I've Got That Love and Feeling. By Dave M.

I’ve still got it…


We’ll I’ve sort of still got it. I guess I should be honest, some might say that I never had “it” at all but that is beside the point. For purposes of this iteration let’s all assume that at one time I was able to draw women and reciprocate their attention and therefore at such time had “it”, and although I’ve been married for several years now, I have now discovered that I still possess an outward sexuality worthy of genuine response. The problem arises in the “sort of” that I mentioned above and this is when my story begins.

Today I made my triumphant return to the local YMCA after a six week absence necessitated by a nasty ankle sprain. I’ve still got joint pain and attend physical therapy, but I felt spry enough to try the stair master on a low speed. The stair master is the type that involves actual revolving steps that creates a climbing machine resembling a short escalator. It sets at the end of a long row of treadmills which are all placed forward of a room full of weight lifting machines. The stair master’s height gives me a good view of the rest of the gym and truly provides a vigorous workout. It felt good to undertake aerobic activity again.

While gently stretching my ankle and pushing it to the limits of its flexibility as I walked up the down escalator that is the genius of the stair master, I found myself surveying the noon hour gym attendance. I do this frequently, hoping to scope out and goggle beautiful scantly clad professional women. I call them “motivation.” There is nothing like a firm round ass in stretch pants with a slightly growing line of sweat encroaching the cheeks from the center cleavage of low rising waist bands to consistently draw me to the gym. One can almost determine the cut and style of the panties the “motivation” wears.

Today I craned my neck around and was looking behind me when I lost my train of thought and in my absentmindedness began starring at an individual using a weight machine. I didn’t know I was starring at someone. I wasn’t really starring, I wasn’t even looking. My legs were doing their work and my mind simply floated off into a Neverland of inward contemplation. My sense of sight was overrun by whatever thoughts I was having at the time. I was jolted back to real world when I made eye contact with the individual whom I had been looking at for what must have been a full thirty seconds. These situations can be embarrassing, it’s not good to stare and it’s even worse to get caught. This, however, was a special situation because the person I was starring at was obviously a gay man. He was very stylish, and while that may be a stereotype, it’s true. I wear bloodied basketball shorts and torn t-shirts to the gym and it’s a simple fact that if you see a man in designer exercise clothing in the Lansing Michigan YMCA then he’s hitting for the other team. This man either just got back from a “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” makeover or he is well on his way to auditioning as an expert adviser. I assumed the later when we made eye contact. I simply went back to my work out and thought nothing of it, other than absorbing the embarrassment I felt, and contemplating the fact that I was actually busted checking out a gay man. I get busted checking people out on an hourly basis; it’s normally no big deal. I just end up creeping out some woman and then go back to my business. It wasn’t until about two minutes later when I realized that I had opened up an opportunity to include homosexual experimentation to my list of worldly experiences.

The man at which I was unintentionally flirting with stopped using the weight machine he was on had apparently decided it was time to go for a jog. He walked over to the treadmill next to the stair master I was using and began his walk.

Dear reader, please correct me if I am wrong, but if I make eye contact with a beautiful woman at the gym and quickly look away and she then decides that she needs to use the nearest exercise machine to me out of the perhaps six identical and available machines that are not placed six inches from the machine I am using, she has sent a signal to me that indicates I should start a conversation.

That is exactly what this man did.

I’ve now found that my reaction to this signal is different if an effeminate man wearing turquoise work out pants and a shiny ring on each middle finger makes this very same gesture. In such instance I’ve discovered that I make it a point not to remove my headphones. I make it a point to simply look straight forward and make no further contact. I know this is an effective means of ceasing all mutual interaction and sends a clear message that the non-responsive individual is not interested. I know this because women do it to me all the time. My new potential gay friend could not talk to me because I was wearing my headphones, and I did nothing to invite his further initiative. While I do not normally shun people based on their sexuality, I do when their sexuality is derived from testosterone and is directed towards me. In human mating ritual terms, it was my obligation to make the next move and remove my headphones and ask him some mundane question about the frequency of his gym attendance. I did not take up this opportunity. After about three minutes of his feigned jogging with absolutely no body language from me other than my fidgeting with my wedding ring literally less than a foot from his face, the man stopped the machine and went back to lifting weights. I was relieved, and only hoped to avoid an awkward locker room encounter.

By awkward locker room encounter, I mean the instance where we are both standing there naked and we are obligated to make eye contact, nod at each other and know that we have seen each other penises, and that while he may have thought I was open to touching his penis and open to him touching mine, and knowing that that was not going to happen, and then silently go about our merry business of showering and getting back to work as it nothing happened. Fortunately that did not occur. I was able to shower and change without bumping into this individual either literally or figuratively. It’s comforting to know that when I make an ass of myself starring at a woman in the gym and she gives me that social silent rejection that fifteen minutes later I am not going to see her naked breasts when I go into the locker room.

As I left the gym contemplating these thoughts, I sought to touch my thumb to my wedding ring as I constantly fidget with the ring out of nervous habit. I discovered that the ring was gone. Somewhere between when I was subtly indicating to the gay man that I was married and the time that I walked out the gym my ring slipped off my finger. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. Not only did I have to tell my wife that I lost the symbolic gift of her eternal love, I also had to tell her that I lost it after I almost picked up an attractive gay man.