I pull up outside Chuze Fitness at the mall, and sit with the engine off for ten minutes. I watch ones and twos of young fuckers make their way past, mostly either jacked or slim (goofy) dorks. I check my phone a bunch of times, but there’s nothing yet from Jolene. Our class starts in twenty, so it makes sense she’s not here yet.

I don’t know why I’m all punctual all the time. It’s definitely never helped me any.

It could just be me, but I feel a lot jumpier than usual, which of course I connect in my mind to not fapping. It’s not a good energy, though, like a clean driving force that turns me into some sort of life-affirming, bright-color-wearing, female-respecting model citizen. It feels more like throwing coffee syrup on the dumpster fire of my soul . . . y’know, that whole blaze I was fixing to snuff out via throwing myself off a big building downtown.

I figure I’ll look cooler if I’m waiting for Jolene and her friend, Candy, outside instead of being this knees-together pantywaist waste of semon fuck hiding out in his car like a timid clown.

Still rattled, shaky as if I’m Jonesing, I creep my way out and over to the gym’s big shiny entrance at the side. You can’t miss it, right next to a JCPenny and Best Buy, as if people fit workouts into shopping sprees or vice versa.

But when I arrive, the door’s closed and boarded up on the inside. Frazzled, I start to panic, and imagine all the muscled assholes I saw before are staring at me now from somewhere unseen, laughing at my clueless ass. 

Then I notice the tiny sign, written in scribbled pen, which says: All Equipment and Classes Now Outside! Sign In to Your Right! I don’t know what the fuck’s with all the exclamation marks, dude. But they make me tired . . . like before I’m even trying, someone’s already screaming at me to have more goddamn pep.

Fuck all this!

I’m going home.

But as always, on cue, I see Jolene prancing toward me with a spring in her step and gleam in her eye. Her face basically says, “Gotcha! Fuck you! You ain’t getting out of this!”

Beside her lurches this fat chode-looking guy with skin the color of butter packed tight into a bright purple Jem is Truly Outrageous shirt two sizes too small (and twenty years too old for this young shithead to know who the fuck Jem is, etc.). He looks like a munted Asian Winnie the Pooh. Instead of a neck, his shoulders jut out from the sides of his squarish head. The look on his face matches Jolene’s.

“This is Candy,” she says.

I must not be in on the joke. Inside, I answer her: I thought candy was a hot chick. I stayed up all night fucking worried about having to interact with her, and not embarrass you. So, this twerpy male douche is really, no joke, named Candy? How in the literal fuck could this be real life? Why?

“Candy, at your service!” the guy announces in this fake, deep radio voice I fear isn’t just a one-time thing, but something he’s gonna bombard me with the whole time I’m here (I’m not wrong). “You must be the illustrious Uncle X?”

“Shut up!” Jolene prods Candy, but unfortunately also smiles. “Only I can call him Uncle X.”

“X,” I say, and don’t reach to shake his hand “because of COVID.”

We don’t say much else, but follow where the piss-poor sign points. I can’t stop glancing at Candy’s Travolta-esque strut, his nubby little legs sproinging him forward farther than it looks like they should, and his big blocky shoulders pivoting as if he thinks he’s a damn bodybuilder.

I don’t really want to be seen with Candy as we reach the sign-in desk, but it can’t be helped. At least I have the unquestionably cool Jolene between us as a buffer (not even Candy could make anyone think less of her).

I adopt a clueless look, which I hope communicates I’m new without me having to say anything. It’s not easy to do using just my eyes out the top of my mask.

The girl at the desk stands, gives me a smile so bright Candy would probably wear it on a shirt, and explains, “First timer! Ok, you’ll need to download our app, and fill out the first page under the Join section, and…!” 

I hope I can just figure out the rest, since my mind stops taking in her words. Instead my eyes drop to assess her plump, yoga-pantsed hips and make educated predictions about the ass they lead to, which I can’t quite see yet. My mouth drops open, hidden by my mask (I hope). And for the first time since I made my big nofap announcement days ago, my resting, abused libedo leaps to attention with an urgency I haven’t felt since whenever I last didn’t force out cum while squinting at a screen . . . years, for sure.

Behind the first receptionist steps a second, facing away. My eyes refocus, and I lose all sense of time and place. This new one’s ass is a sweet little angel, so nice and inviting, like a friendly warm shelter amidst a terrible storm. 

Gazing back and forth between the two, I start to think if this is what going to the gym is like, I should have been doing this shit all along. I do worry about the kind of unkempt dweeb that not jerking off is going to turn me into. I mean, running on just a few days of saved up horniness, I’m already like a zoo animal at mealtime, hungering after two very diverse delectable asses, which each have their own unique personalities and charm in those matching stretchy fucking pants.

If I’d seen either of these two beauties before, I would have immediately taken my leave to go rub one out. No hesitation. Not even a thought. 

I sigh the urge back, feeling defeated.

Candy does this real showman-like song and dance, acting like he’s impressing the girl who told me to get the app, belting out stupid phrases in that same pretend voice. 

But it’s strange to notice she’s only looking at me, still holding that big, dumb, steal-your-heart smile.

Jolene and Candy lead me over to a big empty space with a sign that reads: Classes!

Then Candy push-pulls his way ahead, and starts to address the six or seven of us assembled and getting ready.

I look at Jolene, shocked.

She nods.

Candy is the damn instructor. Holy Shit.

What the fuck?