On paper it’s a total mismatch: a man, filthy and frail beyond his years, trying to chat up ladies in a sanctuary of physical fitness. An embarrassing, forgone conclusion seems to loom large for him. Surveying the facility one would see tons of other, better dudes, paragons of strength and who could easily pummel him into a dirt-riddled pulp, provided he wasn’t armed with a tube sock full of nails, a sword made out of fire, or the Golden Gun.
Given, the odds are never in my favor at gym but, like every good hunter or pussy poacher, I persist.
I’ll admit I can’t measure up to any of the whey-protein-guzzling, aggressively heterosexual man mountains hulking about, but, with the ladies, this sticky, self-conscious mecca is a godsend. With the playing field equalized, I’m no longer the only person dressed like a comfortable hobo and profusely sweating. Sure, in a fancy-boy bar my tattered basketball shorts, pajama-pant cutoffs, or overtly moist lower back would be a faux pas, but here at the gym they’re totally fine.
Ever vigilant for a hot to decently-room-temperature slice of poon, I’m perusing the room for talent from the instant I arrive (1). Others might call it “creeping” but I call it “life.” Target selection is now crucial. Clusters of girls are a textbook non-starter (2), as they’ve likely only flocked here to model their new sportswear for each other and perpetuate rumors about friends with eating disorders.
Strategically, I hone in on a single lady who’s splintered off from the herd (3). With only one, I’m not intimidated the way I would be approaching a harem, their collective shrill shutdowns aching to be voiced at my pickup attempt.
No thank you, I’ll attempt to charm this more approachable lady.
It’s imperative I insert myself into her peripheral now (4) if I’m anticipating inserting myself into her later. From here, I engineer the illusion of athletic prowess. I needlessly stretch in exotic poses. I scream out insanely high intervals for each rep. I constantly recalibrate the weight, appearing to be a perfectionist when it comes to my workout regiment. Oh yes, I’m totally Ron Burgundy-ing this situation (5).
I continue my charade, substantiating my apparent commitment to exercise. Once she finishes what I figure to be the toughest part of her workout I move in (6). The timing’s perfect; she’s relieved and unburdened. Pleasure endorphins course through her entire body, yet she’s still feeling unsure about her looks. There’s no unsolicited backrub (7). There’s no jokey line about her needing a spotter in the shower or getting bench-pressed all night (8). It’s just a quick, casual compliment or self-deprecating quip and an invitation out for drinks (9). I’ve laid the groundwork and it’s now just a simple, suave action, devoid of any horribly butchered lines that’d potentially spark a personal hate-storm of self-loathing.
I might get the win and she’ll be totally down for post-workout beers, mini tacos, and maybe getting sweaty again later on my crumb-riddled beanbag chair. If she’s not down, well, I’ll just leave, have a couple justifiable cigarettes, and rub one out to my audible memory of her ferociously grunting on the leg lift machine. You can never take that away from me, Anonymous Sweaty Stranger.
For even more ways to hit on girls at the gym, heed the advice of Dom Mazzetti…