Here we are again, entering the temple of sweat.
I walk along the alley at my usual slow pace, going past the rowers. Over there in the back is the free weight section, the grunting men territory. The rest of the gym is mostly my girls’ kingdom. When you come regularly as I do, you learn to recognize them, you start knowing their habits, the day they normally come, what their routine is.
Right now, my blonds are on the mats. One is skipping while the other stretches and does all sorts of legs movements on the floor. I seem to feel some kind of tension between them. I don’t think they know eachother other than from using the same gym. I can feel them weighting eachother up like cats do, from the corner of their eyes, pretending not to. Clearly the blondest one has the advantage on flexibility, she’s impressively souple that one. I suspect the skipper is envious. She clearly struggles when comes her stretching time, just before she leaves. For now she keeps the skipping going. I’d say she’s trying to show off her stamina.
Ah, but do not worry my loves, I appreciate you two just as much. None of you needs to win, you are equally beautiful in your own way.
Next to the mats are a couple of bikes and then the treadmills. How differently each body reacts is fascinating. Every step sends a vibration that climbs and curls up, stroking and waggling thighs, bums, even backs sometimes on its way, to end up swinged away by the tip of a bouncing ponytail.
Sport clothes for women are normally on the tight side. I wonder where that comes from. Although this is not in my habits, if I met the man who had that brilliant idea I would hug him very fondly. (It can only be a man’s idea.) That being said, there’s that girl who only does jogging, in large shorts and Tshirt. It’s quite nice for a change. It leaves more room to the imagination.
Oh, here come my indian princesses. Hello my sweet chubby little girls.
Considering their pace of training, I guess their silhouette is not likely to change some time soon. Great. Beauty lies in variety. They are such a couple of adorable dolls. I would get tired of athletic girls if that was all there was. Amongst all these people training like madmen, they are a peaceful breeze, a halt, a minute of grace. Their words roll like so many waves over the shore. I love listening to them talking softly in the distance, there is so much gentleness in those two.
My Indonesian sweety is here too. She limps quite strongly but that couldn’t make her any less beautiful. I wonder how old she really is; she’s so petite she looks like a child. She seems so sweet and fragile you want to protect her.
You just saw me now and I can see your face grow longer and your eyes open wide. A hint of disgust starts building up. Yes, I’m an old man. Yet that’s doesn’t necessarily make me a pervert, does it? These girls are young enough to be my grand daughters, I observe them with a caring fondness, I admire their youth and energy. You cannot understand what it is to see your body let you down some more every day, not grasping how that happened. Yesterday I was forty and today people look at me as though I had never been young.
Believe it or not, I too was young once. Strong and unstoppable. I had endless possibilities ahead of me. Wrinkled as I am you wouldn’t picture it, yet I have charmed many hearts and embraced many tender bodies in my time. I remember these soft skins, these ferm hips under my palms, our insouciance and our passion. Now I watch others glowing with vigour. From my side of the existence, it is even more so admirable. Back then I was not aware how much I ought to cherish it, how transient youth is.
Do not think I am a dispirited old man, however. I have no longing nor regrets: I can appreciate beauty to a fuller extent. Bless them, when the beauty of life materialises in the form of pretty young women, your day gets even brighter.
