ADVENTURES IN THE MUSCLE TRADE

(©hepzz99)

 

 

Dear @friends,

 

I promised I would tell you more about my new hobby. But first, do you

remember the kiddy joke about the tom-kitten who goes along for a fuck?

 

This kitten always wants to be where the action is, so he asks his big

brothers what they do every night. 'We go up to the rooftop and fuck a

dame', is the answer. 'Oh, can I come, please, please?'. 'Well, okay,

just follow us'. The kitten arrives on the rooftop where his big

brothers are gathered around a beautiful pussycat. After some

preliminary yowling and growling they start chasing each other in a

circle around the lady. The kitten falls in with them and runs in

circles with the pack for quite a while. Then he gets tired, and

declares 'I'll fuck one more round with you guys, but after that I'm

going home'.

 

Since I have a lot of spare time what with Jasper being at school on a

regular basis, I decided to put it to good use - for myself this time.

A leaflet from the local gym had dropped through the mailbox recently,

advertizing very cheap rates for senior-gym.

I studied my sagging breasts and belly in the mirror and concluded that

this was my opportunity, because I've never been any good at stuff like

jazz-ballet and aerobics. Not only do I never get the steps right - the

whole class of beautiful girls always moves to the left while i'm

stumbling to the right - but my failing bladder is an extra handicap

with all this bouncing around.

 

So I went over one morning and entered the gymnasium. The owner, a big

mountain of muscles, was behind the bar. I tried to look as matter of

fact as possible while I dropped the words: I'm interested in the

classes for seniors.

....He didn't move a muscle! He simply told me which days I could

come and that I could try it out once for free.

Swallowing my pride and fighting back tears of spite I bravely replied I

would start the following day.

Gawd, i'm only 45! I felt like screaming. Look at me! Do I look such a

wreck? It can't be that bad?

 

(So what do you want to hear? 'You're really too young for our senior

group?')

Pay the full price and feel rejuvenated.

This bag-lady mentality is really bad for my ego....

 

Anyway, I went the next day. Wearing Sophie's cute little grey gym

outfit. Yes, it fits. And i loved every minute of it. All these shiny

machines, there's one for every muscle in your body. While sitting

comfortably, you lift bars with your toes, push padded things with your

arms, pull bars up and down. No sweat! And because you change machines

all the time you don't really get bored. Okay, you start with ten

minutes on a bike taking you nowhere, and finish by climbing a

never-ending staircase, but the rest is a piece of cake.

 

A girlfriend who is recently divorced and in search of a new man told me

she was enrolling in a gym so as to meet men.

In my opinion this is the last place to find a man. Except if you want

one who is totally engrossed in himself, who is forever watching himself

in the mirror to see if his muscles are growing and who, by the way,

doesn't seem to have any occupation, since he can be seen at the gym at

all hours of the day.  

 

While i'm meekly doing my little exercises, these guys are pumping all

over the place. The tempo in which they go through the motions is

awesome. The sounds they make are truly bestial, and the first time, I

thought they were part of the jungle-hiphop music which was being played

as a background to our efforts. The weights they lift are uncanny, and

they hardly aknowledge a female presence, except when we giggle and marvel at the weights they lift, or ask how this or that machine works.

 

This led me to tell my instructor that at the gym, I felt as foolish as

the kitten in the joke: one more round and then I'm going home. He

doesn't know what i mean, so i tell him the whole joke. But he doesn't move a

muscle, and his enormous head keeps its bovine expression. His pale blue

eyes gaze into the world as innocently as a newborn baby's. I guess that

is what these guys lack most: a sense of humor.

 

But it's always good to know a few. Sometimes I see them on the street,

and they greet me with a slightly surprised look, because then I look

like a lady again. Jasper asks me 'who was that, mommy?', and I can see

he is impressed by the size of their biceps. One of them was a champion

at kickboxing three times, but when he sits on the exercize bike he

reads a kiddy comic book, so to me he's just another gentle giant.    

 

When we're through, we sit at the bar and drink some kind of designer

sport-juice and smoke a well-deserved cigarette. There is no

conversation - even small talk seems to be too much for them. The best

you can get is: 'are you coming tomorrow?' and 'how much did you lift

today?'. I wonder what they do the rest of the day. Surely they don't

hang around in bars drinking large amounts of beer. Do they move on to the next

gym, where there are different machines to pump up yet a different set

of muscles? Or go practise for another sport, football or athletics? But

I'll probably never find out, just as they will never ask what I do all

day.

 

So I guess it's a bit lonely, in fact, which seems to be my destiny: I

work alone, I work out alone, and when I'm desperate for a chat, I write

emails.                          

 

(©hepzz99)