I don’t do swimming. Unless the pool in question has bubbles and a bottle of chilled champagne within arm’s reach, I won’t even dip my toe in it.
It’s not that I hate the water. On the contrary, I quite enjoy the splishy-splashy thing. But the chlorine gets in my eyes, dries my skin, bleaches my hair and I couldn’t think of anything more tedious than plowing the water length after monotonous length.
But like most red-blooded gay boys, I love a near-naked man in Speedos and am willing to take the plunge if there’s the chance some flesh will be flashed.