Monday, February 07, 2005

Blow Out (or, Thighs and Whispers)

In recent years, I have been known to be a little ripe - so to speak - in the body odor department. In certain situations, namely a certain few lower Manhattan bars, this has gotten me into the best kind of trouble. In other situations, however, this has granted me disapproving looks and scowls from women (mostly anyway) in public places who would otherwise probably give me at least the hint of a smile.

Since I go to the gym at the corner of 23rd and Fag, my ripeness there usually isn't that big of a deal. Occasionally though, an unsuspecting female will dare to use the Elipitcal trainer next to me. After a minute or so of basking in my sometimes-too-much stench, said random female will then, without doubt, make a horrid, judgmental face and dash quickly to another machine. One time a particular woman, who incidentally was wearing panty hose under her too-tight gym skorts, made such an awful face at me, her downturned face seemed to scream: "I'm certainly NOT paying my membership dues to endure this BULLshit!". Another time, a trainer was giving a tour to a very uppity young woman dressed for work in smart Ann Taylor separates. The trainer happened to pause for a moment in front of me, to explain something to the young woman. As her face began to curdle in disdain, I could hear the trainer say, even above the roar of my headphones, "Sorry, Miss. I guess he needs to wash his socks," as if my iPod classified me as a virtual deafmute.

I also used to take a class at the gym called "Total Body Conditioning" that was taught by a man who was so muscled, he was hard to look at. Not to completely fag-out, body conscious-wise, but he looked like he had been birthed as as a single hard, plastic piece via injection molding. I stopped taking the mostly-female attended class for many reasons (yes, the stink-and-scowl factor was a big part of it), but mostly because during my last class, I was wearing shorts that were too tight.

We were doing a set of oh, about 50,000 squats. Since my shorts were too tight, as I squatted, they kept catching on my knee (OK, also on my ass and thighs), until about half way through the set when a horrible explosion happened directly behind me.

I heard audible gasps from my classmates Bunny and Gretchen and Grace and Cheddar and Khaki and Chutney. More disturbingly, I could no longer feel the not-so-forgiving fabric of my shorts stretched taught across my ass.

"What the fuck?" I thought to myself. As the reality of a new cool breeze hit me, right past my exposed buttcheeks, I realized: I had just completely blown out the back of my shorts, beyond repair and dignity, right down the center seam.

To add insult to injury, I was wearing a jockstrap.

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