That day in the gym: a hot blonde girl with a peach of an ass, 10 studly firemen, and KISS’ Strutter
by Angela Perez
As soon as I see the tiny tight hot-assed blonde chick get out of her car, I know what to expect. She’s dressed for the gym in white miniscule skin-tight shorts and a hot pink sports bra. Her long, silky golden locks are tied up in the cutest, bounciest ponytail you’ve ever seen.
Wait. Let me back up.
The two rows of treadmills and elliptical machines at my gym face a glass wall that overlooks a busy strip mall parking lot. The glass allows you to see who is coming and going into the gym or what lazy slough is passing it by on the way to either the Subway on one side or the Ace Hardware on the other. The blonde parks her car in front of the gym just as I enter into my 20th minute on the elliptical machine. I am drenched in sweat. It’s pouring down my face. Down my back. Between my tits. No cute ponytail bouncing up and down on me. No, my black hair is pulled up into a no-nonsense severe, German dominatrix bun. I come to the gym to kick ass, not titillate muscle-bound men. But every day in the gym (and I go to the gym six days a week), I notice women all kitted up and outfitted to make those boys in tank tops drool. These gals are wearing full lipstick and eyeliner and next to nothing. Granted, they look fabulous. Sweaty svelte women are never a bad thing.
But, dammit, those hard little half-exposed peach bottoms on these bitches are wreaking havoc in my gym and it’s fucking up my work out.
Okay. Back to the blonde ponytail. She parks her car in front of the gym and hops out. There I am on the 2nd row looking out the window at the McDonalds across the parking lot wondering if I could possibly have a Big Mac and not gain weight if I work out for over an hour. And then I spot her.
And then I look for it. I look to see what the middle-aged men on the treadmills in front of me do. And they do not disappoint – about three of them almost trip and fall off the machines. They are mesmerized by the taut ass in tiny shorts. All of these smitten fellas are wearing wedding rings but they just can’t help it. Ah men! Ever predictable. I do love them so.
I’m listening to Der Kommissar on my headphones and smiling. Smiling because I can’t wait to see what happens as soon as she walks into the gym.
She was young her heart was pure
But every night is bright she got
She said sugar is sweet
She come rappin’ to the beat
Then I knew that she was hot
And, without fail, all of the guys on the treadmills in front of me try to surreptitiously sneak a peek at her. They start puffing out their chests. One even slows his gait so he can better follow her movements with his hawk-like gaze. I don’t dare turn to look at her to see if she notices all of the cocks standing at attention upon her arrival. Because if I don’t stay focused, my sweet soft uncoordinated ass will flip off the treadmill and break something important. So, I continue to huff and puff and blow my middle region down.
I’m getting tired, legs on fire, sweat burning my eyes…thinking about giving up and just working out my legs on the adductor machine and calling it a day…but then a song comes on my iPhone
KISS. Strutter to be exact.
Everybody says she’s lookin’ good
And the lady knows it’s understood
I am renewed. Rejuvenated. A fucking machine. Wait, not a fucking machine as in I have a lot of sex. I mean “fucking” as an adjective to stress just how in the zone I am. No, no, no. I’m no James Brown sex machine. Not yet. I have 2,567 more workouts to go before I can aspire that earn that moniker.
Back to Goldilocks.
I’m done with the elliptical and head over to do some bench presses. She is standing beside me. Preening in the mirror, a Love’s Baby Soft vision of pink skin and Gaudi curves and Toulouse-Lautrec sinew. She is breathtaking. It’s inspiring. “Aw, shucks,” thinks I. “If I keep bench pressing, I too will possess a body like this. A body so distracting that men can’t even focus on pumping iron. That preempts their drive to tear up muscle tissue.”
So I add some more weights to the bar to speed the process along.
Nazareth’s Hair of the Dog is next in rotation on my song list. I add 10 more pounds to the bar. Now you’re ALL messing with a son of a bitch.
Red hot mama
Time’s come to pay your dues
There’s no need to go into all the peacocking and twirling and flirting and smoldering going on between Goldilocks and many of the fellas in that gym. You know the drill. But there in that moment, watching all of those men watching this women, I am having a revelation. That is, I realize I love this woman. For her power, for her self-possession. Because whatever else she is doing in that gym, she is bad-assed. And she has worked hard to get into the shape she’s in. She’s a powerhouse of chickdom.
And, I won’t judge men for objectifying. For not 30 minutes earlier, while sweating to Johnny Thunders lamenting about “the way it goes,” I see about 10 hot volunteer fireman, dressed in their sexy fire house attire, clamber out of a bright red fire house van. Agog at such a bevy of studs, I almost drop the free weights on my feet. They are all heading into the Subway next door. Which is why I cut my workout short that day.
Because I know, that if I hurry up, I can get into that Subway, all aglow and sweaty from my workout, and do some preening of my own. I may not look like Goldilocks in my work out shorts, and there may be mustard on my black t-shirt from the Sonic hot dog I ate yesterday after working out, but I can damn sure make that eating a whole wheat bread toasted roast beef sub into the sexiest damn spectacle you’ve ever seen.
It’s all in how you handle the extra mayonnaise.