I can see you, you know? Swarming around me like hungry sharks after a lonely kill. Sauntering up next to me at the free weights, using the treadmill to my immediate left and right even though there are at least 20 other cardio machines not being used, adding more speed, more resistance to your contraptions so you can show off your big manly-man muscles for me. Your huffing and puffing at the gym is flattering, really, and lets loose all kinds of kinky fantasies that are trapped in my head, but perhaps you would rather not like to know about them.
Oh sure, one or two of you macho guys might be into my naughty notions momentarily, but I hardly feel that they are quite what you have in mind. It doesn't take a third eye to see what you are thinking: hot sweaty, Lycra swathed sex on top of the giant inflatable work-out ball, where we bounce and our grunts and pants ring off the cement and mirrored surfaces. Heck, I even bet you'd be into having your spot guy join in every once in a while, though if I asked you to describe your fantasy aloud you might leave that part out.
A glimmer of pride sparkles in your pretty blue eyes as I casually size you up. You're probably thinking I'm swooning over your hard pecks, your bulging arms, or taunt sinewy back, but sorry boys, what I'm really trying to figure is just how much jump rope it would take to tie you up to that smelly padded bench you're sitting on. I'm measuring you up like you do me, though in addition to imagining what you look like naked and hot out of a shower, I'm trying to figure out what amount of weight would I have to lay over your wrists and ankles to have you immobile and star-fished on that yoga mat (and if it would be possible for me to physically drag the weights from across the room to do it.)
Don't worry, I'd play with you a little bit so the whole scene isn't too homoerotic for you. Maybe I'd strip down to my sports bra and undershorts, stepping close so you can smell the pheromones I've worked up during my 3 mile stationary bike ride and 10 flights of stairs. I'd grab a spare resistance cable and play with your bits, getting your cock rigid with my plastic touch, leaving only a few lash marks across those chiseled ass cheeks.
We can play fitness trainer. You'll be outfitted only in running shoes and yellow sweat bands as I give you my version of circuit training. I'll start you on the treadmill with 5 minutes of intense jogging and masturbation. Don't you dare cum or lose that erection or its off to nipple weight jumping jacks if you do. After, it will be 100 sit-ups with me standing over you, counting the reps each time you bury your face into my crotch. Followed by me sitting on your sculpted back for 3 minutes of planks, anal plug dead-lifts, and finishing with some mellow stretches and the adoption of your new mantra "I'm a big boy now with big boy muscles." If you've done well following orders (maybe) I'll reward you with a steam room throat fuck (please don't take more than 5 minutes to cum because I truly hate the heat.)
Granted, I know better than most to judge a book by its cover or, rather, a jock by his basketball shorts, but I hardly feel like our fantasies are aligning, so please don't bother to bustle up the courage to ask me out to dinner or coffee or a casual dip in the whirlpool to play the machismo card in front of all of your tough boyfriends, disturbing me from my grueling half hour of self-care. Unless, that is, you are as much of a Eric Stanton fan as I am.