The new rules of menswear? There are no rules. Gone are the days when it mattered whether you wore Derby shoes or Oxfords to a function, or when showing up to a high-end restaurant without a tie would get you turned away. For our part, we’ll joyfully share our opinions on which sneakers will best complement your brand-new jacket, or which suit we believe will go down a treat among your fellow wedding guests. But should you say “stuff it”, chuck our tips out the window and decide to venture out the house wearing your pants as a poncho, then who are we to stop you?

The rules of nakedness? Well, that’s a bit trickier. Anyone who’s ever watched an HBO show will know that culturally we’re more comfortable with male nudity on screen than ever, but where does that leave us in the real world? More specifically, are naked male torsos in public totally acceptable, totally unacceptable or do they sit in some sort of fuzzy grey area in between? To answer the question, we asked two writers to battle it out over the merits of shirts versus skins.

I have a pet peeve. People that, come mid-August time, pronounce they can’t wait for autumn so they can wrap up warm and drink silly little pumpkin spiced lattes in front of roaring fires. While this Dickensian mise en scène may appear charming, I want nothing less than to lament the loss of summer and doing something that I truly adore: being topless.

Magic Mike I am not, I hasten to add, but there is some innate Coyote Ugly force in me that beckons to whip my shirt off at a moment’s notice. In Brighton recently, I found myself trudging home topless at dusk having (unwisely) thrown my T-shirt into a dancing crowd to the soundtrack of “Toxic”. It was never seen again.

The image I’m giving here could appear more Brits abroad than Ms Britney Spears. But my topless obsession is more discerning than that. I’m in the mindset of shirtless superstar Mr Iggy Pop, whose bare-chestedness was birthed from an interest in culture and religion. Citing topless Egyptian pharaohs as his style icons, he once proclaimed that he felt “lost in a shirt”. Iggy, I feel ya.

Perhaps then, there’s some Tutankhamun in me when I ditch my sports vest during my weekly run around Victoria Park. I understand the public de-rigueur-ness about getting your pecks out in public. But far from exhibitionism, making the decision to cut loose from clothing is innately freeing. Truly one of life’s great joys is pounding the park pavement in the sunshine without sweaty nylon stuck to your skin.

It’s perhaps the Brits-abroad-come-football-culture that causes an eyebrow raise when it comes to toplessness in public. Since 2004, football governing body Fifa has banned the removal of football jerseys as a form of goal celebration, citing cultural differences, time-wasting and unsportsmanlike behaviour. Such a display of celebration is a bookable offence on the field.

Personally, I’ve been in favour of topless footballers since Mr Freddie Ljungberg’s Calvin Klein campaign in 2003. I can admit there’s a certain degree of thirst trapping that comes with flashing your torso. We all remember those late 2000s Abercrombie and Fitch campaigns or Mr Mark Wahlberg’s infamous ad that catapulted underwear to cult status. Sadly, this is something that my 10k run in east London is yet to achieve.

Of course, I need to check my cis-male privilege here as toplessness for women remains a frontier yet to be won. Whatever side you’re on, society expects us to present a certain way. I think to Mr Elliot Page’s bravery when posting a shirtless selfie to announce his transition and the subsequent media furore it caused. These codes that have come to be associated with toplessness ultimately boil down to one thing: rules.

As a rulebreaker, maybe that’s why I’m keen to ditch my top. Or maybe it’s just my privilege. Either way, leave me in peace to join the topless ranks of Barbie’s Ken, Tarzan, even the Oscars statue. I’m ready for my yellow card.

I realise I’ve taken what might be considered the totalitarian position in this debate, so allow me a brief preamble. In matters of life and dress, I like to think I generally sit on the more liberal end of the spectrum. For the most part, I’m all for guys pushing the boundaries and experimenting with how they clothe themselves. Heck, I’d even go as far as to say Mr Harry Styles and his fluid, binary-free approach to fashion is one of the most exciting things to happen to menswear in the 28 years I’ve been alive.

But in the case of male public shirtlessness – which is to say civilian men casually occupying shared spaces with their torsos bare – my open-mindedness reaches its limit. It sounds prudish and I’ve been racking my brain trying to work out what about it irks me so much, and then it finally dawned on me.

Have you ever come across a man walking round shirtless in a gentlemanly, civilised fashion? Instead, almost all instances of public male shirtlessness are accompanied by some sort of bad behaviour. Drunkenness. Football hooliganism. General troublemaking and disturbing the peace. Clothes are one of the few things that separates us humans from our friends in the animal kingdom, and I’m convinced that when a man whips his top off it automatically unleashes his most feral instincts.

On a more serious note, considering how closely women’s bodies are policed – or how a mother breastfeeding in public still elicits stares – there’s something that feels so brazen about men strutting around with their bare chests. And so long as our top halves are censored, keeping yours under wraps is an act of feminist solidarity in my book.

As for whether my view jars with the body-positivity stance of my fellow zillenials, I don’t deny there’s power in those whose bodies have historically been marginalised unleashing them in public. But bar the drunken tourists, the second most common culprits of public shirtlessness are jacked gym guys who look like they don’t know how to enjoy a meal without calculating the macros first. (I promise you, no one is interested in your eight-pack.)

The true crime here, though, is that every moment of public shirtlessness is a missed opportunity to wear a really great shirt. In fact, do you know who isn’t gallivanting around topless in public? The best-dressed men on the planet. T-shirts, camp-collar shirts, polos – each is a vehicle to express your style and taste in a way that will say far more than your sculpted pectoral muscles. And if your excuse is that it’s too hot for any of those, then allow me to acquaint you with the tank top, which is warm-weather friendly, trending right now and undoubtedly sexy – all while leaving a little to the imagination.

Male toplessness isn’t off bounds entirely in my book, but it all depends on context. At the pool or the beach? Feel free to whip your top off (and most importantly, please don’t judge or ogle women who do the same). Performing to thousands on a Glastonbury stage? Go ahead and get your Iggy Pop on (or off). What you do in the comfort of your own home is none of my business, except if you have guests round who you’re not a) sleeping with or b) closely related to, in which case I say be kind enough to spare them the blushes.

Elsewhere – in the street, on the Tube, in the gym, in the reception of the five-star resort – do put your shirts back on, boys. And should you be lacking inspiration on what to step out in this summer that’s not your naked torso, well, you’ve come to the right place.