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Work It Out

Work It Out

Working It Out

Story By TeeJay
Illustration by Michael Broderick * hottlead.com

I had to cancel my gym membership. Not because they weren't wiping down the machines on a regular basis, or there weren't enough towels, or because anyone was rude to me at the front desk. No, I had to cancel my gym membership because I'd stopped working out.

Sure I was still going to the gym. Still stepping into my shorts and tank top and warming up and all that. The thing is after I warmed up, I kept warming up (if you know what I mean).

See, the gym for me had become not so much a place where I could increase the size of my delts, or my quads, or my pecs, but a place where I could meet countless strangers who were more than willing to help me increase the size of one muscle and one muscle only. I'm guessing you have a hunch which one I'm referring to.

I hang my head in shame.

See, I'd turned into one those gay guys the straight guys rant about. The guy who uses the gym as - yes, I'll admit it - a sex club. I'd become that guy. The one bobbing his head when you open the steam room door. The one still toweling himself off 45 minutes after he'd stepped out of the shower. The one bending over for 20 minutes pretending to tie his cross trainers…

But seriously, can anyone blame me? Everyone is half naked at the gym anyway, and I live in a very gay town. I'm a freelancer too, which means I don't have to be anywhere anytime soon. This makes me an ideal candidate for someone who could spend hours at the gym wearing nothing but a towel and a very friendly attitude. In the locker room, of course. On the gym floor I could be found in retro ‘80s basketball shorts that looked like they were painted on me, and a clingy ribbed tank that said nothing if not “my nipples like to be played with.”

OK, so maybe I knew what I was doing all along. Using the gym as my own personal sperm bank. And maybe it wasn't classy, I know, but sweet Christ on a cross did I have fun. Let's just say I marked my territory in almost very corner of that place (the name of which I won't disclose because they kind of have a restraining order against me).

But I really do have an excuse for my slutty gym behavior: gyms are designed for pick up. All those little corners, all that time between reps, all those mirrors reflecting back taught, tan man muscle. I know y'all feel me. And don't get me started on the steam room. There is something about steam and nekkid men that gets me going. Just stepping into that misty white room, heart thumping with anticipation as all those towel-clad bodies come into view. I mean, come on. What's a horny guy to do but turn over some terry cloth and get to work? And the sauna? Forget it. I can't smell hot cedar without poppin' a boner.

Sure, it's cost me my pride. I have lost so many gym memberships because of “inappropriate behavior” that I could wallpaper a small room with them. But you know what? I remain unrepentant. In fact, I'm proud of my gymscapades. I've led, oh, a 100 or so circle jerks. I've wanked scores of steaming guys. I've learned how to kneel inside very tiny shower stalls and suck cock without drowning. These are talents that should be applauded. But what do I get? Nothing but criticism. You're setting a terrible example, they say. What about the dudes who come to the gym to work out, they say? And you know what I say? Those dudes are better dudes than me. And if you could please point them out I might be able to persuade a few of them to do me on the Stairmaster.

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