It's weird going to a gym and not having had sex for three or so years. I've been on the treadmill next to guys panting like wild maniacs and I have to say, it's kind of hot. Hot until you look over and realize it's a fiftysomething with a beer belly and a new iPod. He's sweaty and he stinks.
Yesterday morning I almost swallowed my tongue when I saw this hot guy, a local news reporter doing butterfly stretches on the mat as I left. Holy Balanga Birds Batman, he was such a disco inferno I held my breath when I walked by. He has this funky little hair-do and the Clark Kent Blues. Total sexiness.
Today I was forced to watch Fox News while I ran on the treadmill. I had my iPod and a tasty mix playing but I became increasingly sickened by the images on the television, combined with the music I was listening to. It was a heaping bucket of almost continual violence, some from news cameras, some from security cameras. Guns, blood, murder, crashing, and bashing interspersed with the latest amounts of various political funds and the pet death toll numbers.
I'm so glad I got rid of my Jumbotron when SF was born. Yet, part of me wishes I still had it to see Mr. Sex Pot on the local news in all of his technicolor glory. I guess I'll just be more motivated to get my arse to the gym. There is nothing quite like the real deal.
