For the next few Mondays, far better storytellers than I, will entertain and enlighten you. If you wish to take part, please do contact me. If you so request, your identity will not be disclosed. You are free to tell the story that you never dared tell, or the share the gripe that you have no place to publish. Alternatively, you could share a happy thought or two.
The first entry is by my dear friend Henry Grubstick. It's called 'Jim'.
Spoiler Alert: only read the next three paragraphs if you like Movie Trailers or Book Forwards
Having read 'The Swimming Pool Library' by Alan Hollinghurst, earlier this year, I can’t help but draw comparisons between 'Jim' and Hollinghurst's 1988 gay classic.
In contrast to the Corry - the gym in Hollinghurst’s novel - Donny's is not a ‘male only’ hub, where exercise, showering, and public nakedness, provide an established backdrop for titillation, penis watching and cruising. Donny’s is your run-of-the-mill gym.
At Donnington’s, women flirt with male instructors and plausibly heterosexual men find themselves in oddly homoerotic situations. The following story provides a hilarious portrayal of one man’s challenge to complete his exercise routine in an environment tense with embarrassment.
Jim
A place where you run for miles, but go nowhere. A place where minutes can feel like hours...
by Henry Grubstick
It’s the end of another working day, the beginning of another familiar journey. A short trip in the car and the gym is soon in sight. Donnington's gym is by no means a remarkable building.
The shape of “Donny's” exterior is shed-like. It would offer no surprise to see a troupe of boy scouts inside. I can see them now working on the latest ethical awareness badge, whilst dodging the local paedophile, otherwise known as Arkela.
Pulling up to the wood-lined gym, the wonderful beach-like sound of tyre on pebbles fills the air. Opening the car door brings forth an uncommon fusion of sounds. Cheesy house music and gym machinery unite with human grunts. A drag queen on reception would not be out of place. Focusing the ear, one could mistake the sounds for that of a wag roast, but it's rowers rowing, cyclists cycling and runners running.
Thump. I shut the car boot, grab my kit bag and head inside. As I open the entrance door, the sound of gym equipment gets louder and louder, like the growing sounds of thumping anticipation. I enter a door marked ‘Male Changing’ and walk into a different, albeit musty, world...
Men of all shapes and sizes, spanning all of society’s subsets, unite in the need to wear appropriate clothing. In this state of half undress, the type of pant worn by the average gym goer says a lot about not only about their fitness levels, but of their social standing and life history.
I see evidence of this all around the room. Up first is a dulling white airtex Y-front. This is a man in his fifties, in fairly ill health. A fellow packed off to the gym by his partner - a disappointed housewife with a long deserted sex life. The Y-front wearer's gym kit was purchased some time ago, perhaps in the 80's for the weekly game of squash. It consists of a Dunlop polo shirt, white. Patrick shorts, white. A non-de script trainer, white. All contrasted by a pair of socks, black! Pulled up just below the knee.
Looking to my right, I see a man strutting around the changing room in a blazing purple pant. Looking closer this pant has a distinctive psychedelic 70's pattern. The owner of this undergarment is a “dude” in his late forties who I reckon is looking to regain some semblance of his youth.
Joining the gym was most likely his idea. Other recent ‘youth re-gaining’ ideas include the purchase of a Triumph motor cycle, wearing an earring in his left ear once again, and, no doubt, Viagra and wife swapping with the neighbours every second Saturday in the month. His gym kit has a distinct scent of retro chic emphasised by the original Fred Perry polo shirt. This guy should have watched American Beauty a little more carefully...
Sulking in the corner is a ‘cartoon character emblazoned boxer shorts’ wearer. In this GP referral case, Homer Simpson has been employed to cover up an ailing penis and a hairy chubby bottom. More distinctive than his choice of pant, is the bulging belly flowing over the head of donut Simpson. “D’oh!” methinks. The extremity of this man’s poor health is matched by his role of office joker. This clown's chosen gym attire is a T-shirt obtained by drinking ‘special offer’ alcohol. The catchphrase “If Lost Please Return to Pub” shouts in large lettering from its front. The t-shirt is coupled with a sweat-inducing pair of jogging bottoms. This is a man ‘found out’ at the gym – a blobby peg in a largely healthy hole.
The pants are bad enough, but one thing always notable about male changing rooms is the attitude to nudity. Some men are very proud of their private parts, whilst others shy away. Sadly, for me, one such gym member with “pride” is not just my boss, or my bosses’ boss, but my bosses’ bosses’ boss: Archie MacDonald.
“Jim”, he says boldly, “how are things in marketing these days?” Every syllable seems to dictate another swing of the penis.
“Things are going just great, fantastic in fact!” I reply whilst desperately thinking, “Don't look at the cock. Don't look at the cock! Oh God I looked! I looked!”
For a white Scotsman in his late fifties, his penis is pretty brown, distinctly Afro-Caribbean in fact. Think Peperami. Scientifically, I would love to know why the humble common or garden penis changes colour the older you get. It must be something to do with it being locked away without sunlight. Note to self, look into nudism, fast.
The awkward thing about conversations like these is that you can't tell the truth. In reality, things at work are going about as well as a trip on the Titanic. However, when dealing with work people, a positive spin must be put on things, even if it makes you look like a cock. Well, at least not an ageing cock...
“Well that's super, SUPER! We need you folks down there to help bring in the bucks!” I don't know if it was just me, but I could have sworn he pointed his crotch at me whilst saying “SUPER”. I look down into my kit bag, and make it more of a struggle than it really is to grab my shorts. From the corner of my eye, I look at Archie overwork the drying of his back.
On goes my kit and I thank God once again that the awkward 10 minutes, that is the male changing room experience, is over. I think I'll shower at home after this session...
I enter the gym, swipe my card, and spot Liam the gym instructor.
“Hi Jim, how are you today?” He says.
“I'm good, thank you. And how are you?” I reply, praying for the obligatory “very well” rather than a brutally honest and graphic answer.
“Very well.” How many times has this poor bloke replied with that answer today I wonder? Everyone asking how he is, but not really wanting to know. An odd tradition we hold dear in this country. I'd love to spend a day answering frivolous questions honestly one day.
“Good music, this evening” I lie, making polite conversation.
“Yeah, it's Chicane. I've rigged the PC into the sound system” Liam replies.
“Oh, but the only thing is I like Tetris, I really like Tetris and MSN, so ignore the bleeps. That's either the blocks rotating or a new message.”
“Okay,” I say bluntly leaving things there. Customer service is clearly not what it once was. Up until this conversation, I had worked out under the happy illusion that gym instructors keep an eager eye out, just waiting for a struggling member that needs advice. But, no. It seems that the young gym instructors of today are into Tetris and MSN. Still can't blame the poor bastards, they do basically nothing for hours on end, everyday, in near social isolation.
Out of the relative safety of the male changing rooms, I'm now mingling with both sexes. The fairer sex, women, have a somewhat different attitude to the gym. They view it as they do most things, as a social activity. As I take a slurp of water from the fountain, I catch sight of one such example. Melanie, I think she's called.
For such a regular gym goer, Melanie is in dreadful shape. She's tall, about 5'11, has dyed blonde hair and is a good fourteen stone, size 16 /18 perhaps. She's here every time I'm here and doesn't seem to get the main goal of the place; that is to get fit. As I wipe my mouth, I see her get off the stepper, having completed the first part of her fitness routine for the evening.
“Bloody-hell!” She cries. “That's seriously hard work”. Melanie struggles to keep her thoughts to herself.
“You were only on there for five minutes,” Liam pipes up. “What level were you on?”
“Level 3”. Melanie answers. “I had to keep it low, my feet kept slipping”.
Melanie looks up and starts getting into Hollyoaks, which is displaying subtitled on one of the six LCD TVs. Like a toddler, she's mesmerised. That is until she spots her friend.
“Hi!! How are you? So nice to see you!?!” She enthusiastically cries to her friend.
“I'm great. How are you after the work dinner the other night?” Melanie's friend replies.
“I'm well, but you know me, I ate way too much again. That carrot cake was too hard to resist”.
I zone out of Melanie's conversation and warm up for 15 minutes on the exercise bike. As I slow down to finish on the bike, I look round and see Melanie. She’s finished talking to her friend and has turned her attention to Liam. Somewhat trapped in his role of gym instructor, Liam is the object of her flirting for the next 10 minutes. After which Melanie walks out of gym, with a whopping five minutes of gentle exercise completed. ‘Astonishing’, I think. However, more astonishing still, I see Melanie clamber into a top-of-the-range BMW Z4 sports car.
I don't mean to sound bitter, but how can she afford such a wonderful sports contraption? What on earth can she possibly do for a living? Perhaps I’ll never find out. I have my suspicions that, during the negotiations, the car dealer gave in, simply to get rid of her.
With my warm up on the exercise bike completed, I limber up, defiantly stretching as I walk over to the weights. This is where the serious business starts; where men who you never see in the changing room practise their art, the art of, err, lifting heavy things. They take it more seriously than life itself. Some work in packs “spotting” each other, some stay alone.
I spot a conjoined pair, whilst pumping some moderate iron. Of the two, there is always a master and an apprentice.
The master is clearly a gym junkie with muscles in places where, well, I have fat. He leads the pumping and sets the weights for his junior apprentice.
“Now what I've done for you, is, I've put you straight up to 70kg” He says in his Mockney accent.
The apprentice, who I assume is a work colleague - and gym-virgin press-ganged into tonight's workout - looks more than a little nervous.
“Are you sure this a good starting point? I've not been to the gym for a while”.
“Yeah, course it is. In ‘Health and Fitness’ they say you should always lift weights that are too heavy for you to lift.” He confidently barks back.
Whilst I slowly and carefully pull down my 45kgs, I can't help but laugh. What illogical nonsense, I think. I watch as the poor bloke's eyes nearly pop out as he manages just five repetitions. I have a feeling we won't be seeing him at the gym again. In fact, he'll struggle to move tomorrow.
“Not bad! Not BAD!” His dark master yells. He quickly hops onto the bench and has a go himself, confidently pushing the weight 12 times. Clearly, this was just an exercise of showing his colleague how strong he is.
As I move on to the next piece of equipment, I think about how odd the weights section of the gym is; what with the ‘pairs’ barking orders at each other, whilst throwing about ‘Top Gun’ style homoerotic encouragement, and, then, the solo weightlifters who take sneaky looks at one another. Much like my brief encounter with Archie, I feel myself sucked in and although I don't want to, I can't help but take a look at what others are doing. Before I get too deep into this culture, I move away. I accelerate to the treadmills.
Now, sadly, I've never been the fastest runner, but at least, I like to think, I try. Today is not my day. Whilst putting my all in, a German “machine” rolls up next to me. This is the antithesis of Melanie. She's about 5'4, with sharp dyed red hair and has serious running gear on. Without an ounce of fat on her body, she boasts a strong Bavarian look. She soon catches up with me speed wise, but to add insult to injury, she takes out a book whilst running.
Here I am giving it my all. Thoughts of ‘not falling off’ occupy one side of my mind and the heavy will to ‘not to get a stitch’ absorb the other. Meanwhile, the girl is literally doing two things at once. I notice that as she reads, she even turns the pages athletically! I slow down as she speeds up. Then suddenly ‘Beep beep. Beep beep’. She takes a phone call via means of a cunningly concealed hands-free kit, and as I suspected reveals her strong German accent.
“Dieter,” she says.
Unfortunately, I can only hear half the conversation. My mind is seriously intrigued by the other.
“You make sure they are ready, I don't want things to go wrong like last time”.
Another pause, whilst my ears tune in.
“Make sure you remember to pack the batteries.”
“Oh and I hope it'll be good and hard. Yes, a real good treat, yeah?”
Unlike Melanie, whose occupation I have little idea of, I have strong feelings that the German works in the sex industry. Perhaps some kind of dominatrix...
Dejected by my comparable lack of success on the treadmill, I move to my last exercise of the evening – the rower. As I get closer to the Concept 2 machines, I realise that my luck is out. It looks like I'll be rowing next to the worst possible “work-out buddy” imaginable.
It's the dreaded “sex-man”!!
Now I'm certain that you're wondering what puts the ‘sex’ in sex-man. Is it perhaps a virile look and appearance? No. Is it a comical Ron Jeremy beard and haircut? No. Is it an embarrassingly ‘always erect’ weener? No. Though, in fact that would be rather funny.
It's far worse than this. The sex-man is known as the sex-man due to the over exorbitant grunts, groans and, well, quite frankly, sex noises that he makes whilst exercising. Sadly, for me, I'm going to hear these first hand tonight.
I row. A subtle “Errrrrrr” bellows out from intercourse man. As his row gets more intense, his vocalisations build up.
“Errr ohhh errrrrrr, hooowwwwlll errr.” It gets worse. As the grunts grow, his face goes bright red.
“Hoowl howl ohh ohh ohhh ohhh ohhhhhhh”
As I begin to row faster, I find myself caught up in it.
“Haaa haa haaa haaa haa”
My heart rate rises, I begin to sweat and I start to make my own, albeit far quieter, exertion noises.
“Haw haw” I gently murmur. I'm certain no one can hear the noises but me, but, as sex-man and I row like a game of tennis, our noises fall into a weird symmetry. We go faster and faster. In fact, as I look at his bright red face with all the sweat, sounds and grunting in the air, I actually feel like I'm having sex with him.
Things heat up as bonk-man goes into overdrive and nears the end of his workout.
“Err err ohhh ohhh hooowwwlll, hooo hooo hooor”
“Haw haw,” I can't help myself. Shit, I'm being pulled in. I feel like this angry-looking, bald, red man is violating me.
“Grrrrrrrrrroaaaaaaaaann,” goes shag-man.
“Haw haw,” I weakly omit.
“Oooohhhh ohhh ohh,” sex-man grunts his part.
“Haw haw haw,” I meaker.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh yeah,” sex-man releases on his finish.
Beep, beep beeeeeeeep.
Our workout finishes in tandem. Sex-man is worn out and panting. It would not surprise me at all, if he came in his pants, right there and then, on the rower. We exchange an awkward glance. I feel unclean and abused.
I end my work out with a stretch. It’s grunt, groan and pant free. I get in my car and drive home. I am pleased to have completed another awkward workout at the gym.
Grubstick Recommends:
Download MP3: Roxy Music – Virginia Plain (courtesy of jonashellstrom.se)
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