I went for a run this morning. Sadly after the arrival of my first (and last) born my tummy muscles have never quite regained their youthful tautness – of course my memories of pre-birth abs are slightly rose tinted but rest assured they were better than they are now. So, although by no means of ‘Embarrassing Bodies’ standards I have decided to hit the gym and work up a sweat.
I’ve never really been into the scene myself, finding men who pump and polish rather off putting, all that grunting and straining – please some decorum if you don’t mind. I went out with a man once who was in the gym 5 times a week, it eventually became apparent that his buff physique and consequent dramatic mood swings and violent tendencies were down to 3 protein shakes, 4 pieces of steak, 27 raw eggs and a fistful of steroids a day. What a fantastic grounding for a healthy relationship.
So whilst I was drinking a bottle of white wine a night (before the days of government health warnings of course) and called exercise walking to the loos in a bar he was lubed up in baby oil, flexing his deltoids buffing his Vastus Lateralis and no doubt busting a head vein wanking at the thought of having sex with himself in the Virgin Sport steam room.
Roid rage is one thing – Punching your hand through a window and throwing your fry-up against the wall because the eggs aren’t quite runny enough I can deal with, no, what I found far more upsetting when dating a gym bunny was the size of his penis. I mean you should have seen the roid-dick! Christ it made Michael Jackson look like Ron Jeremy– not, thank God, that I have ever seen Michael Jackson’s but I’m thinking raisins, sultanas? A madjool date when there’s 7-year-old boy are in the room… anyway I digress.
And as for the climax, well to call it a dribble would be being kind. No wonder the guy wanted to smash his head through an industrial strength window, all that pump for so little result. I’ve squeezed more juice from a potpourri-ed Clementine. And god knows the attraction of a rippling 6 packs goes out the window when all you’ve got to look forward to at the end of a long day is a shriveled runner bean and half a teaspoon of jizz.
In direct contrast however skinny men are another no-no. Why would any woman wants to sleep with someone thinner than herself. What possible benefits could come of shagging a man with jutting hipbones and a size 26 waists apart from jean sharing and, when you’re in a bit of a lesbian mood, being able to shut your eyes and imagine your getting off with Kate Moss.
Sadly living in Camden my immediate surroundings are swarming with the skinny fuckers. All drainpipe jeans and winkle pickers, dirty barnets, velvet waistcoats and heroin injected big toes. My local pub looks like a scene from a Pete Doherty You Tube video. Yet randomly, unfathomably in fact, girls seem to throw themselves at such types, and a genuine question if you are one such girl or indeed one such bony twit type– were do you keep your bits in those jeans? Because Christ knows I’ve stared enough and I can’t find it.
So essentially it seems that body extremes are both undesirable and will rid you of any genitalia you once had, that being said I have a guilty pleasure – I am rather partial to a fat man. Think Robbie Coltrane as opposed to Eric Pickles, I like a big round man tummy, chunky arms, a bit of weight on his frame. This says to me he eats, he drinks, he laughs.
So if a man has got to be hooked on anything let it be Chateauneuf du Pape and hearty food. Give me a big man any day who’s going to keep me warm and knows how to live life not a man who’s going to leave me gazing longingly at the organic cucumber section at Sainsbury’s in the fond memory of dicks that once were or who’s going to scream abuse in my face for 4 and a half hours because I got him a vanilla protein shake instead of chocolate one – I’ll leave that pleasure to Jodie Marsh. Now THAT’S scary thought.