Suburban Cougar Dirtbag, Ctd.
Remember my unsettling lust for that hipster cyclist with the body of an angel?
What is happening to me? Same weird dirtbag virus invaded the ole brain pan, again, at that least-meat-marketty of places, the YMCA.
Usually, at the Y, you can count on all the men not being under age 60, unless you count the lunchtime basketball guys, who represent an unusual minority at the Y (as well as an array of physical assets) and are down below me in the gym while I am soldiering on high in the running gallery where they cannot really see me.
Because I find it disturbing to see any hot man at the YMCA. This is because I’m a) sweaty b) wearing a holey t-shirt c) bouncing up and down running or whatever else. Multiply that by one million when I am lifting weights.
Multiply that by one billion when I’m wearing all polyester. Capri pants that creep down my ass and the technical shirt I got for doing the Tacoma Narrows Half. (Why do they call it a ‘technical shirt’? Because ‘technically’, it hugs every unsightly bit and bump of my physique? Or, ‘technically’, you should be skinny to wear it?)
So, I look like fresh sweaty hell lifting weights but this guy? This guy is lovely. He doesn’t belong at the Y. He is thin and he is young and he doesn’t have a ponytail (which would be minus 10 points) but one of those little knobs, which indicate he’s got 90’s progressive band chin-length hair (minus 20 points) but oh well, let’s not be choosy, because he’s wearing one of those sleeveless, gaping armpit hole shirts (minus 30 points) and I can see that he’s covered in tattoos, all over his legs and torso and arms and shoulders (plus 200 points).
Usually, I don’t find tattoos attractive. Especially not on guys. Usually the guys I see with tattoos are also wearing diamond earrings and have their baby-names tattooed on their necks or seem to suffer from some white-boy rage that causes them to listen to too much Incubus.
He was doing a million push-ups (plus 300 points) and then, while I was duking it out with my military presses, he went to run (plus 500 points) while wearing these bitchin neon Adidas (plus infinity).
As a result of thinking of him, I whipped through my weights set in 30 minutes and got the hell out of there before I could make eye contact with him again. My hair was dirty and looked like an Amish broomstick and I had that moonface I get from sweating and not wearing make-up and I reeked like the Paris Metro. Reason #476 to shower before you work out.