9:02 p.m. - 2002-03-07
There is a girl at the gym whose booty is as big as my monitor screen, and while fifteen inches is a small monitor, it is a very pleasing size for a booty.
Now, there are many, many, many, many attractive women at my gym. Lots. And I have learned, in my years, to make observation of them in a less than obvious way so as to come off unnaturally uninterested in their spandex shrink-wrapped feminine forms as they glide about the gym. I donít even want to get into the discussion about whether they want to be noticed or not, so I pretend I donít.
But fuck yes I do.
Anyway, I am particularly good at it and rarely get caught, but this girl, the west coast J-Lo, she holds my attention like Iím a dog waiting for a ball to be thrown.
I donít know if I am the only one, because as Iíve just said, Iím staring at her butt not looking around.
She is the kryptonite to my powers of discretion.
But yesterday the plot thickened as I was in a position to observe the west coast J-Lo walking with a young girl of about five who, besides getting in the way of my view made my life even more miserable when she shouted ďDaddy!Ē and ran into the huge hairy arms of one of the biggest, meanest looking monsters in the gym. The Mexican Mike Tyson he is.
Iím a dead man.
Iím a dead man because I canít not look. Iím serious about the canít. One day soon Iíll be minding my own damned business and Iíll catch the west coast J-Loís reflection in one of the mirrors, spin around like Sisqo, and get caught in the act by the Mexican Mike Tyson prompting him to crush my skull with one meaty paw, pluck one of my legs off and sodomize me with it and then take WCJ-L home and see her naked. (I threw in the last part of my vision because if Iím imagining scenarios, she might as well be naked)
But whatever they do afterwards, it wonít matter much to me with a crushed skull and my leg up my ass.