the changing room
Getting dressed or undressed by the side of the road in full view of passing traffic in any context, other than that of a surfer changing his clobber, is deemed to be a suspect move – this is the comforting and warm thought that we entertain. We is us. The surfer.
– because any other-body exposing themselves publicly in this way this has got to be an exhibitist, or a radical nude, a slack-arse, sex deviate, an exhibitionist or a visitor from Brasil – or to be general in an opinion; a person of low restraint and unmanly motives. Ask your mother. She said to never shake these peoples’ hands because you never know where they’d been put. This we cover here. Wise women, mothers.
Trevor has just come ashore from a pre-work session at Bungan and right now the four lanes of Barrenjoey Road are jammed up with commuters – thousands of people are peering over at Trevor, the grub that he is, watching him complete his ablutions.
Strange too how the Trevors will turn their back to the passing throngs as they struggle into their clothes – holding that if there was ever to be a an accidental exposure, the backside passes for showtime but the genitals never. This can be a cross-sexual thing. There are some Trevors amongst the ladies out there, and as spokesman for thousands of watchers; never a glimpse.
Though we persevere.
Where Trevor fails the decency test completely is evident in the procedures he undertakes immediately prior the ^ re-robing: The public drying of Dick and the Khyber Pass. The two tenants one floor down, one front and one back. The troublemakers from the previous chapter. They appear to be on a roll.
Here’s a bus going by with about 72 aboard, bound for the city, maybe a dozen in the window seats on Trevor’s side. Maybe three of the dozen are looking out of the window. Maybe just one sees Trevor shamelessly digging his hand up his backside under the towel. Chasing the last drop. Like an Irishman with his whisky.
How is this a good look? You wouldn’t do it front of the wife in a Sheraton Hotel bathroom, not if you held a hope for later.
Trevor though is not the complete buffoon. Nobody sees him polishing and drying the family jewels by the side of the road after a few tubes. He’s over there by the car door now, hulked over behind a towel, rubbing away – just like Ron so long ago at Avalon.
Surfers are wankers.
Somebody should make the T shirts.
header pic lifted from heidekolb’s blog