I am all that is female.
Overcompensatory masculine female.
Each day I ride my Harley Davidson into the gym parking lot in my leather jacket and chaps.
I’ve ridden this steel horse straight past the age of forty, ignoring all exit signs for husbands and children, and directly into the state of sexual ambiguity.
The gym is my home away from home.
Since I live alone, a series of front desk clerks serve as my surrogate family.
The desk clerks are half my age and want nothing to do with me, but their only mandate is to remain at the desk, so they’re left with no choice but to withstand my testosterone-fueled chitchat.
I enter the gym like it’s my home.
No, more like I want to fight it. I puff my A-cup chest up, rear my well-defined deltoids back, and bow my arms out like they’re resting on invisible twelve-inch lats. While I’m fairly petite, my goal is to one day fill out the entire doorframe and tear it out of the wall when I enter. For now I’ll just keep walking in like I’m HHH coming down the ramp on Monday Night Raw.
I head to the women’s locker room to showcase my phantom cock change.
I come out in a sports bra and track pants hoisted to my belly button. But since the locker room isn’t hardcore enough to store my leathers, I carry all my shit out and store it in the employee’s closet behind the front desk. Like, the little room where employees keep their shit and cook their food… back behind the front desk… where non-employees do not go. Yeah, that’s where I store my leathers, my helmet, and any spare high-rise track pants and small-titted sports bras I’m carrying.
Then I linger.
I like to stand in the vicinity of the front desk and entrance so people know that I’m here. No one else, and I mean literally not one single other member of the gym, does this. But fuck ‘em, you know? They come to the gym to work out. I come to the gym to become the gym.
Then I settle at the front desk to read and eat.
That’s right. After I dump all my shit in the way of the employees, I unpack reading material and food. Not some generic protein bar, I bring full Tupperwared meals, heat them in the employee microwave, spread them out on the front desk along with the latest copy of Alpha Bitch Monthly, and flex my tris when I flip the pages. Eating and/or reading at the front desk is another thing that literally not one single other member of the gym does. During this time I also put the vibe out to incoming males that this girl’s nutsack is just as heavy as theirs’.
Time to work out.
Once I’ve consumed enough calories and enough people have seen me that I’m able to convince myself that I still exist, I hit the weights. When other people are doing sets, I like to pass by them at an unnecessarily close distance. Sure, there are a dozen alternate routes I could take to get where I’m going, but I choose the one that’s four inches in front of the guy doing hammer curls. I should probably wear my Harley helmet when I do this, because one of these days someone will rightfully collapse my fucking skull with a dumbbell, but so far I’ve been lucky. They’re all mesmerized by my signature Harley Trash Ass-Length Pony Tail swaying to and fro.
Let me grab a flat weight bench.
Better make that two. One to lift on. One to rest the superfluous shit I’m carrying around on. Oversized thermos: Check. Clipboard: Check. Alpha Bitch Monthly: Check. Phone no one’s calling me on: Check. Zip-up hoodie shirt I don’t wear – ever – but carry around jut to be cumbersome: Check. Twelve other people looking for an available flat weight bench and not finding one: fucking Check. No sweat, I’ll be done with them in four or five hours. You’d think with all the time I spend in here I’d have a tighter midsection and more overall tone. Fuck it, I’ll Eastwood these track pants right up to my nipples if I have to. If this skin gets any looser, though, people might stop taking me for Jillian Michaels‘ uglier older sister.
Just a quick workout today.
Twelve and a half hours. I usually put in at least fifteen. That’s alright – the sun’s starting to set anyway. It’s at the perfect angle to glisten off of my hog. I mean “hog” as in Harley. Not “hog” as in my dick! I mean a dick, not my dick. I don’t have a dick. Yet.