathroom linoleum swamp my thoughts. And then the cat scurrying over and eating it. And I don't even own a cat. But I can guarantee one would show up alert and hungry if that happened. On the one hand it is pretty motivating. It really does ram home the point that unless I stay in shape I'll quickly look like a burst sausage. Which - if I carry on with the analogy - I guess means if I were to get all hairy again I'd look like a hairy sausage (don't Google that....). Not because it's frightening/enormously arousing. But because I've done it already for you. Voila....
|The most homoerotic thing I've ever posted.|
But on the other hand if I'm already using my motivation of a morning to workout when do I fit in time for shaving my half my upper body? The answer is obvious - half the time I don't. Which means I'm now privy to that weirdly uncomfortable feeling that women get after not shaving their legs. At least once a I'm convinced you could grate cheese on my chest stubble (again - don't Google that). But then - as a wise man once said - it'd be with that side of the cheese grater that absolutely nobody uses. If I'm extra lazy and let it go even further I feel like a baby hedgehog. Actually I've thought on prickly days like this that if my life were a movie it'd be an alternate version of The Fly - except in this version Jeff Goldblum goes through the transporter with a horse chestnut.
Oh and lastly - I should get bonus points for sitting in a public place with the above photo blaring out of my screen like a visual klaxon as a permanent queue wanders behind me. I'm no extrovert, but it's a sociology masterclass watching various people wonder, "is that guy looking up dick spaghetti or a hot dog clock?"