Hot Action

It’s just after 5pm. Work is over and it’s time to hit the treadmill at the gym, to help unleash the stresses of the day, and quash the guilt from having scoffed that Snickers bar at lunchtime (and the rest).


20 minutes and almost 3k in, sweat begins to slide down the back of my knees, thighs, back, upper arms and neck – my body feeling like it’s oozing lava from a volcano on the verge of eruption. There’s no avoiding it – excercise makes me as horny as hell.


As with most gyms, there’re mirrors adorning every spare inch of wall space – inflaming our insecurities and over-inflated egos with every unavoidable glance. But what you get to see is not just the sight of your red face and wobbly inner thighs, but the people working out around you. Some of the exposed flesh is pretty enticing. Some isn’t. But it doesn’t stop you from taking a sneaky look, regardless, especially when one’s libido is screeching into the 10k mark and all cylinders are close to implosion.


Unfortunately, today’s gym candy are all on vacation. All I’m left with is an old duffer in unsightly tight blue shorts snailing up and down the stepping machine; a queer beefcake arse-rippling over at the weights; and Mr Muscle, over in the corner, about to pass out on the rower. The only bit of talent in the building is manning the front desk, an Adonis the spit of Pharrell. So sod it, I’m off home – unshowered and stinking all over. And I’m almost tempted, on my way out, to invite him along…

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