One of my bigger fears in life is that my burgeoning, youthful breasts could soon develop self-supporting breasts of their own. As a measure against this possibility, Adam and I joined the local gym a few months ago.
I’d never even stepped into a gym before let alone worked out in one, so I was rather disturbed to find out Adam had booked us into the “gayest” gym in Sydney. Stepping hesitantly inside on my first day, I almost confused it with some sort of nightclub: bad house music was whomping at me from all angles (the really bad variety of house music, the kind which requires drugs in order to actually sound good), half-naked guys were flailing themselves around in a rolling demonstration of just how wrong overstretched lycra can appear… everyone was dancing and sweating and thrusting.
Yet this was only the people behind the reception desk – the simpletons who are merely required to enter your membership number into a computer, grin inanely, then betray their somewhat impressive roided-up presence by squeezing out a “Thanks, have a great workout!” in trilling soprano.
As this was my first step into working off my titties, I asked to sign up as a new member. The burly reception guy’s eyes widened and he motioned furiously over his shoulder, into an office with dimmed lights.
As if on cue, a massive dude who looked like he dipped steroid suppositories into his morning coffee as a light snack emerged from his cave-like hideaway. Apparently, this was the guy they dragged out to entice potential new members to sign up, in the belief that they’d end up looking like him. Well, as cool as pectoral muscles so pumped up that they feature conical nipples are, I inwardly exhaled and prepared to be given the grand tour.
As he rumbled across the room towards me, I was sure I could hear ‘Eye of the Tiger’ being sung from above. ‘Let us tour de premises,’ he commanded, and I obediently clambered onto one of his proud buttock cheeks.
‘Ze gym is split into two sections,’ he monotoned as we waded through an army of men jogging and cycling their way to another bad house track. I began tuning out to his commentary, as it was interesting to note that the fellas with bigger thighs were creating their own syncopation to the music as they jogged. Their muscles were that huge that their legs were generating a corduroy pants-style WHHUPT-WHHUPT noise with every step they took, yet they were only wearing an article of clothing that passed as a genital warmer at best.
‘Now we av seen ze cardiovascular section,’ the muscle mass in front of me continued, ‘will we visit the weights area downstairs.’
As we turned the corner to a weights room that contained a dizzying amount of dangerous-looking metal apparatus, I noticed they were playing Dr Dre – at least the music was slightly more decent in this area of the gym. Regrettably, the true essence of the gym then revealed itself. Quite literally every man in the room swivelled their head as one as we walked in the door, and eyed me up and down: fresh meat. They then began furiously pumping the weights even harder than before, which amused me somewhat, as I’m clearly no meathead by any definition.
As the novelty of a new member of the gym wore off, they all resumed some fairly open and graphic flirting; pumping and grinding and straddling their crotches over other guy’s faces as they helped them lift weights.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I muttered to myself as we left the weights room.
‘Eh?’ replied my guide, with a raise of his eyebrows. After raising his eyes towards the ceiling, something then appeared to register in his mind.
‘Ahh, the music,’ he nodded. ‘Yeah, this rap shit is ridiculous; we usually play Madonna down here.’
So I reluctantly signed my name on the dotted line regardless, figuring I’d only be entering the cardiovascular area for the time being, and could quite easily bring my own metal music on some headphones to jog and cycle to instead.
The next step is ensuring I begin eating properly. Really, it’s just a matter of eliminating the greasy junk food I eat now and then. The method I’m using of dealing with these temptations is a form of mind association. Think hamburger – think gristle. Think fried chicken – think cysts.
It’s working fairly well thus far. The only problem is that relegating myself to food like sushi and vege chips is making me look like a fucking hippy. Not to mention the bowel movements they produce, which are best described as artistically abstract.
But I’m getting there.