The Gym

This story is racist and sexist...just what you'd expect from a porn site. But since Lit is a higher-class site, the writing is better than you'd find on most porn sites, if I say so myself (because no one else will). Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway), I am not the narrator, although much of this story, if you can call it that, is derived from actual events, if not actual people.

The gym is old, worn-out and ugly.

It is reliable, though--you can count on the pool and the whirlpool being "Closed For Renovations", at least two stationery bikes and a couple of treadmills being broken, and several medicine balls missing. And you can count on people leaving apparatus and used paper towels wherever.

Oh yeah, the paper towel is because they stopped providing cloth towels after their last bankruptcy, when they screwed the laundry company out of about $50K. So you mop your sweaty self with paper, if you can get the dispenser to work.

Oh yeah, also it's in a cellar; no windows, and stairs to get to it and back to the world again. Because the elevator mostly doesn't work.

Oh yeah, and nobody speaks recognizable English.

The location isn't the best, but mass transit serves it well enough to get me to the office and home. But it's cheap. And my doctor said I needed to work out. So I go.

I stay for the benefits. If you position yourself right, the views are fantastic.

The gym's clientele, if you can call them that, consists both of men and women, with enough variations on those well-worn alternatives to satisfy every whim, taste and wallet. If you're interested, you can figure out who bats for whose team. And who's a free agent, looking for a walk-on.

Me, I go to sweat and look, not necessarily in that order.

Sweat, because A I need to (says the doctor, a physically-fit specimen), and B, because I need an excuse to sit on the weight bench looking around between reps checking out the eligibles. Just checking out will result in throwing out; they have some rules, y'know.

Look. Because it's cheap, you don't get involved (or worse, spend money), and it's fun.

The basics: I like girls; I like them to have tits (within limits, since dairy farms don't turn me on); I like to see a good stern (as the old skipper said, anyone can build a bow, but a good stern is a work of art) with plenty of shape, but I don't insist on bubble-butt, because I've seen some good droop and even some slab, if it's reasonably tight, and the classic big-nigger-ass is well worth a glance; and the face, although pretty far down my list, can't be utterly revolting, although I'm willing to negotiate. Race? Any number can play, white for preference. Gooks usually are titless, with honorable exceptions, and their faces do nothing for me. Black can be beautiful, bar almost all their faces. What are politely termed "Hispanics", although they have less Spanish in them than I do, which is zero, can be anything. Mostly they're too hairy, or dykes, or they chatter like a cage-full of monkeys, which they mostly resemble. And their tits are mostly sloppy, except for the sleek, pussycat exemplars, who look anorexic.

No, politically-correct, unlike huked on fonix, doesn't wurk fur mi.

What I like is the floor exerciser, blond, with a ring but who cares. She comes in wearing shorts over tights, so she can pretend she's not on show. And you can't see through it, though you wish you could. She puts down the water bottle (those hydrating broads must piss like fucking rhinoceri--ever see a rhinoceros take a piss? Like fucking gallons!); she tunes and retunes the iPod, which is good, because the noise in her head keeps her from noticing if I look too long or too hard. Then she drops her towel off her shoulders, hitches up the sports bra (giving a nice jolt to her boobies), and drops to the floor. In front of the mirrored wall, so all can be revealed.

She starts with the leg lifts, raising and spreading, again and again, sweat starting to form on forehead (and doubtless in her crotch). She swings back into a Yoga Plough, spreads her legs, and I can imagine the warmth and the acid, salty, feline, funky, female smell from her pussy and her tight little pucker.

Now, with her back to floor and bent double, legs behind her head, she raises them and opens and closes them, winking her pussy at me. Those soft little, tight little lips are saying, "I'll give you the best tongue sandwich ever." I can imagine the tiny little droplets of sweat running from her mound, dripping ever so slowly from her bush, down her clit and joining her cunt juice. Lunch is served.

Back up, sitting, facing away from me, taking a break. Intermission, folks. So I take up the barbells and do twenty reps, counting each aloud, sweating, watching myself in the mirror as if I never heard of twat, poontang or vaginal secretions.

In walks a nigger. Big ass, the kind that could use five or six good shots from a finger-width rattan cane, like they use in Singapore. To get her in the mood, to be followed by a well-lubed cock. But the rest is sloppy tits, kinky hair and incipient membership in the Great American Obesity Epidemic. Another one we'll have to support on Medicaid. Pass. More reps.

Blondie is back after her break, having taken aboard even more water. She stands and does touch-your-toes, legs spread, pucker, perineum and pussy every way free. Nice view, if limited. OK, enough for the openers, let's get to the main event.

She drops to the mat on hands and knees, faces the wall away from me, and does those leg-and-ab stretches that absolutely rock me! Lift left leg and stretch it back, grinding pucker and pussy and then opening them up. Do same with right. Then left right left, and I'm marching to the beat of a different drum.

I can almost hear her pussy sucking wind, her puckered little asshole going "squish squish" with the dripping sweat. I can almost smell it, well-prepared, well-tended, warmed-to-perfection USDA Prime Bitch. Who needs little blue pills? What you need really is droopy, floppy gym shorts, with no inner mesh brief, that could conceal a hard-on and an armored infantry brigade. And I got 'em. It's easy to cut out the mesh briefs. Just get a color that doesn't show pre-cum, if you can find it. Or try surgical adhesive tape to the tip of your cock. Just be careful getting it off, or you won't be getting off for a while, if you get my meaning.

She's gone to the weights. Squatting and lifting with eight-pound barbells, then going to a 25-pounder held in both hands. Can't see as much, and besides, enough of this one. Show's over, folks.

I barely bother to check out her ass again as she leaves.

The nigger is grunting away at the far side of the room. One look at her ass. Seen one, seen 'em all.

Two of the chiquita bananas arrive, jabbering away. The type that clean offices by night, fat, laughing at everything when they don't say "oh my god", not only nothing to look at but positively anti-erotic. If they all looked like that, I'd take up crocheting.

So back to the reps; presses this time. Tune out the jabber, concentrate on getting the count right, the reps right.

The chiquitas have grabbed the corner of the room where the bars are for my push-ups. I can wait for them to leave, but usually they hang out and talk (or jabber), because exercise is the last thing on what passes for their minds. So that won't work, because some of us have to go to work today.

Maybe there's some eye candy at the other bars. The other bars are next the weight machines, but there's only guys on the machines. Not for me, thanks, but you can enjoy, if that's what engages your clutch.

Push-ups, with a long stretch in between. Of nothing.

Wait, what's that at the water fountain? Bending down to drink, tits like two ripe pears with plenty of cleve on show. She stands back up, and even at this distance you can see nipples. Vell vell vell, vhat habe ve hier? Chorus-line face, blond, high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, legs that last forever. Dancer working out before a show tonight? Might could be. Turn around, bright eyes, let's see the package.

She does. The tights are perfect. An artistic outline of buttock, a thermonuclear wedgie. The damn seam on her tights must be halfway to Paradise. Her perineum must be getting a fine rubdown, which is OK by me, because I can take care of the rest. She walks away to the back of the gym, and I don't get to see pussy or pucker, but imagination isn't slow in supplying. Athletic, she's the kind you don't merely doggie, you do the bull-and-cow routine. And hope she knows to arch her ass back up, and clamp your cock as you come.

Oh well, time for the medicine ball. Off the walls and bounces, sixty of each, in the far rear corner where no one goes. You can see people arriving and departing, but everyone is so buttoned up now that winter's here. Might as well finish, nothing more going on today. Go and shower, dress and off to the same-old.

But as Scarlett said, "Tomorrow is another day."