NORMAL LIFE: Tits In The Gym

Yes, I'm a member of a gym. To look at me, you would think I don't go often enough, but how can you take it seriously? Some of the vainest guys go to the same gym as Bree and I go to. They have shoulders wider than your standard door frame and chests bigger than Jordan's.

What these guys must be depriving themselves of in the pursuit for physical perfection saddens me; you never see these guys in the bar, getting bladdered with their mates. You never see them down a fast food joint, tucking into something greasy. Most likely, they will be sitting in front of the telly on a Saturday night, injecting themselves with all kind of hormones and downing milkshakes laced with protein in a desperate attempt to be bigger than that guy they saw at the gym a couple of weeks ago.

I thought I had seen everything, but no! Yesterday, a blonde Lara Croft made an appearance, complete with the most perfect pair of oversized artificial boobs I have ever seen. Just because I am gay doesn't mean I can't appreciate the look of a nice set of jugs, even if they are fake! Clad in bright red tight pants, the girl had a pout that said 'I love me!'. I felt like introducing myself to her as a Londoner and saying something like 'Nice tits, love'. Bree was beside himself with laughter when I shared this idea with him. I continued to amuse him with comments like 'Nice rack', 'Cor, cop a load of them!' and 'Ooh, they're so soft!'.

We were quite close to her at one point when Bree overheard her telling a friend that someone keeps looking at her boobs. What do you expect when you a) have breast implants then b) insist of wearing the most revealing clothing in c) a gym? Hello?! At the end of the day, she's a form of free entertainmnet and provides a nice change to the scenery of sweaty, testosterone-stinking meatheads!