Sexy scenes from a gym: chapter 11
I’m listening to T Rex on my headphones and pumping iron to the beat when he struts past me: 40-ish, moderately attractive, muscular arms, beer belly, and a grown-out fuzzy buzz cut. But here’s the clincher – he’s sporting a grey and white striped terry cloth headband, emerald green velour sweat pants, and red Crocs. White footie socks. This dude’s get up is whatever the opposite of giving two flying fucks is.
I love him.
I hope I run into him on one of my dating apps so we can chat flirt. I mean, you don’t ever, ever talk to a dude in your gym. Because if you end up sleeping with him, inevitably, one of you has to change gyms. Them’s the rules of muscle-bound road.