Today’s post is brought to you by guest contributor, Mr. Steve.
Hello, boys and girls! I’m Mr. Steve!
Richard was feeling a little oogey-woogey this morning, so he asked me to step in and pen today’s post! How exciting! Of course, I wouldn’t wish illness on anyone–not even a certain b-level cabaret singer who stood me up twice last week–but I’m happy to have the chance to say hello and share some of my patented Mr. Steve Wisdom (seriously: patent pending!)!
My topic for today is gym etiquette. Now, I know what some of you are thinking: “Mr. Steve, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy! There’s no need for gym etiquette! Gyms are where you’re supposed to let it all hang out!” And that, my dears, is the problem.
When I visit my local gymnatorium, I’m horrified by the fashion choices of my fellow health enthusiasts! The place is littered with with men in skimpy shorts straight from the pages of International Male, and they aren’t wearing underwear! Honestly, if they were all to do one good headstand, I could glimpse the religion, creed, and national origin of everyone in the room!
Please understand that Mr. Steve is in no way, shape, or form a P-R-U-D-E. I just think some things are best saved for the sauna! It’s as though these men haven’t learned the basic rules of drama–and since Mr. Steve attends a gay gym, you wouldn’t expect that to be a problem!
I can’t say it enough, fellas: don’t give away the goods up front! (Pun intended!) Let me caress you with my eyes from the Smith Machine. Give me the occasional “come hither” glance from the leg press. But don’t get your ya-ya’s out on the yoga mat! It’s far too indelicate! Far too direct for the unforgiving fluorescent light of the weight room! Tease me! Play a delicate game of cat and mouse, until I follow you discreetly into the wet area of the locker room, taking surreptitious looks at your meaty manhood, crowned by its regal pelt! That’s the way Fanny Brice would have done it–god rest her soul–and so should you! That is the way and the means of true revelation!
Of course, there are some men who simply can’t stand wearing undergarments. I fail to comprehend why such men can’t wear beach culottes with built-in pouches to restrain their manly bulges, but if you are such a one–if you can’t abide anything less than “going commando”–at least do us the favor of wiping up after yourself! I cannot tell you how many times I’ve come out of “child pose” only to find my nose and forehead matted with a thick layer of curly hairs of every imaginable shade!
There is, of course, an exception to the underwear rule: my personal trainer, Jose. To the casual observer, Jose’s passion for lycra shorts and skin-tight tank tops might seem shamelessly inappropriate to the point of sexual exhibitionism, but to those of us under his tutelage, he is an inspiration! When he spots us on the bench press, by god, yes, we will do as he says and lift that heavy, heavy bar one last time. We will do one more hamstring curl as his large, veiny hand rests on our buttocks, pinning us to the machine. We will eke out a final cable pull, as he stands directly behind us, his torso nuzzled against our back, his breath on our neck, his hands on our biceps, guiding us through the final motions of the rep. Hallelujah! His body is the land of milk and honey, and honey, we are so there!
Well, that’s all from Mr. Steve today! I hope to see you all the next time Richard visits death’s door! Bye-bye now!
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