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Strippers at the Gym
The unspeakable sadness of snakin' what your mama gave ya
Hopefully you find this cool and not offensive, but at the gym I look at fit women, a lot. The gaze is something between scientific interest and horny lookyloo.
I'm fascinated by the ways women work out: what they perceive to be their "trouble spots" and secret medical histories. In my quarter century of working out in gyms of all sizes — on both coasts — the definition of a big booty has, um, deepened.
Shit, the overall sense of what's fit and what's fat has devolved, become complicated. These things color the mood I fall into upon seeing stripper titties at the gym.
Stripper titties are about the only things that get me judgmental. When two beautiful lunkheads meet and bond happily over sweat fumes and dippy workout talk, I think, Aww. Kind of nice. That 300-pound woman in the XXL sweatsuit? The one who looks like she just pulled her face from a trough of Flaming Hot Cheetoos? She and I are pretty cool. But hot girls with plastic knockers? I'm, um, not especially feeling them.
They're just too heart-breaking, the real fake boobs. The heartbreak of stripper titties. You know what I mean, right? The ones that have nipples tipped back on the breasts like skyward trucker cap bills. They're saying, "Hi," always, looking up to Daddy. Disturbing in a way that boobs never should be. God would never make something like this. So stripper titties show us that there is no God.
I'm fascinated by the ways women work out: what they perceive to be their "trouble spots" and secret medical histories. In my quarter century of working out in gyms of all sizes — on both coasts — the definition of a big booty has, um, deepened.
Shit, the overall sense of what's fit and what's fat has devolved, become complicated. These things color the mood I fall into upon seeing stripper titties at the gym.
Stripper titties are about the only things that get me judgmental. When two beautiful lunkheads meet and bond happily over sweat fumes and dippy workout talk, I think, Aww. Kind of nice. That 300-pound woman in the XXL sweatsuit? The one who looks like she just pulled her face from a trough of Flaming Hot Cheetoos? She and I are pretty cool. But hot girls with plastic knockers? I'm, um, not especially feeling them.
They're just too heart-breaking, the real fake boobs. The heartbreak of stripper titties. You know what I mean, right? The ones that have nipples tipped back on the breasts like skyward trucker cap bills. They're saying, "Hi," always, looking up to Daddy. Disturbing in a way that boobs never should be. God would never make something like this. So stripper titties show us that there is no God.
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