Sausage factory

Next month, I’m packing my bags, putting my life in Easyjet’s hands and swapping tired, broken-down London for a skin-searing beach in Cyprus for a couple of weeks. With this in mind, and a little bit to indulge my shallow side, I’ve foolishly started going to the gym near my office in the mornings before work.

Until now, I’ve avoided doing this due to the gym’s sheer proximity to my desk. It’s convenient, but, basically, I don’t want to see my colleagues sitting around in a sweaty changing room wearing nothing but their baggy birthday suits. It’s not being uncomfortable with my sexuality, by the way. It’s just horribly awkward.

I’ve got away lightly, so far. But this morning I experienced my fears, vicariously, when I witnessed a young South African guy bumping into his stark-naked boss by the lockers.

“Hi Christopher,” boomed the big cheese in an upper-class English voice so antiquated it should probably be tucked behind a sheet of glass in the British Museum. Christopher turned round, himself adorned in nothing more than a towel, and a look of sheer terror descended on his face.

“Hi Justin,” he offered gingerly.

So proud, so unabashed was Justin in presenting his aristocratic tackle to his subordinate, that he may as well have just hollered, “Hi Christopher, I’ve got my dick out!”

I don’t know how this exchange ended. I had to leave before I was crushed under the weight of my empathy for Christopher. But I do know one thing: soon, it’ll be me being forced to look at my boss’s swinging member, out in the natural air like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I’ll either have to find a new gym or a new job, because I can’t continue living in fear like this.


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