Ah the gym…

… that haven of homosexual desire. That quintessential cruise place, where the asses strut, the boobies jiggle and all is right with the world.

I’m not a big fan of the gym, but I have to go there because more than my boobies jiggle and our society doesn’t like fat girls much. And I’m vain and easily brought down and yes I may look like something Botticelli would fuck for breakfast, lunch and dinner, but he’s dead, eh?

Was Botticelli gay? Only there’s this song… anyway.

But today I went and there were two whole hot girls there! And not those girls that know they’re hot. They are of a limited interest: check out ass, check out rack, watch it move, move on. These were pretty. They were there together, but they looked sort of similar so there’s some hope yet. Both dark and smokey looking so I thought maybe they were Sri Lankan or something, which would be exotic in my estimation. But it turned out that they were fluent Urdu-speakers, with the pakka Punjabi accent and everything. The one was hotter than the other so I focused on her eventually, as we lay grunting on the mats and were directed by a rather dictatorial, if good-natured, trainer in various forms of sit-up torture. As we huffed and puffed, we ended up girlie giggling, an activity I mostly avoid, and I cracked jokes about rediscovering kidneys and did the self-deprecation/charm thing. She had a beautiful smile, megawatts of it, and a lovely laugh. Call me predictable, but a good smile gets my cervix every time.

I didn’t introduce myself, or catch her eye and wave the cautious goodbye that is the only thing I’m really capable of with a stranger. I didn’t really say anything. But maybe she’ll be there tomorrow and I can giggle at her some more.

I do so hate the giggling though.

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