Soliciting sex in the gym? Or is it just me.

“If you pay me, I’ll make you sweat.”

I was sitting at a machine where you attempt to increase the size of your biceps by lifting weights tied to a wire.   It’s not a medieval torture device or a prop from Game Of Thrones, if you were wondering, it’s basic gym equipment.  Biceps are muscles covered by a shirt, unseen throughout winter.  Summer arrived in all it’s glory, which implies: Sun’s out, Guns out.  (Thanks Channing Tatum) My own biceps are more like little, pearly-white revolvers, hence my need for growing them, so I can get them tanned.  I know, it’s a process.

Next to me was a personal trainer.  Or a sadist. Or a female version of the twisted sicko, idolised as Christian Grey.  Any of these references would be accurate in describing those people with genetically gifted, perfect bodies who find some weird sense of achievement in causing extreme and long-lasting pain to people who has the genetic make-up of a whale or worse.  These whales and other McDonald-eating victims are fooled into thinking that they can also achieve the body of a heroin-addict.  Provided that they do everything that they’re told.  And drink Diet coke.  Like some cult in Utah.

Miss Grey, having the best time of her life, towered over her two paying customers who was praying for death.  Her’s or their own, I wasn’t sure which.  They were doing push-ups and reps on the pec machine.  For the purpose of education, pec/s are the short version of pectoral, more commonly known as chest muscles for dudes and boobs for dudettes.  The one thing that is confusing about the machine is whether girls use it for (1) Growth or (2) Reduction of the twins.

The customer, having the worst time of her life, just finished ten push-ups.  She looked like the Grim Reaper, if the Grim Reaper had wet hair falling over her face, wide, terrified eyes and no make-up to cover the red, flashing stroke she was having.  I couldn’t resist.

“You know that you pay her to torture you like this.” I tried to be funny and was referencing the lady with the genetic mutation of perfection.

Miss Can’t-you-see-I’m-dying-here was still on all fours, mid recovery of her ten push-ups.  She only glared at me with those wide eyes, more fitting for a fire-breathing demon.  I knew I’ve just wasted a joke.  She tried to form words that should not be spoken by a lady…you know…um…when they tell you to go climb a tree, if climbing a tree would be the same as having intercourse with yourself.  Fortunately she was still out of breath and could only muster an expression of hate and exhaustion.

“At least she’s sweating during her session at the gym,” said the sadist to my left, “Look at you, your hair is not even wet.”

She might have been right but she obviously doesn’t understand how much money I spent on hair products, preventing sweat.  We all know there are few things more attractive than a sweaty, middle-aged father at five in the morning.  And what if I have a medical condition with no sweat holes or something?  Rude.  Besides I was on a break between sets.  Her comment was my cue to start my next set.  It should have been my cue to mind my own business.

“I sweat on the inside,” I replied nonchalantly, whilst trying to lift the damn bar.

Which is when the solicitation of prostitution occurred.

“If you pay me, I’ll make sure you sweat on the outside as well.”  And she didn’t even blink.

I was a tired man and the whole situation was begging to become hilarious.  Or maybe my head was just in the mud, like most moments of my life but I was hoping other people got it too.  A few long seconds passed.

Then the Dying lady, the friend who was trying to increase/decrease her bust size and I, broke out in absolute hysterics.

It took the personal trainer a tad longer to realise what she said.  One cannot expect a perfect body to harbour a functioning brain.  Eventually she turned a bold shade of crimson and I knew the penny dropped.  So did my weights.

The laughing ladies were quickly chased to the next machine and they left me doubled-up over the bicep-torture-device where nothing happened for at least another 3 minutes.  Well, that’s actually not true, there was a lot of laughing.