Gym Cliche Pt1: Fake Boobs McGee (358 Days till I fight my boss)

Every gym has a Fake Boobs McGee. There's at least one of her in every gym.

You’ve stared at her- don’t pretend like you haven’t. Male, female, gay, or straight have stared or glared at the chick with the loud hair and "expanded" chest. Let’s just be honest, they’ve been pumped up so big you could use them as markers to land a spaceship. Low cut designer sports bra/shirt combo complimented by the short Nike running shorts or spandex booty shorts. She walks through the doors to the gym and things slow down. Depending on the outfit, things might come to a complete stop. Ladies are glaring death at her. Guys are wondering what the boob job looks like with the clothes off and just how firm they are.

If the ensemble weren’t enough the woman oozes “I wanna fuck.” Sometimes you’d think she’s infected the gym with it. The guy bench pressing a house ten minutes ago is suddenly asking her if she “needs a spot,” hoping he gets a chance to find out just how far down her shirt he can see. Most of the guys think they have a chance of scoring with her. All of them have thought about it at least once. The women in the gym talk all sorts of shit about her, while not to her face, definitely not in the hushed secretive tones they way they do about other members. Yet this particular patron of modern fitness seems to not care what the ladies are saying, and she basks in the attention of the men while staying at just enough distance to keep most of the guys on the hook. It’s just the way the woman is.

My version, according to her, was even a former escort. While the rest of you just get to wonder what she is like in bed or just how much of a slut she is, I see McGee in a drastically different light. I’m her $70 an hour borderline socially acceptable boy toy. Welcome to the life of a personal trainer, kids.

Fake Boobs McGee has made no secret of how “cute” she finds me or how “great” she thinks my ass is. I used to joke when people talked about guys being sexually harassed by women at work. Now I’m wondering just how bad Karma is going to catch up with me. I am now, more or less, the consort to the former escort for the duration of the time she is in my gym. A dash of resistance bands and abdominal exercises thrown in to make it socially acceptable.

There is so much irony in the situation that part of me wants to pull a Bruce Almighty screaming up at the sky “IS THIS MY LIFE! Seriously, this is what you have planned for me!?!?!” after I’m done working her out. Only to then walk upstairs in front of her, feeling like I’m a fucking strip steak about to be paid for at the supermarket check out.

It’s not that I have anything against McGee. In fact when no one is around and she finally turns off the sex kitten “I think just like a man when it comes to sex” act she’s a decent chick. It’s that she pays $210 a week to stare at my ass and try every trick on me her former johns played on her. It's that tri-weekly blow to my ego. Meanwhile, my need for said money and desire to not be put out on my ass keeps me as the prey, or at the very least the object of her infatuation. I used to literally hunt terrorist. Now a former escort’s slapping me on the ass when she has a craving for rump roast.

And yet, when it’s all said and done, she can- all by herself- pay my proverbial rent. So until I can punch out Mr. MMA’s lights, I hope she’s got a couple of friends. I still have a car payment, insurance, and food to pay for.

358 Days till I fight my Boss.