To the old man in the locker room

It's not like no one saw you standing in front of the mirror with your skimpy white towel and man boobs that made some of us a *lot* less self conscious.

But there you were, standing, wait... scratching. Scratching? Holy sh*t. Scratching where I think you were scratching? Hold up. No. Not scratching. More like cranking. Yes. I saw this.

So did thank-God-he's-fully-clothed guy next to me. Cranking. Subtley beneath the towel. You made eye contact with us, too.

Ew. Gross.