April 10
I bless the rain down in Africa! Know what I love more than anything, practically? Internet Radio! Woo! Love you, internet radio.
I can't remember whether I talked about this guy on a forum or mentioned him here on the page. Since I think it was a forum, I'm going to tell you all the story. As with all of my stories, it's funny, but ends up being totally pointless, so get some coffee and gather 'round.
There's a guy who works here at the Monolith. I see him every day, practically. He's someone you'd notice because he's, for lack of a better descriptive phrase, a fucking freak. He's always alone and always smiling smirkily to himself as though he just caught you in your underwear. He wears skintight bluejeans hitched up WAY too high, so that his, well, treasures are prominently displayed. He has weird side parted hair and a closely cropped, but very full beard. I have no idea where he works, only that it's near me, because he's been outside my building on more than one ocassion when I leave for the day.
Well, delightfully enough, he also goes to my gym. I know this because one evening about a month and a half ago, I was walking past the Testosterone Cage (I'm SURE I've mentioned the cage before, where the grunting, screaming, powerlifters live?) on my way out the door, glanced in and saw the guy from work--and when I say saw, I do mean saw. He was on a hip abductor machine of some kind, sitting in the fully extended position. Wearing VERY SHORT SHORTS, and apparently, nothing keeping the boys in. Nothing. Mind you, I wasn't LINGERING on his crotch, this wasn't a heady, lustful STARE from me to him. It was a glance. It was the glance of "Oh, hey, I know you." and it turned horribly, terribly wrong in under a second. I'd ike to point out that he was just sitting there on the machine, legs all spread out like that, so without a doubt, he KNEW what was going on and the presentation he was giving.
From that point forward, I was a woman obsessed. I looked for him in the hallways, in the cafeteria (where, by the way, he was spotted more than once fiddling around for a little too long and perhaps a little too enthusiastically with his package) outside. At the gym--where he was EVERY NIGHT in the exact same outfit (Bill Clinton short and tight shorts, SKIN TIGHT polo shirt, white socks pulled up to knees, dorky white shoes) I shared my unfortunate encounter and subsequent obsession with Steve, who then began to obsess along with me:
"Does he EVER change his outfit? Do you think he washes it? Why is he just SITTING there on the hip machine?!" I nodded knowingly. "He is The Ball Show, and it's almost time for the curtain to go up!"
Right. The Ball Show. That's what I call him now. (An aside: Every time I say "The Ball Show" aloud, I always ALWAYS sing it in tune to the Love Boat theme. Just so you know...) That's what Steve calls him now. We circle him as we circuit train. There was a smackdown--albeit a minor one, over an attempted weight steal--WHILE I WAS USING IT! The Steve Smackdown was pretty funny because he actually gasped. GASPED! "EXCUSE ME!! Do you NOT SEE ME? We are USING THAT!!" Ball Show didn't even make eye contact. He dropped it and slunk off. Ugh. I can not fathom what his problem was, there. I mean, seriously. He sits on machines and does not use them--that's the important part. He is at the gym every night, but I have NEVER SEEN HIM DO ANYTHING. One night, I was on the elliptical machine. About a half hour in, I turned around, and noticed that he was directly behind me on a bike. He was not pedaling on the bike, no no! He was just sitting on it, with his feet on the pedals. Why was he there? What was he doing?
I'm not so vain (or unrealistic) to think that he was there, getting his jollies off staring at me when there's a gym full of lithe and muscular hotties bouncing and sweating, but it was admittedly very strange because there was no one else on the elliptical machines. Strange and creepy. Creepy is totally the key word for Ball Show. The next few times he and I happened to be at the gym at the same time, he was standing out in front of the exercise room, the one where the classes are being held. The classes are typically about 98 percent women, and Ball Show was at the glass, hands cupping at his eyes, so he could get a better view. Not for one minute. Not two. TWENTY MINUTES AT A TIME! Just standing there, staring in at the women. Not even pretending to be doing something other than being a big old fucking perv, pressing himself up against the glass.
Enter this week. Steve has been away on vacation, and because I am a cowardly soul I haven't been able to bring myself to go near any of the weight training stuff on my own, so I consulted with the online class schedule and decided that after MORE THAN A YEAR, I'd haul ass back into Weight Training For Chickies and lift some weights there. I learned, however, that the whole thing had been changed: the formerly hour long class was made a half hour, and combined with something, ironically enough, called "Power Ball" (again, for those who don't remember, Weight Training for Chickies is really called "Power Flex), thus making it a whole hour.
Right, so I get to the gym ay 6 to get in my dutiful hour of cardio before the 7:00 class. At 7, I go to Weight Training for Chickies. The instructor, Monica, expresses amazement and delight that I've returned to the fold, and she REMEMBERS THE LIE I TOLD about why I'd not been around, like, a year and a half before. Heh. Everyone starts getting their shit together for the class, and they start talking about "that guy with the too tight shorts and the freaky beard".
That's right, everyone! They were talking about BALL SHOW! Apparently, the pervy window looking hadn't gone unnoticed, and women in the class AND MONICA complained about him to the gym director. Hah! Fucking perv. I interrupted: "Wait, wait. Are you talking about the dude who always wears the same outfit, and lurks around, pretending to work out?" Everyone laughed, because obviously, it was the same person. I explained that we worked at the same place, and everything I've just told all of you, and I ended with "AND I'VE SEEN HIS BALLS!!"
Obviously, proper squealing repugnance ensued. We agreed that he was a nasty, horrible person (I added "Do you see the headphones he wears? You know what he's listening to, right? He's listening to his tape of women going to the bathroom, ever since he planted the microphone..." Heh, I'm nasty)
He flittered up to the window a few times during class, but he did this "Oh, I am SO not looking!" thing whereby it was totally obvious he WAS looking, and not only LOOKING, but getting off on it.
Blarh. You know, it's not like I'm not self conscious enough at the gym, and I LOATHE when worlds cross over like that, you know? I want to go to the gym and NEVER see anyone from work. I don't want to go to the doctor and recognize people in the waiting room ("Ooh, do you have warts, too?! I'm having them burned off! Well, see you in the cafeteria!") and I CERTAINLY don't want to know that the Ball Showing pervert I see EVERY DAY OF MY LIFE is rubbing his barely covered erection against the glass of the exercise room. Man. No wonder I stopped going to the gym for so long.
the other day - home - email - tomorrow