Because my parents were pretty hazy on the birds and bees front

First question: How long do you think it takes the average person to dry his or her naked body post-shower while in the privacy of his or her own home?

Second question: How long does it take the average person to perform the same actions in a crowded work gym hangeroom surrounded by colleagues with whom they may later share a cubicle?

For most people, I should say, the answers vary somewhat. For myself, at home the drying process is a lazy one which can, when the weather permits, turn into a drip-drying affair. But put me in a work changeroom after a gym session and shower and I can do the full body dry-and-change in the time it takes the naked woman next to me to pluck out that stubborn ingrown hair from her right buttock (because, oh yes, I'm getting to her).

But if you ask this ingrown-hair-chaser (who happens to be in the changeroom more or less every time I am)the two questions above, her answer would be the same: Too Fucking Long.

I don't find naked bodies abhorent. Nor do I insist everyone, or anyone, do that high school thing of getting changed pretty much under their clothes. But neither do I dream of the days when I am exposed to the inner (and I mean INNER, inner) thigh of someone who works in my building. I don't need to admire the soft undulations of her ageing arse cheeks or admire what's going on over the other side. I can live without an in depth examination of her improbably large nipples and more probably sized boobs. Similarly I feel I have explored the depths of every crevice in her body just about as far as I care to explore them.

Again, it's not that I care about the nudity per se. It's more of a proximity issue. Because the thing is that half the time this woman stands SO CLOSE TO ME that if we both put our hands on our hips at the same time our elbows would just about touch. That is not too close to be to an elbow. It is, however, a smidgen closer than I care to be to any stranger's pink bits. I do not WANT to flinch every time she bends over to retrieve some (unseen, possibly imaginary - she may be mental) object, fearing her arse cheek will graze my upper thigh, or have to watch my every hand movement lest they slip into some dark unwanted place.

I don’t want this. Nor do I want to be the person I am right now: the prude who shudders like a tit in the wind at the thought of, well, a tit in the wind. I like tits. I like bottoms. I even like women. But so help me I'm scared that any day now I'm going to go to the gym, shower, get dressed and only realise months later I've inadvertently knocked up my changeroom neighbour. Bet the little shit would be a nudist, too. Typical.