He inhaled a long, deep breath and exhaled slowly in a heavy, mournful sigh. He did not want to be here. He slid a hand down his torso and over the soft start of a belly. At 29, there was no denying that his body needed some help in maintaining the slim trim build of his youth. He was by no means fat, or even really overweight, and many guys his age would have been delighted to be as thin as he was, but not him. He felt the slight bulge of his stomach, the faded blue jeans that fit just a bit too snugly now.
He gazed with loathing at the vile building before him. A fitness centre! Of all the things, he had succumbed to this cruel manipulation of the media. His hands closed into fists, his knuckles white as he steeled himself for the descent into the bright sodium hell which lay just before those metallic swinging doors. He did not need this! That was the problem and he knew it, he was no longer as active as he once was, he also admitted that a membership here would be money well wasted unless he broke down and splurged on a personal trainer. His commitment to working out would evaporate before the ink was dry on his membership form without a personal trainer. Closing his eyes, he strode with rigid back towards the metallic, mocking doors.
Inside the fitness centre was laid out exactly as he feared it would be; big central raised platform with two fit, attractive, hyper-energetic people in a lycra-spandex combination to dazzle and blind behind the entrance desk, clear glass windows showing row upon row of workout machines or freeweights or pools, people in various stages of shape and sweat trudging through predetermine routes to work the abs, blast the quads or sculpt the buttocks. Like an automoton Bill headed to the entrance desk.
The peppy welcome he received from both the man and the woman nearly made him turn about on his heel and flee the place, but instead he disconnected his ears and informed them of his desire to join their gym. Within minutes of their chirpy happy greeting of him, his picture and money had been taken, and a laminated membership card pressed into his nerveless hand.
Bill gave his head a shake.
"Pardon?" he asked.
"Doyouwantthegrandetournoworatalaterdate?" the perpetually peppy desk girl asked him.
"Definitely later. Also, I need to sign up for a personal trainer."
"Ohsurenoproblemdoyouhaveanyspecificareaofyourbodyyouwanttofocuson?"
He wanted to ask her how she managed to speak that quickly and that long without breathing. Instead he shook his head. "Just a general firming and toning of my body."
"OkgreatIknowjustthetrainerforyou,Ryan,nextopeningis... wow... tonightat10pmisthatok?"
Wow was right, you actually paused for breath mid-sentence. He wanted to comment on this too, instead he just nodded his head. "That's fine." He worked at home, he could set his own hours. "Isn't that a bit late?"
"Thenextavailablespotafterthatisinsixdaysyoucantakethatoneifyouwant."
"No, no, tonight will be fine."
He turned to leave as the cute, lycra-spandex clad, bubbly, bursting, pony-tailed blonde smiled a full, white, dazzling smile at him, he cringed. She was too... everything. He guaranteed that most straight males under that sort of onslaught would be putty, gooey putty, in her hands. Still, he wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating cookies. Bleck! How had that thought sprung into his head? Must be the lighting. He bet her name was Tiffany, or Britney, or Chelsey, definitely something ending in the letter "y."
The day passed sluggishly like the morning after a big bender. It was with worried fingers he flipped open his wallet and saw to his shock the shiny white laminated fitness centre member's card, he groaned into his hands realizing he had an appointment with Ryan, the personal trainer today at 10pm. He seriously contemplated cancelling his membership or reporting his credit card stolen so that he could prevent his upcoming humiliation. The image of Ryan popped fully formed into his head, a blonde Greek Adonis with a barrel chest, pecs with independant motion and abs that could be used to fry eggs on. He stood at least 6'2, towering over poor Bill, each muscle cut and defined and oiled up to a mirror shine. His blonde hair closely cropped to his head, was it possible to see his frontal lobe flexing? The shorts were too tight and too short and the muscle shirt could only barely qualified as a shirt at all, it looked more like a sleeveless evening gown gone horribly awry! A mantra began in Bill's mind "Hate Ryan. Hate Ryan. Hate Ryan." over and over and over. It was with surly displeasure he packed his tattered gym bag and threw it into the back of his car, he didn't even bother to look at himself in the mirror, it would serve Ryan right! Bill would show the arrogant lothario what he thought of good looking pretty boys. He angrily started the engine and threw it into drive, his hands clenching the wheel in grim determination as he returned to that damned fitness centre.
Bubbles no longer bounced behind the reception desk. In her place was a near carbon copy, only this time a brunette with brown eyes, slightly shorter with slightly larger breasts. Do they have a farm where they grow fitness centre receptionists or was there a lab where teams of German scientists cloned them? It had to be German scientists, if there were a lab, it just had to be!
"I'm here for a meeting...? workout...? ...session? with Ryan at 10pm."
"Ohrightsureit'swrittenrightherejustgothroughthosedoorstotheroommarkedst udioAandRyanjustcalledandisrunningabitlate."
"Thanks." Bill figured BubblesBrunette must be a newer version of BubblesBlonde as she appeared to be able to talk longer on a single breath of air. Bill wandered down the hall, looking for Studio A, he had no idea where it might be, but asking BubblesBrunette for directions was completely out of the question. He was early, Ryan would be late, so time wasn't an issue, besides, Bill liked exploring.
As he wandered down the well lit, but mostly empty, corridors his mind drifted from thought to thought. How could a fitness centre turn a profit being open 24-hours a day, seven days a week? What was the 3am Tuesday fitness crowd like? Maybe if the next Bubbles Version came with a mute option. Ack! Damn libido. Unfortunately, despite the size of the centre, handy, informative signs dotted the walls at far too regular intervals, meaning Bill found Studio A in less than four minutes. With a roll of his eyes he pushed open the doors and inspected the studio, it wasn't quite what he expected. A bright hardwood floor, a couple of black vinyl benches, but not too many weights, lay stacked in neat piles, giving room to move or dance, or in his case attempt to flee. He guessed it must be a multipurpose room, good for individual workout sessions and small group classes. He found a small change room at the back, and quietly changed into his workout gear, a pair of loose, long, navy blue shorts and a plain, old t-shirt, his sneakers were relatively new though.
He ambled through the multipurpose room, and found nothing more exciting than one sad discarded holey greying sock. After 5 mind-numbing minutes passed, he stuck his head into the hall and looked around for any signs of that Adonis Ryan. He ducked his head back in the room when he heard the high-pitched chirping of one of the Bubbles Brigade. A few tense moments later, sensing the coast was clear, he snuck down the hall, intent on escaping the psychological interrogation centre that others foolished called a gym. Still, his curiousity pestered at him until he found himself perversely intrigued as to what implements of torment might be hidden behind these other doors. Pressing his ear to each heavy door to check for sounds, he peered in first one, then another, most rooms on this wing fell into the multipurpose rooms, with the final room containing a sauna and whirlpool. He refused to guess as to what tortures went on in that last room! He was very nearly free and clear of the center when he realized with a groan that his gym bag, shoes, clothes and wallet were nicely stuffed in a cubby hole in Studio A. He retraced his steps on silent, swift feet, slipped into the Studio and had just grabbed his bag when he froze in place as he heard the unmistakably sound of the door to Studio A swing open.
A chorus of "Hate Ryan" echoed through his skull.
A glance at his watch told him Ryan was over 10 minutes late.
A scathing insult sprung to his lips, ready to be leveled at the over inflated ego of Ryan the Bronzed MuscleHead.
