A Comedy of AR's

Chapter 59
At the Gym

Chapter Description: 6 new pictures added 3/23/23 Images for this story can be found at the following web...... https://sites.google.com/view/comedy-ars-characters/home

We signed up with the Buffalo Fat-to-Fit Gym, a large facility that appeared to have an extensive lineup of equipment … they were cheap and they were busy.

Sam avoided all the ‘Rube Goldberg’ contraptions that he was used to using as an adult woman and directed us to start with the simplest apparatuses on the floor.  He instructed me on my proper seat heights, weight limits, and number of reps.

1 … Leg press machine … put your feet on the pad and press forward.

2 … Rowing machine … similar to oars on a boat.

3 … Cable biceps pull … just lift up a bar, like using barbells.

4 … Stairmaster … I could do this in the apartment stairwell.

5 … Treadmill … why?  It’s just walking in place.

6 … Elliptical … weird, like running in loops.

Sam took his turns after me and eventually, he led us to a strange looking beast.

“Okay, Mom, this is where you get the iron boobs.  This is the chest press machine.  Keep your back straight when you sit, exhale when you push the handles forward and inhale when you bring them back.”

“Like this?”

“Yeah, but you can add five more pounds.  You’ve been driving your Lamborghini body at about ten miles per hour all morning.  Anyway, we’ve saved the best for last … the hanging leg raise.”

I chuckled, “And when are they going to rename this thing the male masturbation machine?  How many guys do you think use it to jack off with a coregasm?”

“Very few, Mom.  Most boys are stupid and so are most men.  But it’s not a machine. You just grab at the high handles and lift your thighs.”

“Okay, here goes.”  I strained to lift my thighs in a number of reps, but lacking a prostate, you could say I was squeezing blanks.  I never got close to a coregasm.”

“My turn, Mom,” said the boy.  “Could you please lift me up?  The handles are way too high for me.”

“You don’t think we’ll get kicked out this time, Sam?”

“Nah, we’re using it properly … next stop for me is La-La land.  Catch me if I pass out.”

I easily lifted Sam to high handles which he grabbed on to and immediately lifted his thighs.  The boy repeated his actions that he did with the closet bar this morning … and once again, the strain showed on his face.

His eyes looked ‘spacey’.  I waited casually for the sound effects of his ejaculation … “Ohhh, Ohhh, Ohhh, Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!”

The boy held his ‘climax’ pose for several seconds and then let go of the handles and dropped to the mat.  “Ohh, that was so awesome.  I can’t wait till I’m older and have the ‘big juice’.”

“Sam, I think we got our moneys worth today.”

“And you did pretty good … for a girl.  But I’m not done yet, Mom.  I want to go into the men’s locker room and see all the penises.”

“What is this, a zoo?  Is there an extra charge for that?  I don’t think they allow photography and definitely no touching.  And try to stay away from the showers.”

“I’ll have to,” Sam replied.  “We didn’t bring a baby seat for the car.  And while I’m at it, you should go into the women’s locker room and look at all the naked girls.  You’d like that.  But prepare to be disappointed.  There’s not a single girl in Buffalo who can hold a candle to your perfect boobs.”

“Sounds like a little self-bragging there.”   I further advised my ‘son’, “Don’t talk to any of the men, especially the naked ones.  I don’t want you saying stuff like ‘Wow, you have a really big dick’.”

“Can I say ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for having such a tiny dick’?”

“Smart ass.”

“What about dinky winky?  Or centimeter peter?  Or baby dick?  Or teeny weenie?  Or micro penis?  Or tickle stick?  Or tiny meat?  Or button mushroom?  Or angry inch?  Or hung like a gerbil?  Or wee man?  Or piss worm?  Or millimeter monster?  Or little dipper?  Or puppy dick?  Or tinkie winkie?  Or dicklet?  Or boy clit?  Or half inch hero?  Or tiny tim?  Or hung like your mom?  Or two inch grinch?  Or baby carrot?”

“You just watch yourself, and stay out of trouble, Sam.”

When I entered the women’s locker room with my gym bag, I fully expected all the girls and women to scream.  But they paid me no mind.  Whoa … the place was packed.  There were boobs and pussies parading past me everywhere. 

My groin filled with blood.  I stood right there in the middle of the girl’s locker room with a bulging rock hard erection, at least nine inches tall and very thick … and I pointed it at each cute girl that walked past me.  I wanted to plunge it into their sweet young cunts.  This was all in my head of course. But it still felt real to me.

When I looked down at my vagina, it had formed the outline of the classic ‘cameltoe’ … a bit embarrassing.  It was something that guys really enjoyed staring at.

I picked a spot on one of the benches that had a good view of the shower exit, but not too close.  After three years of avoiding water, I was not about to chance any contact now.  It was probably a silly notion since water never had any ill effects on Sammantha’s body.  Still, old habits are hard to break.

The last time I had seen such a smorgasbord of TC’s (tits and cunts) was when I was in college and my buddies and I attended a one-off sporting event sponsored by VaNeSA … the Very Nude Sports Association that featured a nude women’s basketball game … and they delivered as promised.  The only thing the players wore were sneakers.

Now granted, they also wore Halloween masks to protect their identities.  After all, most of the girls were students at the University at Buffalo and were trying to earn extra money for tuition.  The only one who didn’t was the 280 pound behemoth gal, Burlee Overshown … not your typical sex symbol but she was anxious to show off her goods, and everyone knew who she was anyway.  Her best move was when she would go up to the guys sitting in the front row of the bleachers and scratch her cunt, while yelling ‘Catch my crabs’ you little pricks’.

Burlee played the ‘enforcer’ role on a team purported to be the ‘Cleveland Cleavage’ who were squaring off against the vaunted ‘Pittsburgh Pussywillows’.  The other nine girls were positively gorgeous, and the best parts of the game were the many fights that broke out amongst the players who were yanking pubic hair and punching and slapping breasts.  They even kicked the referee in his balls a few times … and by the end of the night, there wasn’t a dry boner in the house.

But Sam was right.  America is a nation of imperfect breasts (and bodies too).  I felt like a food critic offering condescending reviews to most of the ‘entrees’ presented before me.  In my high school physics class, the boys (and only the boys) calculated the perfect breast shape formula as ‘The angle of the dangle equals the mass of the ass, times the cube of the boob’.  Unfortunately, none of the girls in my class would volunteer to test out this theory, but it did prove that guys actually can focus on two things at the same time as long as they’re examining a girl’s chest.

If designed by an architect, the top of a perfect boob, looking at it in side profile, should have a straight 45 degree angle from the nipple to the root (the place where ladies’ tits attach to the upper part of the chest.

The bottom would be a part of a semi-circle, like a soup ladle.  But too much ladle and you won’t be able to pass the pencil test.  Too little ladle makes for ‘tubular’ boobs … like shaking hands with another person, but instead, you would shake their boobs … pleased to meet you ma’am.

The nipple would be pointing 10 to 20 degrees upward (gotta have those perky breasts) and have a small areola.

The parade of girls coming out of the shower for my private audience of one was quite entertaining. It reminded me of the song ‘Buffalo gal won’t you come out tonight?’  After all, we were here in Buffalo.

I decided that most American women must hate their boobs.  In Beverly Hills, I would be seeing nearly 100 percent augmented fakes.  But here in Buffalo, we have honest boobs, complete with all their natural born flaws.

Too many of these girls were in the wrong sport.  They were carrying around basketballs on their chest.  And of course you had the itty bitty titty committee, who could pass for young boys.  In the 1960’s, there was the British model, Twiggy, who made that body shape quite popular.

I stopped for a second and wondered how Sam was making out in the other locker room, judging all the penises.  I think the boobs had more variety … but in a negative way.

The total width of both boobs should be the same width as the shoulders.  But some girls have ‘east – west’ boobs where the nipples pointed in opposite directions, and you’d need a ‘wide load’ sign to assist.

The ‘ski-jump’ boobs plunge down too steeply and have that upturn at the nipple.  I’m not trying to be mean on purpose, but they look like a shrew’s snout.  (Stop what you’re doing and google ‘shrew’.)

Then there are pendular boobs … where older women have something between their breasts that younger women do not … their belly buttons.

The ‘uni-boob’ is an odd one … kind of like the continuous uni-brow over the eyes, they don’t have much cleavage.  They’re like Siamese boobs.

And then there’s the asymmetric variety, where one boob is bigger than the other.  With the weight difference, I swear these girls must walk with a limp.

Even animals talk about boobs.  The boy elephant asked the girl camel, “Why do you have your breasts on your back?”  And the girl camel replied, “Why do you have your penis on your face?”

The last group to come in was a surprise bonus … a middle school birthday party (well it was a Saturday) … a dozen little Lolitas like Penelope Point DuJour prancing and giggling in and out of the shower room.  I figured that as long as I felt guilty for ogling their young, nubile forms, then it was okay.  There were a few budding racks on the tops and a few wispy twats on the bottoms.  I was playing the role of Humbert Humbert again.

What else were they? … ripe, tantalizing, sensual, luscious, striking, hot, flirtatious, libidinous, arousing, cuddly, kissable, racy, seductive, spicy, steamy, titillating, provocative … Yes, I definitely felt guilty, but no more guilty than when Penelope introduced me to all her naked friends at her picnic.  When I was there, I couldn’t help having a rock hard boner.  Now, my boner was imaginary, but it still felt real, as my pelvic muscles pulled inward, pretending they had something to ejaculate.

I won’t bother judging pussies today … maybe next time, although I’m not sure how to award points for the best ‘hole’.  And before I left the locker room, I just had to give the once-over to my own ‘girls’.  So I took off my top and sports bra and walked boldly over to one of the mirrors.

I felt very self-conscious walking around topless. I thought maybe the other women would point and ogle me, but none did.  When I studied myself in the mirror, I was thankful.  If I had to be a girl, at least Sammantha had developed these two perfectly formed small mountains of iron.

But with great boobs, comes great responsibility.

Satisfied with the results of my locker room stakeout, I turned to leave.  But now my path was blocked by two women carrying their gym bags.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, honey,” said the first.

The second one added, “These days, doctors can do wonders for women with small breasts.  You no longer have to live with your shame.”

I glanced up at their faces and thought that I was in a scene from ‘Night of the Living Dead’.  It was Gertrude and Hattie, the Hooey sisters, whom I had met by the restroom at the Olive Garden. I nearly barfed.  Their four hands guided my body to face them, and they sized up my chest from all angles, using their hands.  They must have thought my boobs were part of a petting zoo.  And my groin produced another imaginary hard-on. This was horrifying.

(Gertrude)  “A round implant would look very nice with your petite breasts, honey.”

(Hattie)  “Don’t listen to her.  A teardrop shape would be better.”

(Gertrude)  “Try cutting back on your exercise, dear.  Breasts shouldn’t be so muscular.  They need to be supple, like jello.”

As she said the word ‘jello’, she placed the tips of her fingers under my boobs and jiggled them a little.  I thought that would be the maximum of my embarrassment, but not quite.  Hattie actually had the nerve to take out a sharpie pen and mark a curved dotted line under my right boob.

(Hattie)  “You see, dear.  This is where the doctor would make his incision … along the inframammary line.  It’s clear that you’ll fail the pencil test.”

My eyes widened. “Wait, you know about the pencil test?”

(Gertrude)  “Oh yes.  Let me show you here.  I’m going to take the pen and place it horizontally under your breast.  You see how it falls to the floor?  If you can’t hold a pencil under your breast, then they’re too small.”

(I was taught that if the pencil doesn’t fall, then your boobs are too big.)

(Hattie)  “Gertrude, does this woman look familiar?  Wasn’t she sitting with Precious at the Olive Garden?”

(Gertrude) “Why, I believe you’re right.  Let me tell you, honey, your Precious was a darling little girl … and she was growing some nice boobies of her own, too.”

(Hattie)  “May we have your name, dear?”

“I’m Martha Frumpy, and you’ll excuse me, please, but I’m in a rush to leave.”