I forget, every winter, buried under sweaters and scarves and coats, that it will one day again be warm. When the warm comes, the first few days are glorious. I romp, I bask, and then it gets too hot for me, and I whine. The other thing I forget about is that horror of horrors that hasn’t gotten me yet this season, but certainly will before the summer is out– the male tank top.
Some men look good in tank tops, and I have a thing for masculine arms, but also one of the things I hate the most ever is a sloppy, unkempt, chubby man in a tanktop that’s basically a phy-ed pinney sweating, and breathing heavily while the tank top, which is not a shirt but just enough of a drapery to keep him from getting kicked out of restaurants, shifts and eventually exposes hairy shoulders, neck, and nipples. When I say hairy, I mean the kind of hariness that goes completely unchecked, wild locks of curls that cause the pinney to stand a full inch above the shoulders of the man and occasionally brush his earlobes.
These men usually have dirty hands as well, axel grease or somesuch thing caked on not because they work on cars daily, but because they rarely wash. There is the occasional regrettable tattoo, often elaborate, but shockingly stupid. These men do everything in their tank tops– usually there’s only one. While the one is in the wash, they loll topless in the recliner, resting a cool “Natty Ice” on the hairy lump that serves as a midsection. Once washed (and this only happens once a week), the pinney is put back on haphazardly, but happily these men can still see the tv even while dressing because of the giant arm-holes.
I live in fear of this.
I avoid theme-parks because of it.
I work in a public library– I can’t avoid it.
I have a very hard time providing customer service to men who’s nipples I can see. I don’t want to look, but I can’t help it. It’s the odd/gross fascination like “really, you left the house like this? Do you not have a mirror, or just eyes?”