misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

In an attempt to combat three-plus years of excessive beer lunches, dorito dinners, and oreo breakfasts, I recently dug deep into my shallow pockets to enroll at Equinox, an upper-tier gym where you are as likely to find bamboo plants as treadmills. The gym has taken the approach that health is a holistic experience, beyond physical exercise. I've bought in to this theory 100%. When you are about twelve minutes into swinging your legs back and forth on the elliptical machine, the fact that you are watching a flat-screen TV with dimmed area lighting makes all the difference (as a side-note, I am thoroughly enjoying the advanced names of exercise machines you'll find at these gyms. Elliptical machines, wide-lateral presses, reverse iso-metric lifts ... I feel more like I am studying advanced mathematics then working out. I figure if I don't understand it, it must be great for my body). Another feature I have fallen for are the soft cotton towels with a thread-count fit for a pharoah. At both 24-Hour Fitness and New York Sports Club, the towels are essentially strips of cotton sandpaper. Rub them on your testicles after a shower, and lose them forever.

Make no mistake, I've belonged to gyms since Kenta and I joined Gold's Gym freshman year of college. The problem is, I've done the same workout since then. Five minutes on a stairmaster, ten minutes lifting weights, fifty minutes in the parking lot on the phone or talking to Kenta about how we should get to the gym more. Then, a trip to TGIF for buffalo chicken tenders, two liters of hefewizen, and an oreo madness. It goes without saying I haven't gotten much into shape since I was 17. I've finally decided to put that to an end. To accomplish that goal, I decided I would no longer put my fitness into my own hands. I was unreliable, and constantly reminded myself of the need for cheetoes.

Enter Hakim. My personal trainer. A lifelong dream of mine, I've finally hired myself a personal trainer. When you hear the name Hakim, I am guessing a mental image is formed in your mind. That image is correct. Hakim is muscular, black, and has a radiant smile (is it ok for a man to have a radiant smile?). Hakim has everything I want in a trainer, and reminds me of why one is needed. When I am faltering on ten reps of a shoulder press exercise, Hakim calmly informs me I only have twenty more reps to go. I do not go against Hakim's wishes. When, at the end of my thirtieth rep, and my arms are shaking like two kittens trying to run against a tornado, Hakim informs me I have to do two more sets. Hakim introduces me to exercises I have never even imagined. I hang down from bars upside down with legs on walls and pull, which is some sort of inverse pull-up.

After the workout session is complete, Hakim brings me to the mat to stretch me out. Hakim has something in common with torture devices from the 16th century, in that both can contort bodies into highly unnatural positions. By the time my leg reaches the back of my head, the crack of my bones informs Hakim I've met my pysiological limits. Then he keeps going. Now here's the rub. Literally. The final two minutes of the session is spent with Hakim massaging my shoulders and back. After 60 minutes of torture, this massage is utopian. As a natural byproduct of the pleasure, I get goosebumps. My mind goes blank, and I revel in the release of tension and warmth generated by the rubs. After about a minute of pleasure, however, a sickening thought creeps into my brain. I am enjoying a massage from a muscular black man way too much. Does he see the goosebumps? Does he think, "Shit, I am massaging a fucking fag." I suddenly become uncomfortable for enjoying the massage way too much. Is it okay to really enjoy a massage from a muscular black man with a radiant smile? It is way too awkward. I thank Hakim for his time, make some joke about football and beer, and walk off to the locker room, to shower naked .. with other men.

I now know my limits. I have exactly one minute to enjoy gay sensuality before my mind enters the picture. Does this mean I could actually be gay, each day, for exactly one minute? I Could I be naked with another man, touching, thinking, wow, this feels pretty nice, before the switch was flipped? I won't be testing that theory anytime soon.

Unless, of course, Adrian was involved.