View from a Stationary Bike
Earlier, a very pretty girl, around 27, with easily the best body in the gym, walked past Walt and me on her way to the treadmills in back. She seems always to be bustling around in an accelerated gait, ear buds in, staring straight ahead so as not to notice our gawking, just as, I suppose, she bustles past everybody—our gym goddess. She wears one of those trendy beanies that tuck in her bleached blonde hair. She has a very lean, firm body, exposed by the tiniest and tightest of black spandex shorts north of a bikini, and a narrow black spandex strap around her irregularly huge boobs that make this doll seem top-heavy. Her belly is gorgeously corded.
I said to Walt, after she passed by. “I remember when that young beauty had an ass.”
“Her ass looks pretty nice to me,” Walt responded.
“Before she began sprinting for an hour straight on the treadmill and going apeshit on the other machines, like an exercise addict, she had a perfectly rounded appetizing ass. Right now, from the workouts, and probably a bird-seed eating disorder, that once succulent, fantastic ass has been reduced to a terrier ass.”
“Terrier ass?” Walt mused, as he pedaled in slow motion beside me. “Never heard that one before.”
“Whaddaya think about her boobs, Walt?”
“They’re pretty big. They’re attractive.”
“Kind of big for her body, ey?”
“Well, maybe. All ladies are built differently.”
“Have you taken a good look at her boobs?”
“Well, now, you can’t help but notice them.”
“Do you notice how they bounce?”
“I haven’t noticed if they bounce or not.”
“Well, you should notice how they bounce, the way she traipses all over the gym for everybody to look at.”
She always has a sheen of sweat on her body after a treadmill sprint. She does not have a sexy walk for a woman as drop-dead as she is, which makes me think she might be a tri-athlete. But with those boobs? When she’s in the weight room, all the muscle-heads congregate around her and this guy she always comes in with, a stud type who runs on the treadmill beside her, hovers close by to keep an eye on her. She’s very friendly and vivacious around the muscle-heads.
Walt and I watched her as she went into an Olympian type sprint as if finishing a 100 yard dash.
“What’s the story on that guy who’s always with her, Walt?”
“She’s not married to him. I’m not sure they’re a couple. I heard he was her bodyguard, and an agent, and she’s trying to find a modeling job in Hollywood so she can get into acting. I think she modeled at one time.”
“Then what the hell’s she doing up here in Hicksville?”
“I don’t know that,” Walt confessed.
“I don’t see how she can get a modeling job with those enormous jugs…anyway, do you think they’re real?”
“Real? Why wouldn’t they be real?”
“I think they’re silicone implants. Watch her on the treadmill. They don’t bounce. They sit perfectly still.”
Walt craned his old wattled turkey neck toward the treadmill area in back, where the beauty was spinning away, hardly panting, the body guard working fairly hard beside her.
“They’re not bouncing at all,” Walt observed.
“She’s like all those women on the Beverly Hills Housewives,” I informed him. “All these Beverly Hills housewives are heading toward middle-age or are already middle-aged, and they got phony tits and phony asses and botox lips, cheeks and necks.”
“Beverly Hills Housewives? What’s that?”
“A reality TV program, which is sort of scripted, I guess, and you got all these incredibly rich Beverly Hills women married to millionaires and celebrities, and they hang out together, either at parties at their palatial estates, or in trendy expensive restaurants, and they get drunk on $100 bottles of white wine and act like best friends but behind each others backs they plant nasty horrible rumors about each other, and when they get together they deny starting these lies and argue and cry and scream at each other and throw things at each other and then make up and cry again and hug and kiss each other and say they love each other and then start the lies and rumors all over again.”
Walt, still pedaling, not looking at me, said, “I don’t watch that stuff. I’m not going to. How can you watch such stuff?”
“I don’t know, Walt. My woman, a college grad with a master’s in literature, she watches it, too, and we talk about those women as if they’re humans when we go out to dinner.”
“Well, I’m a college grad, and I’m not watching a bunch of women like that get drunk and yell at each other. It makes no sense.”
“It’s not supposed to. What you do is watch it and decide which one of these spoiled, snooty, entitled witches you hate the most.”
“Well, that shouldn’t be too hard for you to do—it’s right up your alley.”
A girl walked past us in tight black spandex workout pants and a full spandex workout blouse. She was a big girl, around 22, with majestic, breathtaking breasts. Walt and I watched her.
“See the boobs on that lass, Walt? They bounce, jiggle a might, and tremble.”
“They’re very nice,” Walt admitted. “And they do bounce and jiggle.”
“And they look perfect on her, because she’s a big girl, with a nice big ass and wide hips, perfectly in proportion.”
“She’s a sweet girl, always says hi.”
“Got a good attitude. She’s what I call voluptuous.”
Walt nodded. She did in fact nod at us as she sat down on a stretching machine, almost as if she read our minds. She even smiled at us.
A few minutes later, as Walt and I were finishing up, the so-called future Hollywood model/actress was again gallivanting around the gym. As she headed for the moist antiseptic strips to clean her treadmill of germs, and bent down to pull them from a plastic pail, exposing those boobs, Walt and I made sure to watch.
He nodded. “Rubber tits,” he said. §
Dell Franklin, who writes from his home in Cayucos, Calif., admires women of all stripes but most especially those who are real and don’t pretend or put on airs, or get fake breasts, to make themselves more attractive or feel better. He posts his stories online at dellfranklin.com, where this story was first published.