Fucking counts as exercise, right? [FM]

Cliches are awkward things when it comes to sex. Not unlike when making analogies, it’s generally speaking wise to avoid cliches like the plague. But, at the same time, cliches only become cliches due to their relative prevalence and popularity. Which is to say that something can, by definition, only become ‘stereotypical’ once it has been played through said stereo often enough that it’s become the norm.

An odd and heavily convoluted way to start off a supposedly sexual post, but bear with me. I’m going somewhere with this, I promise.

So broadly speaking avoiding engaging in cliched activity is best. Forge your own path and ignore the ground well trodden and all that. Great advice.

But when it comes to sex I can’t help but feel that the perspective needs to shift somewhat. Why? Because, as discussed, things become cliche due to popularity. And things tend to be popular because they’re fun, hence why they’re done so widely and so often repeated. Ergo if you spend your life trying to ultimately avoid all of the sexual cliches then you’re likely doing yourself out of a great many fun experiences. As fun as it is to always strive for originality, the simple fact is that sometimes you’ve got to allow yourself to indulge in a classic cliche every now and again.

All of which is essentially my excuse and justification for why some years ago I leapt head first into one of the most unbearable cliched situations imaginable and fucked my personal trainer.

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It was my second year of University and, having spent the vast majority of the first year subsisting largely on a diet of alcohol and 3am fast food, I’d taken the sensible decision to perhaps take a little better care of myself. By which I mean I planned to alter as little of my lifestyle as possible but used the dawning of a new calendar year to take advantage of cheaper gym membership and signed myself up.

At this stage I feel I should point out that I’m one of those insufferably lucky people who is somehow, despite a horrendously poor diet and someone who whom exercise is an anathema, naturally very slim. As such, the mere concept of going to a gym was very nearly enough to start me sweating. But I’d fooled myself into thinking that having a membership would somehow inspire me to great things. (Spoiler: It didn’t)

It took me precisely half an hour into my very first gym session to confirm my suspicions that I was very much *not* a ‘gym person’. I understood fewer than one in every ten pieces of equipment. I made a remarkable range of surprisingly loud and often unpleasant grunty noises whenever I used any machinery I was able to comprehend. I was entirely unable to contain my cruel and unnecessary blatant giggling at witnessing anyone trying their hardest and giving it their all but achieving less than favourable results.

Indeed the only gym based activity I found even remotely pleasant was, frankly, the many and varied ogling opportunities. I’d never been one to date ‘gym guys’ but blimey was it thoroughly enjoyable to watch them strain, ripple and sweat.

I ended my first gym session having achieved little beyond very mildly arousing myself and fully intended to write off the six month membership as a drunken mistake and yet another New Year’s Resolution that I’d failed to achieve. However friends who had also joined (apparently we’d made some form of pact) persuaded/bullied me into attending again a few days later, this time suggesting that I simply ask for advice for how to make the most of what was on offer, rather than spend the majority of time cycling at the pace of an old women collecting knitting supplies on an exercise bike.

But I’m a stubborn soul. Not stubborn enough to resist the goading of my friends and simply stay at home, obviously, but sufficiently stubborn that I steadfastly refused to ask for any advice. I’m an intelligent woman, surely I’d be able to figure out which bits needed pulling for maximum effect? (Pun vaguely intended).

No. I didn’t. I had no clue. Watching me trying to figure out what to do on those machines must’ve been like watching a primitive primate attempt to assemble flat pack furniture while a blind man attempted to describe to it the colour blue. It was not my finest hour.

Soon enough rescue arrived in the form of the both tall and toned Lewis, who offered me some help. My initial reaction was to tell him to fuck off and that I’d manage without his help thank you very much, and that I certainly didn’t need rescuing from a man who’d potentially struggle to spell IQ. But I withheld this barrage of abuse. This was because: a) I had no idea what I was doing and actually needed help. And b) my mind was distracted wondering if both my hands would fit comfortably around his bicep.

Confession time, he wasn’t technically a personal trainer. Well, he was – but he was never *my* personal trainer. He worked for the gym itself but could also be hired as a PT for intense one on one sessions when not generally helping people. He only ever helped me at the gym in the general sense, but (spoilers:) I got my one on one sessions for free…

Shallow though it is to admit, Lewis swiftly became my primary reason for visiting the gym. He defied the stereotype of the muscly meathead and was actually witty and delightful company, not to mention a cruel and studious taskmaster when necessary. We got on exceptionally well, and I barely even attempted to conceal the ever increasing lust I felt toward him.

For two months nothing happened. Which is to say that, though my mind may have wandered toward him in some personal intimate moments, our relationship remained purely professional. If professional can be defined as me sweating, grunting and very poorly flirting, while he does his best not to laugh at my attempts at exercise.

Eventually I decided he was probably sufficiently in tune with my somewhat forthright sense of humour to not be mortally offended when I straight up asked him; “So, would it be inappropriate to ask if you fuck any of your clients?”

He laughed and replied; “Yes…” Pause. …”It would be inappropriate to ask.”

Bastard. Which was what I called him, along with various other names as he was making me perform some ungodly movement that made every muscle in my body hurt.

But I didn’t let it drop. Asking him became a routine. Every time I’d see him I’d ask him. And, eventually, whether it due to my persuasive and persistent nature, or out of sheer frustration and annoyance, he answered.

Yes. Yes of course he had. But it’s not the kind of thing he broadcasts for obvious reasons. But it can be an intimate scenario and he’s only human.

I told him I was only human too which, even at the time, nearly made me vomit, so I followed up by telling him I was too poor to pay for his services, being as I was a mere student, but should he ever feel inclined to offer a freebie…

In truth, I expected him to laugh it off. He could have his pick of the gym bunnies, there didn’t seem much likelihood he’d sufficiently lower his standards to the grunting girl, regardless of how many times his eyes may have wandered to my gym top.

Reader; we fucked.

Not there and then, obviously. We actually went out for a drink first. Something we both felt we had to clarify was absolutely not under any circumstances a date. We sat and and we drank, idly chatting. Neither of us quite sure why we’d added this arbitrary stage when we’d both essentially made it clear that what we were here for was sex.

One drink was more than enough. Then we headed back to mine.

The sex was – and I don’t want to damn it with faint praise here – fine. Perfectly acceptable. But this felt a little disappointing after several months build up – to me at least. The issue was, I swiftly realised, that it had all been a little too over prepared and organised. This wasn’t spontaneous and random passion, it was a pre-planned event. And like any organised fun, it’s just not as good as you’d like it to be.

I continued at the gym, and we vaguely made plans for another session. I figured I’d made my first specifically definable ‘fuck buddy’. But even classifying it as that felt too over orchestrated, and I felt my enthusiasm for both it and him starting to wane.

Fortunately, I’m quite good at spontaneity.

“What are you doing at lunchtime?” I asked.

“Eating lunch, I expect.” He replied.

“Want to fuck instead?”

And we did. And it was much, much better. Not least because, while riding him, I asked him why the fuck I was doing all the work when he’s the one who could be putting his excellent muscles to use.

His response was to lift me off him and effortlessly hold me against his body while he fucked me with all the force a well maintained core can provide.

We became fuck buddies on the specific proviso that we were never allowed to arrange anything in advance. It was always to be either post-gym quickies or texts asking if you were available in the next hour. The result was perhaps less regular actual fucking that either of us might have liked, but also crucially that it always maintained a sense of urgency and excitement. It was never routine or over-prepared. Plus it meant I would never fall into the trap of being one of his ‘regular clients’.

in total we fucked on seven different occasions, but each and every one was, in every conceivable way, a full body workout. He even told me after one particularly vigorous session that sex was the best workout you could give your body.

Which was why, ultimately, I stopped going to the gym.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/kxyz56/fucking_counts_as_exercise_right_fm