Waking early for the gym on a weekend spells commitment. Or lack of anything better to do. Or penance due a previous night of too much salt, vodka and feet in the air. I made the 9:00 a.m. step class. As “arrest” is to “conviction”, “made” is to "attempted." A sub was subbing, lovely girl but whose last-second queuing has me ass backward more moves than not. No worries, had my Nano, my Bono and a room full of cardio equipment. And the firemen.
Westminster Fire and Rescue. Fire Station 6. They travel in packs, firemen (plural). Often find them as a bunch in the grocery and, surprisingly and happily, my gym on a Saturday morning.
One caught my eye and kept it. Tall, broad shouldered and with a bit of a duck ass, walking on the balls of his feet, projecting posterior upward as if toward God; you see this roll often in women wearing too high of heels. Dark hair and amiable, he helps at the smoothie bar with delivery and mounting (dirty) of a foamy whipping contraption. I stare wherever he roams, keeping pace on the elliptical, hard interval runs slowing to smooth, hard heel digs (best for fat burning). I stalk him from treadmill to weights and stretching. Oh stretching. God, he’s nearly as bendy as me. As quickly as I’d found him, he was gone.
Funny, the firemen drive the big rig to the gym, the squirt and hose, full-on urban assault vehicle of a truck. They can’t carpool? I watched them drive away. Slowly.
The ladies like fireman, more so than policemen (especially motorcycle traffic cops who think a speed gun an extension of a too-small appendage.) Firemen are regular Joe’s who drink beer, collect cans and presents for kids at Christmas. Take in abandoned babies. The fantasy isn’t a rescue by Prince Charming but Prince change-a-flat-shovel-snow-protect-and-smother-in-tight-abs.
My fondness for fireman, although somewhat fueled by the savior aspect, may have more to do with the perfect penis. Or rather the most perfect seen so far in real life (and my hand) which came attached to a fireman. Balanced in scope and size, pink and all over smooth like a bald shiatsu, plump, cylindrical and resting happily eager against defined thighs and belly. A palm full of happy stones, dual sacks of Silly Putty ready to be spread on the Sunday comics and pull up “Peanuts.” I’ve not come across such a thing of beauty since. Truth told, men, your junk is funny. It looks damn funny. Some shriveled and wrinkly as if soaked too long in dirty hot dog water, some bumpy and left leaning. Swear I've had one with a square knot in the end. Don’t get me started on foreskin.
The perfect penis is like the best peach you find all summer, allusive, sweet and often a thing of memories. Nothing compares before or after. And yes, use plays a part; it's not the pen, it's the penmanship and one must cross all the t's and dot all the i's.
A former aerobics instructor, stay-at-home-Mom and friend bakes snowy-sugared cookies and chewy squares to deliver to the firemen at a local station during Christmas. She takes her son, who gazes in awe. Wonder if I could borrow him? I gaze in awe too, for an altogether different chewy reason.
Could always start a small grease fire. Too forward to do so wearing a marabou trimmed short nightie and kitten heel slippers?