Think Pink!

This morning at the gym when you pedalled on the recumbent bike while watching VH1 and you sucked that water bottle, little lady, the guy behind you on the elliptical trainer, you know the guy, the one whose shorts ride up between his too pink thighs that remind you of uncooked pork, yes, that guy, well, he did more cardio today than he has all month, and he pumped those pink pudgy pigsticks faster and harder than he ever did, surprising himself, really, and sweating like he actually did something. When you touched your peachy glossed satiny smooth beestung pouty pretty lips to the sport cap on your Poland Spring 16-ouncer, he didn’t know whether to keep his eyes open so he could see your mouth taking it in or to close them so he could substitute that sport cap for the sporty cap flopping pinkly and porkly against his thighs underneath the shorts that ride up between them.
He wants to thank you, this porcine Precor pumper, for giving him something to get him through the morning and the afternoon and the night. And the long long commute home to his pucker-lipped, sallow wife and the Wednesday night casserole that is as dried-up and desirable as she is. He wants to thank you, but he fears you will think he is a hairy, dripping mass of leaden lard and will switch to the recumbent bikes on the other floor, where there are no elliptical trainers. So he says nothing.
And sees you tomorrow!