Wherein I Spot an Endangered Species
For the past seven years, I've slogged my way through the heat and the slush and the rain and the throngs of public-housing dwellers around 17th Street to make my way to Chelsea Piers. I sweated, I froze, I waited untold weeks -- in vain -- for the M14 bus so I could use my beloved climbing wall or work off the day's stress on a treadmill while looking out on the Statue of Liberty.
Afterward, I could pick up a great sushi roll in the cafe or lounge around in the spacious steam or sauna rooms. Best of all, its membership is 98% Chelsea Boys -- bulging biceps, tight tanks, and not a one of them looking to pick up, or pick on, the ladies. I don't have to care about my boobs sweating or my face turning bright red from an hour on the treadmill, or endure unwanted advances on the off chance I happen to show up looking glamorous. The gays don't give a flying, fat-free fig, either way. Of course, this also means that you will never, ever meet anyone date-able at the gym, which judging by its consistent ranking by Glamour magazine as one of the top 5 places to meet good dudes, is a shame.
There's no doubt about it, I LOVE Chelsea Piers. But I HATE the commute. It's 45 minutes to an hour from ANYWHERE, unless you live directly above the Half King, and it's nowhere closer to my offices in midtown than it is to my home in Brooklyn.
This week, my patience finally wore thin. I decided to cash in a short-term guest pass to Equinox, which has a branch two blessedly short blocks from my office.
I got to the gym fairly early and had my pick of machines. But soon it started filling up with strange people. These were men, but they weren't wearing the tank tops and patting each other on rounded, canteloupe bottoms. There was a suspicious absence of waxed limbs. They were wearing beat up old T-shirts advertising basketball teams or company picnics. They were wearing dorky socks and smelly shorts. They were watching sports and looking at women's asses. HOLY SHIT, THEY WERE STRAIGHT!
There pheremones in the room were palpable, and there was friendly banter and flirting -- even some hitting of other people's body parts with their towels! Despite the dorky socks, these guys were...hot. Sure, they were likely lawyers and bankers from the surrounding buildings that probably wouldn't interest me at all if they actually opened their mouths, but it was nice to have eye candy -- and eye candy that looked back, at that.
If anyone wants to know what to get me for Christmas, please make it a yearlong membership to Equinox? I can't give up my Chelsea Piers, but I'd like to cheat with Equinox for my side dish of straights.
Afterward, I could pick up a great sushi roll in the cafe or lounge around in the spacious steam or sauna rooms. Best of all, its membership is 98% Chelsea Boys -- bulging biceps, tight tanks, and not a one of them looking to pick up, or pick on, the ladies. I don't have to care about my boobs sweating or my face turning bright red from an hour on the treadmill, or endure unwanted advances on the off chance I happen to show up looking glamorous. The gays don't give a flying, fat-free fig, either way. Of course, this also means that you will never, ever meet anyone date-able at the gym, which judging by its consistent ranking by Glamour magazine as one of the top 5 places to meet good dudes, is a shame.
There's no doubt about it, I LOVE Chelsea Piers. But I HATE the commute. It's 45 minutes to an hour from ANYWHERE, unless you live directly above the Half King, and it's nowhere closer to my offices in midtown than it is to my home in Brooklyn.
This week, my patience finally wore thin. I decided to cash in a short-term guest pass to Equinox, which has a branch two blessedly short blocks from my office.
I got to the gym fairly early and had my pick of machines. But soon it started filling up with strange people. These were men, but they weren't wearing the tank tops and patting each other on rounded, canteloupe bottoms. There was a suspicious absence of waxed limbs. They were wearing beat up old T-shirts advertising basketball teams or company picnics. They were wearing dorky socks and smelly shorts. They were watching sports and looking at women's asses. HOLY SHIT, THEY WERE STRAIGHT!
There pheremones in the room were palpable, and there was friendly banter and flirting -- even some hitting of other people's body parts with their towels! Despite the dorky socks, these guys were...hot. Sure, they were likely lawyers and bankers from the surrounding buildings that probably wouldn't interest me at all if they actually opened their mouths, but it was nice to have eye candy -- and eye candy that looked back, at that.
If anyone wants to know what to get me for Christmas, please make it a yearlong membership to Equinox? I can't give up my Chelsea Piers, but I'd like to cheat with Equinox for my side dish of straights.
posted by Had To Move at 8:12 PM
1 Comments:
In the past, I've been convinced by this blog to cough up some dough for a worthy cause. But this one I will not support. Straights?! What is this world coming to?
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