26/01/2016 by Alan Crawford
Romeo really likes his short shorts
Romeo wondered about everything. He wondered while wandering and everything troubled him. His choice of style, his music, clothes, food, film and his Tv choices. Was he actually cool or a pudgy fool? Romeo really likes his short shorts. His peers all looked slightly the same, a tremendous amount of individuality happening elsewhere it seemed but not worn by Romeo’s generation of similarly aged local folk.
They all looked the same, spoke the same, wore the same unique tattoos, drank the same shitty coffee. The coffee they thought was cool and they scoffed loudly at others, others like him. Namely those who did not look or act like they did. Normally those who acted like Romeo.
He had his own clique, which held a large number of oddly sized humans. A tribe dancing with their own severely diverse proclivities. They did share some aspects of their differences and often set trends – they didn’t often follow them. The truth be known, they did not give a royal flying shit about trends, they did what they liked.
For example, Romeo had bought some new shorts prior to his most recent wandering. Bright orange shorts that any stylish man would think are too short and too tight. The uneven bulge at the front and large cavernous divot at the back not only looked remarkably uncomfortable, but the fit may well trigger the severe lack of sperm in future years. Not really something Romeo thought of, but serious all the same. They were so ill-fitting that if he was really pleased to see anyone, they’d be harmed by the sheer ripping of fabric and flying missile like buttons.
A bit like a Dawn French blouse explosion, sending those missiles in random directions. Poor young fashion slave Romeo may have to experience this for himself the very next day. He was going to see his girlfriend and her parents on their new boat. He was excited and also worried about how he’d handle the damp swim suited form of his gorgeous young life partner.
Gail was also a slave to fashion but her owners somehow managed to hang and wrap horny as fuck fabrics around their young charges. The ridiculous nongs who drove the young slave’s wardrobe choices were so badly affect by mind altering drugs that they had no clue about anything else. Most of them produced Instagram focused summer beer ads for a living and performed in bands pushing out weak as piss sappy pop music. The sort that didn’t contain an once of angst, tension, passion, talent or sweat. The names of these bands (like their music) sounded like teenage girl’s fragrances. The kind you’d receive as a sample in an 11 year old girl’s fan magazine.
Romeo jumped into his car with an awkwardness only a man can understand and after jiggling about and refocusing his aim, he drove the 3 minute drive home to prepare for tonight’s night out with his mates. They were arriving at his home soon. Well actually it was his Mum’s home. He still lived with her and she ruled the boundaries like a hawk protecting its young.
Romeo’s sister tried to break free of this tight control but was not very successful. She got out unprotected only once, got pregnant and is now trapped inside until the birth and hopefully the baby’s father taking her away in his off white 2 door Holden Barina to the paradise he’d established in a one bedroom unit he’s squeezed into.
Romeo tried his new shorts on at home and they exploded into three pieces. The fly buttons did fly off at a great rate but only frightened the cat, not causing any damage. He went out with his mates, who forced him to endure a lame arsed pastel band, drank shit coffee and admired people who were lucky enough to be going to see a real band play real music.
He was well dressed and restrained on his boating expedition the next day and his choice of a loose fitting short allowed his excitement to go unnoticed by everyone, except for Gail’s Mum but that’s a story for later.
ed …. I don’t have such dramas, I don’t live with my parents and I kid myself that I run my own race. But we all answer to someone or something. Even choosing my pants is a decisive and rebellious move forward, We men of our age may not have much sperm to protect but we don’t want to risk any psychical damage to our John Thomas. We can listen to what we want, see what we like and do what we want to do. All within some constraints of course – we aren’t crazy.