Rant: To the "illustrated" lady at my gym
I'll never forget the first time I saw you from across the room. You were doing military presses with a 40lb bar and grunting (rather dramatically, I thought) with each upward thrust. It was about a year ago, and yet you looked like a throw back to 1986. Or so I thought at first. I got the mullet part correct anyway.
But the print leggings... flashback! I had a pair like those from The Limited in the eighties! Oh yeah, I was a hot little number in those "wild thangs", and the added advantage was that they made my slender legs look more muscular.
But I digress.
As I got closer, to my utter astonishment, I realized they weren't leggings at all. They were your real, honest-to-goodness legs, so covered in tattooes that nary a square inch of bare skin could be seen. Cool.
Now, I'll admit, I've seen my share of tattooes, I know they're all the rage and as common as cookies, but I'd never seen such a colorful, artistic, captivating assortment such as this before.
Okay. I was mesmerized. I stared a bit. They were speaking to me.
But oh, lady-man, did you get the wrong idea. My assessment of your legs, and arms, and that serpent thing on your neck writhing down to ?, was borne of curiosity, not desire!
And now you think I want you.
Apparently. In spite of the fact that I will barely make eye contact with you, you think I want you.
In spite of the fact that when you asked me if I was going to use that bench, then made a joke about the exercise balls being attracted to me (they roll about of their own volition, nothing to do with me)... you might take note that my laugh was a snort of frustration, and I vacated the area pronto. And you still think I want you.
And now your newest ploy.
Don't take this the wrong way buttercup, but timing yourself to "just happen" to be naked when I come into the locker room area is really not working in your favor, even if I was on "your team".
You're an impressive specimen no doubt, specimen of what I have yet to figure out. Suffice to say, if I was to swing that way, it wouldn't be with a burly, hairy, short-legged, snaggle-toothed, ink-covered, mulleted butch such as yourself.
Although I'm sure you're a nice person.
Now. I'm an open minded person, generally non-judgemental, far from a prude, to each his (or her) own, I say.
But. It really needs to stop. The touching yourself in a public place-- might be a locker room, but it's still public (yes, I saw your hand coyly slip down to your nether region). The covert staring at my breasts and ass via the mirrors when I get undressed. The intrusion on my personal space in the stretching area (hint: if I can smell your breath, you're too close). Even the smiles and nods of recognition.
What will I do?
Sorry to say, but if you don't cease and desist from your affectionate displays I will have to go to the management. Even though the club isn't run by the Mormon family anymore, I still feel the Olivia Newton-John clone behind the counter will see things my way.
Again, I apologize that it has come to this, but honestly sweetie, even the dumbest man would have gotten the message by now.
Your favorite club member,
The girl in the black running shorts with the long inkless legs