Holiday gym trash

The day before Thanksgiving, this almost impossibly cute muscleboy appeared in my gym. Built like a college wrestler, he had everything I find distracting in a man: V-shaped back, cantilevered bubble butt and slabs-o-beef pecs hovering over a wall of cobblestone abs. And his FACE. Cute and impish, he had a grin that could convince Rush Limbaugh himself to throw his self-righteous feet in the air. (Now there's a mental image that could keep a guy impotent for a good long time.)

Best of all, the dude was a total flirt. We exchanged about 10 goofy smiles during our workouts and in the locker room, where he took his sweet time drying off from his shower and searching for his underwear. (Silly boy! He couldn't find his underwear!)

Of course, I never went up and said hi. Because that would be what normal people do. (Of course, neither did he, but this post is about me and my shortcomings. At least for now.)

So Thanksgiving weekend came and went, and he was the first thing I looked for when I got back in the gym on Monday. But no luck. I kept looking for him every day after that, but he was never there. Then last Thursday—the week before Christmas—I had to miss my usual lunch workout, and I found myself in the after-work gym crowd for the first time in years. I half expected to see my muscledude there, but no luck.

Until.

Until I went to take a shower. As I headed to the only open shower stall, I noticed a beefy guy across from me soaping himself up with his curtain slightly open. I didn't think anything of it until after I finished my (long, relaxing) shower and opened my own curtain. And there he still was: My muscledude. Staring right at me through the (even wider?) opening in his curtain. Still soaping himself up. And playing with his winkie.

Now, if we were in a porno movie (AS IF), this would be totally hot. If I were fantasizing—in my head and only in my head—about finally meeting up with him and gettin' it on like naughty pokeweasels, this would be totally appropriate.

But this guy was beating off in a public shower in a public gym in full view of anyone—gay or straight—who happened to pad by in a towel. As though it were OK.

And nothing kills my interest in a guy faster than staggeringly bad judgment.

And it actually gets worse. I saw Winkie Boy again yesterday over lunch. And he was doing that thing that pathetic gay guys do where they physically turn away from you so they don't have to acknowledge you—to, you know, show that they're cooler than you are. AS IF.

But I won't play his reindeer games. Because nothing cements my loathing for pathetic gay men faster than attitude. And I didn't ask for holiday gym trash for Christmas this year. I asked for SOCKS.