I’d worked out with a few friends this morning—if you consider running on a treadmill for 40 minutes and only lifting weights when no one is looking "working out." After our final stretches, we retreated to the relative comfort of the men's locker room.
The space is tiny—just a narrow corridor of lockers where I can literally touch opposite walls with both hands. Somehow, management still managed to squeeze a long bench right down the middle. I was minding my own business, took a seat, and draped a towel over my head. I could hear another guy walked in and opened the locker right next to me. By the words he was mumbling, I could tell he was Japanese. I raised my towel to wipe the sweat off my forehead.
All of a sudden, the curtained peeled from my face to reveal a completely nude guy. It was awkward because I couldn't leave the area without brushing past his front or behind. My friends who had lockers near the entrance just grinned and waited for the seemingly inevitable.
I was done changing. Still couldn't leave
I checked my messages. Done. Still couldn't leave.
Then finally, he sat down and I darted out. At least I managed a back brush only.
The myth about Japanese men and their winkies? Find out for yourselves.
No comments:
Post a Comment