At my old gym, those thigh-pumping machines -- the ones where you crank-k-k-k your legs open wide, right into the "THIS" position of "some girls sit like this, some girls sit like this, but the girls who site like THIS get this like that [snap!]," and then squeeze against the weight until you're back to the virginal "this" position -- were right across from the drinking fountain. Thirsty iron-pumpers would lean down to suck in the cool, filtered nectar and their glance would slide up through their brows and right into the welcoming arms of your straining crotch. And immediately the burning act of self-torture would be transformed into a sex act, like the eroticization that the entire art of aerobics received in the movie Perfect, starring Jamie Lee Curtis and John Travolta, which I never saw but I totally remember its ad: Jamie, on her back, feet on the ground, headband across forehead, pumping her pelvis sky-high. Her eyes lock with John and it is as though they are making love right there in the middle of their abs workout.

(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)

(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)