i don't know what this says about me... on seconds thoughts i'd better not look any deeper...
I let out a big, long deep breath as my stomach continues to churn. The door to the gym closes behind me. I’d come to battle the bulge, and to hopefully create an impenetrable muscular casing in which to shelter my delicate sensibilities. I’d come ready to sweat and to pump iron. So why the anxiety? The vast iron contraptions that held court didn’t daunt me. Scarred with use, and creaking under the weight of the innumerable metal plates. No. Neither was I fazed by the pulsating pectorals that inevitably surrounded me. Always pumping fit to burst. No. Not in the slightest. You know what it was? It was the willy’s. Every time, it was the willy’s.
I think men can be divided into two camps. Those who flourish their knobs with gay abandon at every opportunity. And those that don’t. Guess which camp I fell into? So it was that I, mr modesty, entered the crucible of testosterone and was forced to run the phalanx of phalli as I sought out a quiet place to change with dignity. And a towel.
It was as if someone had opened the door in a sausage factory and hurled in a grenade. There was carnage. Small ones, fat ones and thin ones. Bent and twisted ones. Ones with a clockwise twist and those that swang the other way. There were round heads, fat heads and hoodies. Those with skin to spare and those that looked like they had their top button done up too tight. There were pink, purple, beige, brown and black ones. There were those that were pure and unblemished, as well as those with blue and purple veins traversing their shafts like arterial roads on an A to Z map. All I could do was stare. Discreetly of course. I found most I could handle. Except, that sadly less than rare variety. The beast.
Heading for the only available bench space in the changing room. My nightmare came true. I was next to the king of beasts. Even on the warmest summers day, with a fully dilated network of blood capillaries and a favourable gravitational field I could not compare. Girth, length and density. What a bastard. And he looks like a matinee idol and with his six-pack. It was insult to psychological injury.
I sit down and draw breath. Here we go. Suddenly he turns to catch a casually tossed bottle of vosene, whilst laughing and simultaneously towelling the underside of his not unsubstantial scrotum. These alone look like a set of long haul fuel tanks that would not be out of place on a B52 bomber. I flinch and turn away. He notices. He knows. It was like a latex windsock packed full of tripe. It could easily have taken a small child’s eye out. Has clearly has no consideration for others. And then I catch his teeth as he smiles in a friendly kind of way, and yes they are perfect white. Double bastard, fuck pot, shit pig, wanker.
Enough already. I concede defeat yet again. I look at my watch and do my best to look incredibly startled. I make a big thing out of rolling my eyes to the heavens and snatching up my bag. ‘Just remembered. Meeting’ I mouth as I head to the door and don’t look back.
A sorry looking can of coke gets it right in the head, as I traipse forlornly home. The holdall full of fresh training gear gets flung under the stairs as I make my way though the house and out along the garden path to the shed. My career as Colin Farrell’s stunt cock is in tatters. And I’ll never have the body for the Chippendales, so it looks like it’s back to plan ‘C’. Still, I suppose writing is a noble professional. I run my fingers over the tatty yellow post-it stuck to the top corner of the screen that proclaims ‘Quality NOT quantity’ and wait for the screen to come to life…
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well hung up
Written by Bottleblondesurfer (3136 comments posted) 17th May 2006 |
I think you boys are too hung up on size because,with the possible exception of Gwynn1970, we really aren't too bothered. It's what you do with it that counts and I am sure you have that expertise in spades.
This was a glimpse into a strange and alien world. I could almost smell the Lynx and stale sweat. (I have two sons)
It was a clever little ending too
BBS |
Thanking you kindly...
Written by Leo (573 comments posted) 18th May 2006 |
I suppose talking about your willy anxieties is one way to break the ice and make new friends... so on that note thanks for taking the time to post reply...
i think the site's pretty cool. i'm enjoying the experience of writing.
no more willies, i promise
take it easy
leo |
Very Insightful
Written by Star-Munky (33 comments posted) 22nd May 2006 |
I can't help but wonder where you managed to find my diary, but in future I'd appreciate it if you didn't write my personal thoughts up on the GW website. 
Lets face it Willy's will always be funny.
I also like your observations on the gym and it's patrons, very true.
You obviously have a knack for this humour stuff. I take it you'll be posting up some more soon?
All the best
Kurt |
Caught me looking...
Written by andybyers (170 comments posted) 1st August 2007 |
How interesting it is to read this from the other side. I, I’m proud to say, have been all-too-generously endowed by our Creator; I am as well 6’4”, a trim 175 lbs., have all my hair, straight teeth, and when I pass gas it sounds like Bach and the fragrance reminds people of dinner parties where middling-level celebrities meet and greet…
Thanks for sharing this bit… uh, piece, ummm… narrative. It had me smiling all the way though. The comment about B-52 fuel tanks had me jealous (of your writing, not of his… well… actually…). |
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