Oh yeah, baby. Here I come. Fresh sheen of oil, and the shades wrapped all the way around. Time to show you how the big boys roll!
See, I met this little girly strolling on the treadmill. A cardio bunny if ever I saw one. She looked a little intimidated as her eyes darted around the gym, scoping the different cliques. So I approached her and told her I’d help show her the ropes—but only after a night on the town.
Little did she know the glamour to come. The short jean shorts with vascular quads exposed. The construction boots of course, because, well, I’m a bad mofo. The fanny pack—with glutes this big, who has room in their pockets for wallet, keys, phone? And let’s not forget the flannel shirt with the arms cut off. Gotta’ show off those hard-earned pythons to the world. Mr. Hogan, eat your heart out.
My cardio bunny, my dream girl. So innocent and pure. Hasn’t even benched her first barbell yet. Time to pop that cherry. Too much to resist, ladies. Hair so fresh so clean—business up front, party in the back.
But wait… what if she’s seen this look? It’s a little played out, after all. Maybe I should have worn my red and white tiger-stripe Zubas? Man, when I lock those up along with my cherry-red Otomix, how can she resist? D-O-P-E, dope is me. Rock that with a tight string-back tank, and it’s game over. I can feel the heat coming off of her already.
You’ve never been out with a real bodybuilder before, huh? You didn’t realize the glory that would be knocking on your door in a few short hours. No flowers. No chocolates. Who needs bribes like that, when you have a 6-pack like Adonis?
And maybe she’s done her research. Maybe she’ll answer the door in a skin-tight leotard, the butt-thong strip positioned perfectly to display proper glute separation. Maybe she went the full nine, and will even rock a headband and wristbands. Oh man, super absorbent—we’re gonna’ need something to sop up all of that sweat!
I park my ’78 Trans Am in her driveway, T-tops removed so we can absorb every single ray of sunlight (hell, who doesn’t want to work on their tan while cruising?), and hop out. I approach my cardio bunny’s door, confident, smelling like fresh cologne. Not gonna’ lie, I hit the gym and got a quick pump before heading over to pick her up. Gotta’ represent with these pecs in full-force!
I wrap on her door with my bare knuckles, and hear her approach. The door opens, and I am greeted with a smile—no leotard, unfortunately, so the skin-tight dress will have to do.
…wait, why did the door just slam?