The Secret Lives Of Men
Margaret and I went to Anchorage this past week for a show. We checked into the hotel a day early to the show and it was still light out at friggin’ eleven o’clock. It really messes with your internal clock trying to sleep when you’re body is tired but the day just won’t end -sooo weird. But hold on, it’s gets weirder.
So the next day I get up and first thing I talk to my lady on the phone. It’s a four-hour difference between Alaska and EST. I vowed to her that I was going to go work out then eat breakfast. I read somewhere once it’s better to work out before you eat breakfast so you are working off what’s on your body, not what’s in your stomach. I think it was Bill Phillips book Body For Life.
Anyhow, I put on my workout clothes, nothing fancy: white t-shirt, gray shorts and some NEW sneaks! Yeeow! My new sneaks make me want to go to the gym. So, I’m feeling pretty Butch – a little scruffy having forgotten my razor this trip. I’m sure there were some sleep lines still on my face from the four pillows I wrestled with for the previous six hours. Grabbing my half-charged, tiny iPod, that has the same 500 songs I put on it almost 2 years ago, scratched all to hell, buds tucked in my ears, I walk all peppy to the elevator. I walk the lobby for nearly a mile, almost a full square back to where I started to get simple directions to the gym. I walk all the way back around to where my elevator first dropped me and went one more level down.
There I stood at the threshhold of the MEN ONLY FITNESS FACILITY. Frig! I thought about not going in. I really have no desire to go pump iron with a bunch of smelly bio-boy, meat snorkles. But on the other hand, I really wanted to work out and I won’t be let into the ladies room, nor would I want to freak anyone out in there either. I’ve been working hard on building my chest and trying to see more of the body I’ve imagined in my head. Plus, I still have it in my head, “shit, are they going figure it out.. that I’ve got a FUCKING SECRET?”
Worse case scenario, when I enter, there might be some fuck-wit standing inside the door displaying his bio-cock for me. No, of course not, there’s no receiving line in there when you arrive at the Men Only Fitness Facility. I had to tell myself that no one is going to even look at me. No one’s going to give a shit. Just as I finished these thoughts in my head, I reached for the door.
I walked inside and there was a tall, check-in counter on the left. Straight ahead there’s a large open space with dark walls, leather couches and a giant flat screen television. I couldn’t guess to tell you how many inches it was or how much someone spent on that friggin’ thing. I can tell you is was near the width of a set of French doors from an old house. Of course it was tuned in to a sports channel and some newspapers lay about on the massive ottoman.
I appraoched the gentleman at the desk and asked him how much for the day. $10 for my first day and $5 for every day after that. He went on to give me the tour that I didn’t ask for. But I’m kind of glad he did because at least then then I knew which rooms I wanted to avoid, the shower room, the steam room, the locker room. Really all I wanted to do was to do a bunch of bench presses and curls and then I’m out. Why’s it gotta be all complicated and shit.
But then he showed me the shaving room. There were two walls opposite from each other, lined with mirrors and sinks and all the shaving accoutrement and trannie boi could ask for. Alright, so maybe I will consider the shaving room when I’m done with my workout.
When I was a kid a I used to watch my Dad in the mirror while he shaved. He used one of those razors that you twirled the little piece at the base of it to split the top open and you’d drop a blade inside then twirl it closed. I used to mimic all his moves, poking my tongue in cheek, pressing my tongue between my bottom teeth and lower lip; showing my concentration with a good squint. I knew then I was practicing for when I got older.
After I filled out the neccesary clipboard info, I zipped past all the lockers to the weight room. There’s few other guys in there on cardio machines on the other side of the room. Cardio is for pussies, what the fuck. Kidding, I’m just bitter because I hate to do cardio and I have to pretty much bribe myself with masterbation to even do cardio. For every fifteen minutes of cardio I do.. you get the idea.
I headed straight to the bench and took the 35 pounders off each end of the bar and added, well, nothing at first. I had to warm up with just the bar then I would add some shit to it after! Yeeow! When I was done I went to the shaving room and was happy to find no one in there.
First, I grabbed myself a fresh razor, lathered up with some old school foam, and did my thing. About midway through my shave, a much older man came into view, he kind of looked like an “I lost me to meth”, kind of crazy homeless white hair, and sagging everywhere (if you know what I mean), Donald Sutherland looking kind of guy. By the length of his balls I would say he was in his early 90’s or.. Alaska had been hard on those, now hanging mid-thigh, nards. Fucking whoah!
Now I wasn’t really looking, but when I heard him switch the blow dryer on it startled me a smidge and I glanced over to see what Donald Sutherland was up to. Oh yes, D.S. was fucking blow drying his balls! Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat! That’s right. All I could think was “LOOK AWAY!”
Are you kidding me, I didn’t know you guys blow dry your balls! Who knew? Or was this unique to this one man? I think I want to write a book titled The Secret Lives of Men and or maybe I’ve Got A Secret, where I keep a regular log all the whack things I get to witness in closed, men only spaces. I’m sure I wouldn’t be part of the man club for long if I were to reveal all the blow drying ball secrets from the dark side.
Anyway, at first I thought it was weird that old man was blow drying his balls, especially in front me! No shame? No privacy requirement? Then I thought, ooh, maybe it’s going to get lucky later? IN THAT CASE, I thought it was considerate. It was nice of him to dry those danglers so they don’t get all mildewy – nice one Grand Dad.
On behalf of the lucky/unlucky PERSON, depending on their perspective, who may be experiencing a long, drawn out, tea-bagging session this past Monday, thank you Donald Sutherland, for trying to make them less stanky.
Oh and.. Hey old man, I’VE GOT A SECRET!! Yeeow!
LYMI, XO, Ian