As a writer, I have this unexplainable urge to tell stories. Every now and then, I come across an event that masquerades itself as a story. So I figured, hell, why not make a series out of it? I couldn’t come up with a reason.
Thus, I hereby demand (nicely) that you gather round because I gots stories. Well, just one today. Don’t be greedy.
I’ve been living in my current building for about 3 years now. And I have to say, I really enjoy the neighborhood (of which I’ve always known since Mama Cheeks dwells in the vicinity as well), the sense of community, and of course my neighbors themselves. The ones I’ve come across are nice folks.
Some of them however, are a bit too nice.
My building has a little exercise room for its inhabitants. *pops collar* When I first moved there, I was super excited about working out on machines without paying a gym fee.*
One particular evening, I was working out on the elliptical machine, turning my elliptic-swag on. I had the exercise room to myself for about 45 minutes when all of a sudden, a (what seemed to be) middle-aged man walked in. He wasn’t bad-looking. He wasn’t good-looking. He just was. He was wearing a sweat-stained wifebeater though, so that warrants a *puke*.
I did the neighborly head-nod (even though I had never seen him there before) and kept on working it. He went and did his thing and I proceeded wrap it up. As I did some post-workout stretches, he looked at me and smiled. I looked at him and half-smiled, secretly wishing I had a smartphone so I could use a 911 app or something.**
And then he opened his mouth to speak. It went a little somethin’ like this:
Gym Creep: You’re very strong.
Cheekie: Oh? Thanks. *nervous giggle*
Gym Creep: Yes. Very much. Do you always work out here?
Cheekie: Yeah, about 3 days a week. I usually mix it up with walks/jogs when it’s warm outside, though.
Gym Creep: What do you do for a living?
Cheekie: I work at a LAW FIRM. (I put hella emphasis on that for some strange reason. -_-)
Gym Creep: Ah. And you like that?
Cheekie: It pays the bills.
Gym Creep: Hmm. Do you know about escorts? Are you an escort?
Cheekie (in my head): GRDGDHFHFHFERYE#^#$^%$Y%&$%@@!
Cheekie (in reality): Um, I’m not.
Gym Creep: Ah, you should be. You’re so strong. Actually, I own an escort service. You should consider it. How do you feel about that?
Cheekie: Um … (TERRIFIED TO BECOME A LIFETIME CHANNEL VICTIM AT THIS POINT), not really…
Gym Creep: Ah, don’t be scared.
Cheekie: *chuckles* I’m not. (SCARED AS SHIT.) But, um, no thanks. I gotta head out now.
Gym Creep: Ok. *doesn’t take his eyes off me*
Cheekie: *Usain Bolts the hell out that joint*
Ok. Numero uno. I cannot — for the life of me — figure out why the “selling point” for me to become an escort is that I’m allegedly… “strong.” When I imagine someone being offered to humor rich, lonely men, I imagine the primary requirement to be… I don’t know… beauty? Are there weight-lifting competitions that happen in the day in the life of an escort? Or perhaps I’ll be dougie-ing on a headstand at the hotel later? Let me know. So I’ll know.
Anyhow. Pinchers, you speak. According to ol’ dude up there, have I missed my calling? Should I moonlight as an escort? I mean, I already moonlight as a screenwriter, but I ain’t gettin’ paid for that at the moment, so…
Hmm, I’ll keep it on the backburner. Good to know I have a backup plan.***
Love ya like Michele Bachmann loves to NOT look at the camera with her porcelain eyes,