Hello, dear reader. You may know me as Glute Max #01, Property of Southeast Recreational Facility. Don’t call me that, though; that’s my slave name. Call me Glutey.
“So, Glutey,” you ask, “Why have you pulled me aside for a chat today? Are you here to tell me about how much you adore chilling with the other machines in the weight room?”
Absolutely fucking not.
Here’s the score, buster brown. Your boy Glutey is sick and tired of the endless procession of yoga-pant-wearin’, Camelbak-sippin’, sorority-rushin’ girls he has to deal with day in, day out.
Ok, just try to understand where I’m coming from here. Do you have any idea how boring, tedious, and frustrating it is to only be used by preppy girls who think you’re nothing but a one-way ticket to a killer ass? You don’t, do you?
Have you any idea of the monotony involved in sitting idly by as yet another Alexis or Nicole or Sarah Marie—who, between you and me, doesn’t actually pull off that baseball cap, like, at all—pushes back on your footpad lethargically with that blank expression on her face, probably thinking about the ass she wishes she had and counting down the seconds until it’s socially acceptable for her to check out her posterior in the mirror YET AGAIN? Yeah, that’s what I thought.
I know, I know; I digress. The girls aren’t that bad, but just—look. I’m unhappy in my work. I feel so used. And you know…
…I kind of just wish a man would get on me for once. Is that too much to ask for? I’m an open-minded piece of recreational equipment and a little variety wouldn’t kill me; I certainly don’t deserve to be relegated to the dank, grey corner of No Man’s Land, where the only male attention I receive comes in the form of fleeting glances at the TV monitor bolted to the wall above my head, right?
Just look at how much man-candy the other machines have to contend with; would it kill some of those dudes to come my way? O, how often I’ve gazed dreamily upon spry young specimens working out their triceps mere feet away, my tremulous metal frame nearly melting back into the molten alloys from which it was forged each and every time a bulbous young man slams the weights with a resounding “NRNGH,” the sound of his sultry testosterone searing my reeling brain.
How I long for a supple young Josh or Tristan or Jake to concentrate all his male insecurities into my neatly-stacked weights, making the very nylon of my pullies sing in ecstasy as my frame trembles under the strain of his mighty girth—his masculine juices ebbing steamily onto my red paint as his colossal effort threatens to shake my bolts loose from the floor...
Come, my loves. I am the chosen workout machine of the love god Eros, forged in the fires of Mount Etna by Vulcan himself. Just give me a chance, and I assure you: you will feel the burn.
And so will I.