The Breaking of Farting Strings.
When I was in my mega fit phase a few years ago (sadly I am now a bit of a fatty) I would try to push my body quite far in terms of exercise. I used to go in my lunchtime so I basically had 2 hours (lucky me eh?) to do my stuff. The gym was great because it used to provide all the clothes and stuff to wear so I didn’t need to bring anything with me.

I was doing some bench presses (on my own which is bad but tyg) and I strained so much that I did a poo. A half solid poo. Unfortunately, as I wasn’t wearing underwear cos I would sweat too much and then need to change them, my poo flew straight out of the gap in my shorts and onto the floor. Worse, this was accompanied by a very loud raspberry. People who didn’t have headphones turned to look at me. Some people came over to stare and be disgusted. I honestly thought I had snapped my farting strings.

My entire body was incandescently red with embarrassment. What was even worse is that I couldn’t lift the weights back onto the hook due to being shit-fit weakened. So I was trying very hard to get the weight from my neck and onto the hook so I could run away in shame, loads of people watching, no one wanting to help because, let’s be honest, I was a public shitter. Then it happened again. This was more diarrhoea now, and I had managed to pump my slurry even further. It hit the closest girl watching in the eye.

I put the weight back on the hook. Cringed my way into a standing position, then pushed my way past the crowd, and ran away. As I left, I glanced back to the bench. There was a good half metre trail of excrement from ground zero where I was lying down, to where the poo finally landed. Some less than stout hearted people were crying. No one said a word.

I left my stuff there, ran home, and never went back.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Sat 11 Jul 2009, 16:14, 17 replies)

Anal with Frank
Before middle age set in I used to play rugby and was pretty fit. But I stopped going to the gym after a bloody awful incident that I’ll probably be talking about in therapy for years. I’d just done a weight session, had a quick shower, and was laying face down on a gurney stark bollock naked with a towel covering my modesty, waiting to have a warm down massage (just the normal routine, and it was a proper massage place, not one of those dodgy backstreet places where you get a blowjob from a fifteen year old Lithuanian). The man who did the massaging was Frank. He oiled me up and started on my shoulders, smoothing out the tension, making me feel relaxed.

Frank moved onto my lower back, my body made a series of lovely clunking noises. Then Frank started on the back of my thighs. As this whole experience was more than slightly homoerotic I made a point of talking about manly stuff, like cars and football, and shagging women.

Then, as Frank was busy kneading the top of my thighs, his hands all oily and slippery, I sneezed really violently, my arse shot backwards, and Frank’s thumb lodged firmly up my brown bullet wound like a cork going back into a bottle. I let out a scream, so did Frank. Frank attempted to remove his thumb from my arsehole but because I was suddenly (and not very fucking suprisingly) tense, I sort of clamped tight round his probing digit. Frank’s thumb was stuck! I howled in agony. Eventually Frank came free and, panting, I rolled onto my front, the towel now tossed aside. And I realised Frank was gazing in fear at my willy. I looked down. I was harder than set concrete. And pre cum was gurgling out of me like someone had turned on a tap. Frank must’ve tickled or applied pressure to my prostate. And all he said was: “You’ll be wanting some tissues for that.”

And I’ve never been to a gym since.
(Big Grant, Tue 14 Jul 2009, 10:08, 20 replies)

How I was violated in the sauna
Once upon a time I was a wannabe fitness fanatic. Incidentally this was prior to my love affair of lounging in bed, eating KFC, reading QOTW whilst simultaneously undoing the button of my size 16 trousers. During this time I joined one of those hideously expensive chain gyms which we shall call Total Madness for the purpose of this story.

I immediately allowed the lunacy of the cavernous air conditioned spaceship to permeate my very being. I desperately wanted to be one of them. Those lycra clad expertly made up women swishing away on the cross trainer for 2 hours without breaking a sweat. I even bought new gym gear: powder blue ladies Reebok jogging bottoms and sporty vest.

Every morning I set my alarm clock for 5.30, struggled out of the bed. Donned my new expensive designer sweat sacks and staggered barely awake to my car. I drove the 2 miles to the shiny glass and steel fitness warehouse. I joined the surprisingly large number of BMW driving, Johnsons dry cleaning suit bag carrying, spikey haired overpaid sales executives and middle managers, and trudged, trying to look like I belonged (as much as a dumpy blonde secretary can) to the changing rooms.

I would then emerge from the bowels of the changing rooms, up the spiral staircase to the upper realms of the dance music booming posing paradise. I would follow my program, masterfully devised by my trainer of 10 minutes on the cross trainer, 10 minutes on the bike, 10 minutes on the treadmill. This was going to turn me into a supermodel. It would allow me to be one of them. One of those orange, perfectly preened, large bicepped femme fatales I aspired to be.

One particularly grey and drizzly morning I arrived in the car park and realised I could not face my daily torment of low level exercise. I decided, in my wisdom, to use the other leisure facilities. Namely the sauna. The soothing heat would melt away my winter blues leaving me invigorated and raring to go work.

Donning my swimming costume and taking my towel I sauntered through the pool bound door of the changing rooms and made my way down the corridor of neutral coloured wonderment to the sauna. I opened the door, the soothing heat causing my tense shoulders to relax. I picked a seat on the upper level, where it would be hottest to flush out the most toxins. After a few minutes I feel the beginings of sleep start to wash over me. A nice warm nap in the sauna begins to appeal so i lie down fully on top of my towel.

Through the warm sleep fuggy haze I am vaguely aware that someone else has entered the sauna. I realise my mouth is open so keeping my eyes closed I try to appear as if I wasn't asleep. Slowly consciousness returns and I open my eyes slightly and roll onto my side. Imagine my surprise to see a wiry old lady with long curly pubes crotch flossing with her towel in front of me.

I sit bolt upright: my mind flounders what to do.

"Oooh it's nice to get warm in here" she says whilst whizzing the towel at high speeds through her hairy spam purse. "Mmm" I reply non commitally trying to avert my eyes from the ever increasing in speed towel masturbation session unfolding in front of me. I become increasingly aware of her lack of effort in drying any other region of her body.

I decide that it's time to make a move. "Right," I say in what I hope sounds like a mature and assertive way "I better get to work". I step down from my second tier sauna perch and move towards the door. The pervy old lesbian makes no effort to move out of my way. "Excuse me," I say smiling pathetically "may I get past?".

The old lady now has a far away and glazed look in her eyes, like a dog in a leg humping session, and continues oblivious to my discomfort to saw away at her rancid mary hinge with the towel. I'm now starting to get worried so attempt to place my hand on her arm to move her to enable me to get out of the door. The crazy old bint turns as I put my hand forward so it lands on her droopy old pancake boob. I leapt, with now a sense of positive urgency, to the glass tinted door and wrench it open. Only to see two of the designer cozzie clad babes staring at me in open mouthed horror.

It dawns on me that to them all they have witnessed, due to the tinted glass, is me pawing a crazing mastubating old lesbo on the tit. I am sweaty and flustered due to the excessive amount of time in the sauna. It looks as if I'm a lesbian geriophile.

I start to stutter an explanation but I'm left like a fish out of water, I realise any explanation would sound even less believable. I instead opt of half running back to the changing rooms, donning my work gear and leaving the place at breakneck speeds.

I never did go back. Instead I choose eating KFC and reading QOTW.
(Fireyfox is prepared to change, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 23:14, 11 replies)

The strange girl
Driving through torrential rain one night, I tried to keep my eyes focused on the road. It was hard work. The surface water was pooling and it was like trying to drive across the surface of a lake. I had to keep a tight grip on the steering wheel, the wipers on hi-speed, as I peered out into the slowly descending gloom. Then I saw a girl at the side of the road with her thumb upraised more in hope than expectation. She was soaking wet. She was only wearing a thin jumper and her long dark hair was bedraggled and hung like dead limp snakes down across her oval face. I drove past, slowed, and came to a stop. I put the hazzards on and reached over to open the passenger door. I glanced in my rearview mirror – I couldn’t see the girl. But then, after a moment, she appeared by the side of my car. She stooped and slid effortlessly into the passenger seat. She said: “Thanks!” And I suddenly felt like the nicest man in the world.

I set off, I asked her where she wanted to go. And she replied: “Anywhere. I don’t mind.” I explained I was driving to Oxford and she said: “That’ll do fine.” I could see she was shivering. She was cold, soaked to the bone, so I turned up the heating and explained there was a travel blanket on the back seat, she was welcome to dry herself with it. She thanked me and reached over, and in doing so her hand stroked my shoulder. And it was freezing cold. So cold I felt a strange tingle spread from that point down my arm and across my chest. It was like a sudden and violent internal frost in my body.

I physically jumped. She was startled too. She apologised for touching me and explained she’d been on the road for quite some time. I glanced over at her. She was so pale, so incredibly pale. I asked if she felt ok, and she nodded curtly. “As good as can be expected.”

After half and hour or so we reached Oxford city centre. I didn’t want to sound sleezy, but I asked if she’d like to come round to my place to get warmed up. She said: “No thank you – you can drop me here,” and I pulled over, she opened the door and went to leave. But before she went she reached out and grabbed my hand. Again, the terrible cold. Then without a word, she left, closing the door quietly behind her. And as I drove off I checked my rearview; the girl was nowhere to be seen. She’d gone. Vanished.

Later, when I returned to my house, I opened the front door and found the local paper on the mat. I picked it up – and there – framed by adverts for this and that - was a familiar, oval shaped face on the front page. A young woman. The headline read: Twenty years ago today, Emily Young was hit by a car and killed on the A34, her family remembers, service held today in Oxford.

My god! I thought. I just couldn’t believe it. I scanned the front page again. Shaking, I went to the phone and called my best friend, Simon. He answered and I said, with a quivery voice: “Simon, have you seen todays Oxford Mail? You’re not going to beleive this,” I clutched the paper, scanned it again, read it over and over, “they’ve got an advert on the front page for Fitness First – free membership for a month!”

Simon was elated. So was I. We both like going to the gym.
(Pastabator earned his brown wings with your girlfriend on, Tue 14 Jul 2009, 14:34, 8 replies)

Swimming... well, it's in the same building as the Gym!
Now, I'm bit of a fatty. One of those guys you see on the news with the "Obese" stamp in red letters across the front of them. Recently though I've decided to do my best to put an end to this distressing condition which irks me mostly not for the sly looks or the "whispered" comments, but because I'm tired of feeling unfit and crap about myself.

Anyhoo, as a part of this, I'm doing my damnedest to go swimming each morning before work. Started 4 weeks ago and now I do the maritime version of plodding my way through 60 lengths. It was hard work etc, but frankly it's the least I deserve, and the sense of accomplishment is warm, as you feel more and more fit :)

The other morning, I was doing the usual routine of getting changed, donning the visage of awkward self awareness and making my way out to the pool for my pre swim shower when I spied another young fellow - somewhat thinner than me, of course - giving me the "you're another one of those fat bastard scum aren't you?" smirk, which you may or may not have seen in action.

I ignore him and continue to the pool to start my swim. Obviously Captain Fantastic has to take the lane next to me, throwing me the odd glance as I swim along. He's going to show me how much fitter than me he is, I can see this now. 1 length goes by, 5, then 10 and 20. It was by the 30th length that I saw the first look of worry on his face... He might actually only just beat me! Still I carry on, safe in my now routine stroke (we don't hear the innocent version of that here very often do we?... anyhoo...).

By length 50 our friend was starting to shake, clearly far further than he has swum in a very long time, and at length 53, he stops and gets out of the pool - presumably so he can start to breathe out of his arse as his body complains and shakes. He stumbles his way back into the changing area, to get away from what just happened.

Long story short, he left the pool a broken man, beaten by a simple case of underestimation. The guy who he wanted to swim me into another of the humiliating defeats I've become somewhat used to in life actually had his arse handed back to him by his prey.

That was the first time I've felt good about what I can do in a long time :) It's definitely helped drag me out of bed in the mornings since, more determined than ever to feel good about myself some more - it's an addictive feeling.

First post etc, but this time it actually was the length(s) that mattered.
(pfer, Mon 13 Jul 2009, 22:55, 15 replies)

Kylie, Pot Plants & The Great Escape
Signing a gym contract is a lot like signing your soul over to the devil, only worse – the devil doesn’t rape your bank account every month via the strange, foul, dispicable medium named Direct Debit.

The gym I was at was officially shit. It was called Life. And its since – unsuprisingly – closed down. But before it closed it went through a transformation in a desperate attempt to claw back a bit of trade, it went trendy. It started playing Kylie tracks, which made me angry. Granted, I’d love to get hot and sweaty with Kylie, but not in this sense. They even introduced pot plants – fucking POT PLANTS!!! Seeeshhhhh!!! One time I quipped: “It’s Life gym, but not as we know it,” and made everybody in the changing room piss themselves laughing. OK, I was the only person in the changing room...

I went through my twice-weekly gym routine for a few weeks, but frankly I couldn’t stand it anymore. To add insult to injury they’d moved the multi gym away from my weapon of choice – the lateral trainer – so I couldn’t have a good, decent, honest perv over any lady who happened to be toning her inner thighs, watching as her growler slowly ate her crotch fabric with each and every groaning, straining, sweaty crunch. (There were times I felt like going over and giving these ladies a cigarette when they’d finished).

So, after I’d officially had enough, I visited the reception and told them I’d like to cancel my membership. They asked me why, I explained I didn’t like the new MTV ethos behind the place, Kylie’s voice went through me like nails down a blackboard, and that the pot plants were – quite frankly – scaring the bejesus out of me (spider plants are fucking nightmareish, horrible, terrible things).

I was told, in no uncertain terms, to fuck off.

I told them, in no uncertain terms, to fuck off too.

And I left, cancelled my direct debit, and forgot all about Life.

A couple of months later I start receiving letters. One a week, then two a week. They started off pretty tame, but after a while they got to the legal equivalent of ‘give us our fucking money or we’ll break you’re fucking kneecaps.’ Now they’d pissed me off. I mean really pissed me off.

So I decided to go back to the gym – one last time, and have it out with them. I called my mate Nicky, who’s a great big brutish fuckwit from Essex who looks like Shreks uglier, bigger, harder brother, and went down.

The look on the face of the girl behind the reception desk was great, she looked like she’d just been entered by a particularly nasty and well endowed incubus who had a penchant for buggery. “Can I help you, Sir?” she asked.

I explained I wasn’t going to be using the gym anymore. I explained I didn’t like the place, we talked about Kylie and the pot plants, I flashed her my ID membership card. She went to get the manager – when he turned up, the incubus appeared to move onto him, using whatever ethereal mighty cock power to playing havoc with his sphincter. He let out a little yelp. He looked round at the other patrons; a scene, apparently, was being made.

So, as you have to with large companies, village idiots, and fuckwits in general, I explained my situation again. Kylie – check, pot plants – check, didn’t like the place anymore – check.

He took another look at me. I drummed my fingers on the counter, my mate Nicky stood behind me looking all hard and menacing, and the manager said: “So you just don’t like the gym anymore? Is there… any other reason…erm… you can think of… errr…..” I remained silent. Eventually, he agreed to cancel my membership. On the spot. No questions asked.

“Thanks,” I said. “Nicky, you can wheel me back to the car now,” and Nicky did, grasping two great hands like sides off beef round the handles of the wheelchair and pushing me back out the lobby and to freedom outside. You could’ve heard a pin drop as we went. Though in my head the theme music for The Great Escape was playing on a continuous loop... On the way back to the car I started to hum it, Du-Dah Du-Du-Da-Du-Dah, and Nicky joined in, after calling me a cheeky twat a few dozen times.

(My girlfriend works with kids with cerebral palsy… if she ever finds out I ‘borrowed’ one of the foldable wheelchairs she occasionally has stowed in our flat, she’d fucking kill me)…
( SpankyHanky, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 14:19, 6 replies)

Epic Gym Fail
First post! woot!

This is still one of the most embarrassing things ever to happen to me. Strangely enough, it doesn't involve the loss of bodily functions or drunken twattery.

So, a few years ago I decided to join a gym. Now, I'm quite tall but skinny. Lanky, if you will. The idea was I would try to bulk up a little to stop looking like the 10 stone weakling I clearly was. I've since got bigger using the beer method.

I met with the trainer, who had muscles in places where I don't even have places and started the work out. Being surrounded by blokes casually lifting more than their own bodyweight I thought I'd better make an effort and really push myself. So I did. And all was going according to plan,until after an hour or so when the increasingly knackered Atomised got to the last obstacle: The bench press.

He gave me a quick demo on the free weights and then I lay down to have a go myself. I thought I'd better not exert myself with too much weight whilst I was still learning the technique, but even so, when I lowered the bar onto my chest, that was it. My arms gave way and and I couldn't lift the bar back up again.

The trainer and a couple of other muscle bound freaks saw me squirming under bar and ambled over to pluck it off me, the mirth dancing in their eyes.

But why is this such an epic fail? Surely there is no dishonour in failing such a herculean task?

Because, my fellow b3tans, there were no weights.
I failed to lift the bar.

Oh, the shame.

Length? about 5 foot of shiny steel...
(Atomised teabagged your mum on, Tue 14 Jul 2009, 16:56, 13 replies)

Sub-aqua flasher
My local municipal swimming pool is a fair sized affair and as such is usually cordoned off into three zones, one for the speedier types, one for the plodders and one for the practically clinically dead/morbidly obese.

That’s the theory anyway, the reality is that it’s packed with blokes aged between thirteen and twenty three all thinking “best get in the fast lane, ‘cos I’m really quick innit”, and thrashing around wildly for a solitary, breathless length holding everyone else up before they realise the futility of their efforts and retire to the end of the pool preening and checking out the laydees, causing utter mayhem for anyone who wants to get past them.

After umpteen rage-filled Tuesday and Thursday nights trying to fight my way around these idiots, I opted to sneak in one lunchtime in the hope of actually getting a decent workout for a change. Not only did I have the fast lane to myself, but the pool was dead quiet. Perfect. I got my head down and swam, my goggles permanently kept just below the water's surface.

Twenty lengths in I looked up to see a couple of young women slowly lower themselves into the fast lane. They weren’t serious swimmers, given that one of them was wearing an impractically pale, pleated two-piece costume which was hardly the sort of thing a regular swimmer-type lass might wear. Sure enough once in the water they adopted a genteel, breast stroke as they plodded along. I didn’t give it a second thought; there was enough room to go around them so I carried on as normal. Two lengths later I’d caught up.

“Holy fuck!”

As I prepared to overtake, I was a tad shocked to be faced with an impromptu full-frontal breakfast view each time the unwitting lass kicked her legs, for her flimsy bikini bottoms flopped to one side and she rhythmically reverse-winked at me.

I quickly decided that I’d wait until such point as the unfortunate girl stopped for a rest before doing the gentlemanly thing and discreetly pointing out her wardrobe malfunction. Yes, upon reflection that would be absolutely the best thing to do…. But then I figured that she’d be mortified. So mortified in fact that she’d probably think I was some sort of pervert, would it not be better to leave her to it and not say anything at all?

I swam and pontificated for a brief moment, before there she was again, flashing plage-pudenda as she gracefully kicked her way along the lane. For twenty minutes I grappled with my conscience, failing whatsoever to find any sort of appropriate moral compromise that might salvage some dignity for either of us. In twenty minutes I passed her some ten times, such was the differential in speed, each occasion being treated to the type of view normally reserved for the most dwarven of gynaecologists.

I did the right thing and carried on regardless. I figured that both of us would be terminally embarrassed if I brought the submersed mimsy to anyone’s attention. Yep, the poor lass would definitely never recover from the shame, not so much from the knowledge that she was unintentionally flashing, but that she might be irreversibly shamed having been publically seen in possession of a lady-garden so unkempt it could stunt-double for the top of Leo Sayer’s head.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Mon 13 Jul 2009, 15:40, 11 replies)

Turn On
Right, you don't like me and I sure as hell don't like you. But I'm gonna get on top of you and pound you until I'm all hot and sweaty and spent...

No, this wasn't a conversation I had with my girlfriend, this was a silent little thought directed at the swanky new rowing machine they'd just installed at my gym.

I clambered onboard, grabbed hold of the handgrips, and started pulling with all my might -

- and it was fucking easy! Like driving a knife through hot butter. Fucking EXCELLENT!!! I stepped up the pace. The machine purred like a contented kitten having its tummy tickled.

I was its master.

I was in control.

I was a god among men.

Sir Steve Redgrave? - Suck my hairy plums, mate!

All those years of frantic masturbation had given me superhuman upper body strength!

I was finding it really fucking incredibly, amazingly easy.

After ten or so minutes I realise I'm getting the attention of a few of my fellow gym goers. The men are looking at me in envy, the women all want a piece of me - that special, lovely, spurty piece that tends to do most of my really important thinking.

Olympic gold medal? Piece of fucking piss!!! This rowing malarkys a fucking doddle.

Twenty minutes go by. I've hardly broken sweat. I am king of the fucking waves. In a gym.

Then I notice the incredibly hot female instructor is looking at me. She looks, quite frankly, as if she's wet in the crotch area at the sight of me making this rowing thing look so fucking easy. And they told me it was hard fucking work! Ha! I spit in their faces! I stick two fingers up at them, cup my balls and yell: Phhhppppppp!!!

She's coming over! The incredibly hot instructor is walking towards me. I look as serious and manly as possible and row a little faster. Its so damn easy! Fuck me, I must have superhuman upper body strength.

She's standing just infront of me! She's looking DIRECTLY at me! Yay!!! She's opening her mouth! Yay! She's going to speak to ME! ME!!!

Then she does just that, she speaks: "Sir, I think you might find it more challenging if you turn the machine on," and she reaches down and flicks a switch, and it suddenly feels like I've got two saloon cars filled with concrete on the end of each arm. And the hottie turns and walks away, trying - but not too fucking well - to hide a smirk.

Fucksocks...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 1:08, 4 replies)

Colon Shaker
During a yoga class one time this woman, after performing the squatting crab or leaping salmon or whatever the fuck its called, let off a long, slow, warbling fart as she slowly returned to an upright position. The class giggled like school children. The woman went red and hid her face, embarrassed. The teacher – an incredibly fit blonde Jamie Lee Curtis look-a-like only with even bigger, even perter knockers said: “There's nothing to be ashamed about passing wind – its perfectly natural to release gas when you perform these exercises.”

A green light to pass wind? Fair enough. I'd been brewing a beauty for some time – blame it on the quarter pounder and chocolate milkshake I'd had at lunchtime.

I let rip the mother of all colon shakers, this fucker was so loud and so calamitous, had so much raw and awesome energy, I reckon most of the assembled class thought a hand grenade followed by a series of fire crackers had just gone off from my position at the back of the room. It was like a mighty, lingering t-rex roar – hamburger mixed with chocolate milk have a strange effect on my arsehole.

Blonde Jamie Lee Curtis looked over at me – we'd had a few run ins previously*, so she knew my name, and she spoke like she was addressing a puppy that'd just shat on her best, most expensive Persian rug: “Mr Hanky – my comment was directed at those taking part in the yoga lesson only. Not those residing in the chill out area...”

Well that fucking well told me...

* (don't advise a lady, even in a jokey way, that as she's wearing tight Lycra you can tell she hasn't tended the lady garden that week – apparently a woman's pubic hair growth is her own concern)
( SpankyHanky, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 23:59, 5 replies)

My GP
told me to try and join a gym at my appointment today, as I've got a bit of a tummy.

Or, as I would put it - I'm 29 weeks pregnant.

He blushed quite beautifully when I pointed this out...
( ascorbate, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 14:39, 10 replies)

My most intense ever workout
When I was in my early twenties I used to be a tubby bitch. Sit me on the floor cross-legged and you’d have a pretty good representation of Buddah (only with a bigger cock). Things came to ahead when my dear old dad bought me a pressie for my birthday and had it delivered to my house with a note. The present was an exercise bike and the note said simply: You are fat Cheers, dad.

So I spent the next few days getting to grips with the damn machine. It took alot of sweat, blood, tears, and tantrums – moments where I wanted to give up and go and have a Big Mac – but eventually I got the fucker out of the box. Then, after a few more days my chimp-like assembly skills meant I had the damn thing up and looking like an exercise bike.

Then I put on the instructional video, got into my brand new exercise gear (I looked like someone out of Goldie Lookin’ Chain), and settled down to do some serious, hard fat burning. The video started, and the lithe young Lycra’d godess on screen started doing some pulling and stretching excersises...

...and I started doing some pulling exercises of my own. On my cock. This girl was seriously, seriously hot and I knew I’d have to get a wank out the way before I could concentrate on what she was actually saying. So, I’m sat astride the bike, grunting and sweating, building up a head of steam, nearing the point of no return –

And I hear the front door open. Shit! And in my excitement I feel my cock start to gush. Shit! Quickly, I cup my right hand round my bell end and manage to catch the spunky flow, no time to clean up properly, I slip my jogging bottoms over my throbbing love muscle and try my best to hide my cupped hand, my palm gently cradling a nice healthy, gloopy dollop of man batter.

The living room door opens, in walks the Witch of the North (my uber-evil ex girlfriend)... and some other girl I’ve never seen before. A mate from work. The ex says hello and introduces her friend. The friend then does something awful, terrible, absolutely bollock-churningly hideous...

...she holds out her hand for me to shake. Awkwardly, I reach out with my other non-spunky hand. This stranger in my living room looks a bit put out. That’s when I notice she’s got her fucking arm in a sling. Shit! She can only shake hands with my evil cum paw! How dare this fucker be disabled in any way shape or form? Arggggghhhhh!!! So, I quickly wipe the cum on my arse and, gingerly, hold out my hand.

She grasps it. Gives it a firm shake, and says: “Oooh, sticky....” SHIT!!! “You must’ve been working out for awhile already.” And she wanders off to chat with the evil ex.

And – I have to say – my heart rate was through the fucking roof for the next twenty minutes. Hoping, praying, wishing... that she didn’t lift her hand up to her nose and give it a nice, hearty sniff....
( SpankyHanky, Mon 13 Jul 2009, 15:47, 5 replies)

Never train with your wife
I used to go to quite a posh gym with her indoors. She would do an hour or so on the cardio stuff and some weights machines.

I would do half an hour on the cross trainer watching the fit chinese bird in lycra with a thong on the stepper in front of me. Then I would do some free weights.

"Can I try the free weights" she asks one night.

Cue me taking her down to the "blokes end" of the gym. Knowing looks from all the other guys and a quick "sorry guys" look from me.

Got her comfy on the bench press, took up spotter position, standing with a leg either side of her head. She's only little and not very strong so I was being careful.

She lifted the bar with no weight on just to get the feel of it. Whilst I made sure I had a tight hold of it just in case.

I forgot to mention I was wearing shorts with the built in mesh pants.

"Eww, I can see your willy" said she...

Much sniggering was heard from the blokes who were all watching her.

At this moment my Tourettes Conscience sprang to life and before I could stop myself...

"Oh shut up you've had it in your mouth often enough".

She turned bright red and was never to be seen again down the "blokes end".
(Yellow Car is now red, Tue 14 Jul 2009, 20:30, Reply)

Going to the gym with a couple of female friends
One of them turns to me and asks: "Do you think Julie's a dirty blonde?"

I had to think about this for a few seconds. These were work colleagues - not the sort of question I expected to hear. So, naturally I replied: "Depends whether she takes it up the shitbox, I suppose."

My friends both froze. The one who spoke replied icily: "I was refering to Julie's hair colour; personally I'd say she's more a strawberry blonde."
( SpankyHanky, Tue 14 Jul 2009, 17:30, 1 reply)

You know when you get an idea which seems genius at the time?
Many years ago, at Uni, I caught the flu. Not full fledged man-flu, but it was still pretty bad. In my less than 100% state, my mind decided it would be a good idea for me to go 'run it off'. Stupid mind.

So I'm on the running machine at the uni gym. 'Running off' the flu. Fucking idiot. I've been jogging for a few minutes when the worst happens.

I puke on the running machine and slip in the vomitus. Which causes me to fall flat on my face and get fired off the back of the running machine.

So now, not only do I have the flu, many bruises and a nice covering of flu-bile, but I'm also being puke-pebbledashed as the treadmill continues to flick the remains of my yellow detrius at me.

And then the gym instructor guy comes running over and says, "Are you alright?" I love that.
( mrlogic is copying your beard, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 12:12, 3 replies)

I'm not one to brag.
But this one time I had trouble lifting my dumbbells up and over my fantastic shoulders due to being up all the previous night shagging page 3 girls from all over.
Mr T. Then a friend of mine walked over and pitied my fool or something along those lines, and I'm sure he muttered "you puff" under his breath as he walked off with Sylvester Stallone from the Rocky movies.
I saw red, put down my dumbbells and chased after Mr T. He ran off because I look well hard right, and I ended up catching him in the car park due to my athletic prowess and speed on foot, I once ran down a bear.
I punched Mr T like ten times in the face and cheeks and he was all like "crying" and I was all like "well, whatever Mr T" and Rocky was all like "He's well hard him" and I was like "I know" and then I went back to the gym to work on my killer legs from lifting up drug dealers cars and stuff.
( Jam Master Geordie Hero of B3ta., Mon 13 Jul 2009, 17:13, 9 replies)

I've never injured myself in a gym
but now seems like a good time to air a major grievance I've come up against at gyms over the years. Women. Women who go to the gym, get on the treadmill and then just walk. Why? Just why? Why are you paying money every month, to go to a gym 4 times a week just to have a good old walk??? Here's a tip, put on some shoes, open your front door and place one foot ahead of the other. Dadahhhh! You're walking! I mean seriously, if you don't want to go outside then you could walk around your apartment and save the money.
I can only imagine in the morning time, packing their gym bag, telling the flatmates/partners "I'll be home a bit late, i'm going to the gym after work". Then going from work to the gym, getting changed, doing some warming up and stretches and then hitting the treadmill for a good old walk. Then showering afterwards, going back home and saying "Wow, I am knackered from my workout!". Knackered??? Really???? From a 20 minute walk?
If I told my wife this - "I'm going for a short walk, a session on the step machine and colonic irrigation" she'd merely raise one eyebrow and say "You're going upstairs for a shit aren't you?".
( sneep used to date Freddie Starr's hamster, Mon 13 Jul 2009, 13:45, 5 replies)

Bah!
I have my own personal gym in my house and will use it daily.

Despite using this so often I still am a fat little sod.

I hate being a hamster
(mon bison powered by magnets, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:50, 2 replies)

I believe the correct, proper, established medical term for this is a double-headed piss dragon...
One time I went to the gym in North London with a mate named Karol. He was a member and had a free pass. I’m cheap and never turn down a free anything (I’ve even sent off for complimentary tampons, cleaning products, and a chance to win a breast augumentation operation in the past; would’ve made a nice pressie for my mum). So it was only normal and natural that I chose to go and get sweaty and grunty with my big, butch Polish builder mate one weekday afternoon.

It was free. And I’m easy.

Karol and I got to the gym. Very nice. Changed and set about twatting round on the equipment. And the thing about the gym is its the type of environment where even the most mild mannere type of fella turns into a raging sacks of testosterone. You tend to become all manly. Even though I am officially weaker than a fucking damsel fly, I still attempt to lift weights that are way, way out of my fucking league. And when a couple of young girlies walked in and started stretching and limbering up, both Karol and I instantly attempted to be harder and tougher than the Terminator and Wolverine’s bastard child combined. OK, these girls wern’t anything special – but they had that all important X factor; they had a pulse. AND they were wearing lycra. There was more camel toe action going on than you’d expect to see at London Zoo. It was fucking great.

As it was quiet and there wasn’t any harder, stronger, better-looking competition, Karol and I started chatting to the girls. Just the general low-level please will you let me fuck you stuff. Things were going well. The great thing about infrequent visits to the gym is that any member of the opposite sex you meet there can be easily fooled into thinking your healthy and have the kind of stamina to go like a fucking train all night long. So, my particular girl was showing some interest. Then, as normally happens, I needed to go and have a piss. I excused myself, saying I had to visit the little boys room, and slinked off to the bogs.

And the double-headed piss dragon reared its great brutish head and struck like an unholy harbinger of doom from another plane of existance.... Essentially, I managed to piss myself.

I got the wee chap out, pointed Percy at the porceline and – after a cursory look round for any arse bandits – bombs away. But instead of pissing arrow-straight in one glorious yellowish arc, my cock did the double-headed piss dragon thing and a couple of streams of piss came out of my dick all, well, cock-eyed. Maybe it was the strenuous exercise? Maybe it was the lazy lob-on I was sporting on account of the vauge possibility of actually getting some? But either way, one stream went off to the right, the other shot directly down, soaking my trainers and seeping into my socks. I squeezed my bell end quickly, attempting to correct my cock malfunction, but only managed to douse myself in more hot piss.

Bugger...

I surveyed the damage in the mirror. My light blue shorts had a steamy dark patch round the crotch. I patted my willy and balls down with a few paper towels. No good. Then I realised the smell was pretty fucking awful too, I’d have to do a full on clean. So I whipped my shorts off and ran them under the tap, squirting a little foam soap onto them. I scrubbed for a while, rinsed the stinky shorts off, and attempted to dry them under the hand dryier. Sod it, dry enough. Can hardly tell. Then I slipped them back on, quickly patted at my plums - dry as a fucking bone - and hurried back to the equipment room and the hot unchartered vagina waiting for me there.

The perfect fucking crime.

“So, would you like to go for a pint after this?” I asked, as I stood next to this girl after crossing the gym in as alluring a way as humanly possible for a humpbacked, sweaty, mongfuckwit deformed cunt twat like my goodself . Karol was making good progress with his, looking all manly and masculine, pushing his chest out and pulling his gut in. I had some time to make up. But this girl was staring at me. And not in a good way. Infact, she’d been staring at me since I walked back into the brightly lit gym.

“I don’t think so,” she said with a sneer and stalked off, grabbing her mate’s arm and dragging her away from my Polish pal.

Karol looked at me. Looked down at my shorts. Then he called me a cunt.

Turns out under the bright gym lights the damp patch on my shorts was pretty evident still. But I don’t think that was the clincher, no. You see, it turns out in my haste to get back out to try and get balls deep inside this eighteen year old girl, I’d accidentally put my shorts on back to front...

... apparently it looked like I’d well and truly, runny-poo shat myself...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:21, 6 replies)

S club 7 in watersports shame
Years ago i belonged to a gym just outside Bath. The posh kind that doubled up as a posh country hotel.

Thats the scene set..one day in the mid 90's there is a bit more than the usual activity in the gym. "She looks familiar" thinks Pilpsuk..."and her...and her too"

Turns out they were the girls from S club 7 - including the racist one (who wasnt racist at the time)

Overcome with excitement i retreat to the pool and then the spa I dont know about you, but swimming does something to my bladder. No sooner was I in the hot bubbly water than Rachel Stevens and others come in too.

Pilpsuk faces a dilema. Does he stay and perve or does he go to the loo and risk some perve getting his place. Ah, I do both.

I can honestly say that I pissed on S club 7
(sarcasminasuit, Wed 15 Jul 2009, 14:06, 4 replies)

Daley Thompson
I've got a couple of gym stories that I've posted before - when the little chap escaped from my shorts in a "Body Pump" class and flapped up and down in time with the music; and the time I slipped in the shower and sat on a bemused naked Chinese man.

But I once joined a David Lloyd gym when I believed I could afford it. I was trying to make friends there but everyone was determined to be snooty, even the chavs looked down on each other. On one occassion Daley Thomson was using the rowing machine (does he belong to every gym in South London?!) and someone said quietly "look over there, its Daley Thompson".

I shouted "HA! DALEY THOMPSON" and mimed vigourously waggling a joystick - I knew him from the computer game more than anything. But unfortunately when he turned around it looked like I was calling him a wanker, and that was the last time anyone at that gym spoke to me.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 11:40, 9 replies)

They have a new machine at my gym
They have this new machine at my local gym. it's fantastic. I use it every time I go there. In fact, the last time I went there I used it too much and I was really sick afterwards, but I LOVE it!! It's got Mars bars, Snickers, peanuts, chips and all kinds of good stuff!!
(richardr, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 7:51, Reply)

Not very good, or funny, or moving...Just something that makes me smile
When I go to my gym and use the rowing machines: it's not bolted to the floor, and is on waxed wooden flooring - so I actually do physically move forwards with each rowing stroke.

Rowing past people on treadmills and weight machines etc to the other side of the gym is a simple pleasure, but it really does make the gym visit infinitely more enjoyable.

Sometimes I do a little wave and nod as I row past them.
(Pat_Gash, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 11:39, 2 replies)

These things happen to me.
I once had free use of the gym at the educational establishment I worked at. Wasn't the most equipped gym, but the machine room had a cross-trainer, two treadmills, two rowing machines and a handful of bikes of varying antiquity.

Anyway, I used to go with a few people from my office, we'd start with a jog around campus, and on this eventful evening a gent who I was trying to impress who'd just started coming with us was first up on the treadmill. I ended up on the rower, and bided my time until the moment was right and I could get on the treadmill next to him.

The second treadmill was a basic, very old one, with no horizontal bar across. It had moments of unreliability, but to be honest I didn't mind that the best information its tiny LCD gave out was km/h and estimated calories. The other machine gave out heartrate, distance achieved and likelihood of Carole Thatcher incursion.

This particular night, while I was at girly-running full pelt next to him, sweat emerging from every pore and panting like a police dog in Nottinghamshire - the power went off in the gym.

Hunky new bloke described the moment as thus:
"One minute you were running like a spaz, then the lights went really dim, a loud clattering and slapping sound, followed by a thud and when the lights came back on, there was a smear of blood down the wall and you were in a heap in front of your machine."

I broke my nose, glasses and self-respect on that night.
(lunus loves tizer, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 22:56, Reply)

My brother's mate, "Doughnut"
My brother has a friend who he and all his mates call Doughnut. He's always doing silly things, like meeting everyone at the pub, phoning to find out where everyone is and discovering that he's a week early, that sort of thing*.

One week, he joined a gym. In fairly short order, he found himself on a treadmill, jogging merrily on the spot. He got a bit warm doing this, so decided he'd take his sweatshirt off and continue running in his t-shirt.

While he was running.

So, without further ado, he pulls his sweatshirt up over his head, and gets kind of caught up in it. Remember, he's still running on the treadmill at this point.

No longer able to see, he loses his balance and steps off the side of the treadmill.

And runs full pelt into the weights room, still with his sweatshirt over his head.

My brother was nearly crying with laughter when he told me, and it still cracks me up now, many years later :)


* - another time, he went for a curry with a group of mates. Not being too experienced in the finer points of Indian cuisine (it was his first curry) he ordered a Vindaloo, "because it was the only one I'd heard of" O_o
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Mon 13 Jul 2009, 0:17, 2 replies)

no shirt, no shoes, no merkins
After my ass trembling session of Power Yoga I retreated to the YMCA ladies locker room to shower. I considered my stench a personal best as far as body odor goes and I wanted to jump in the pool stench free in consideration of my fellow swimmers. I’m not some gross sociopath who wishes to pollute the pool with all my stinky cooties.

As I walk past the steam room, I see it. Taped on the steam room door, is a laminated sign that reads, “Please, there is no shaving allowed in the steam room. No lotions or oils inside.” This sign is new. It wasn’t here the last time I was in the ladies locker room.

Do you know what that means? Let me explain. Since I was last in this YMCA, someone brought in a razor and shaving cream and attempted, or possibly succeeded, in depilitating the hair on their body. The most likely scenario is the legs.

Maybe.

The other possibility is the pubic region and perhaps the anus as well.

My YMCA is top o’ the line. It’s not some bus station bathroom where transients freshen up in the community sinks and comb the lice out of their hair with a desiccated fishbone.

I have tended to my hirsute frame in many bathrooms and even a few kitchens on occasion. But I have never been tempted to shave my pits, legs, bush or corn hole in the public arena. Even when I pay to get a wax, the tiny room has only two inhabitants, the shameless Russian immigrant dripping hot wax onto my beaver, and me.

What type of woman brings her grooming into a public steam room? She is no friend of mine I’ll tell you that. Already I feel I see too much of the women in the locker room. Stretch marks, abdominal scars, ingrown hairs, cellulite, ass pimples and lots and lots of tits. The towels are plentiful. Ladies, please take one. Or two.

Back to the exhibitionist shaver. What’s the demographic? She could be older I guess.

Maybe someone divorced who’s clearly put a good distance between herself and someone who actually gives a shit about what others think.

Maybe she’s someone younger who’s ignorant to the etiquette of such personal grooming nuances. Someone raised on porn who feels it’s perfectly acceptable to offer the world a calling card of freshly shaved gash as you’re looking to sweat out some chicken tikka or paneer.

Maybe she’s an asshole. A hairy asshole.
(persnickety I Am The Seaward, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 18:58, 1 reply)

Physics
Cosmologists have, for several years, been grappling with the problem of the universe's missing mass. My limited understanding of the situation is that, in a body such as this galaxy, there doesn't seem to be enough mass - and therefore not enough gravity - to hold it together.

The missing mass gets labelled "dark matter"; one hypothesis is that dark matter is made of subatomic Weakly Interacting Massive Particles - "WIMPS" for short.

I was contemplating this at the gym, and I think I have made a breakthrough that'll guarantee my immortality among cosmologists. The "missing" mass isn't missing. It was fighting to escape from the lycra of the creature on the treadmill in front of me.

And the missing matter isn't dark at all. It's pasty. In fact, such is its albedo, I think that I might also have stumbled upon the explanation of gamma-ray bursts as well.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 9:25, 7 replies)

Even more tenuous a link than my "Buses" story? Yewbetcherass it is...
Think I'll just cram this one in here - the cathartic urge to share this story is the reason I finally joined b3ta (alas I joined slightly too late to share it in more appropriate weeks, namely 'School Days', 'Nativity Plays' and 'The Thing I'm Most Ashamed Of Doing With A Penis').

I wrote this back in March and it's been sitting on my desktop waiting for another suitable question. As the story happened in my school gym (and as I'm getting a new work laptop and can't be arsed to transfer it across), I'm going to cram it in here (with a couple of tweaks for topicality). Flame away.

The story takes me back about 20 years, to the days when camcorders were thankfully absent from school plays - not to prevent paedophiles getting their kicks, but because it would have taken a well-trained team of oxen to lug that size of equipment in.

Due to being one of the best in my class at reading (I know, I know - no-one likes a show-off), I had been assigned the role of narrator - a plum role as I saw it, with lots of lines (and therefore lots of the limelight) but no need for learning as I could have my prompt sheet with me at all times. This meant that I paid even less attention during rehearsals than would be expected from an 8-year-old child - notably so during the final dress rehearsal in the afternoon before the big show, where I spent the majority of the time indulging in the fizzy drinks and crisps brought in for the end of term.

All this backfired spectacularly an hour or so before the show - one of my classmates (I shall call him Jon, for that was his name) had developed a rash, and was sent home with suspected chickenpox. Jon was therefore unavailable for the evening's big performance, and so his role - that of Angel Gabriel - needed an urgent replacement.

Deciding that it was too big an acting leap for some of the other kids to make from Sheep #3 to the Chief Angel, the teachers conferred and settled on no-one other than myself as his replacement. My logical protests that I didn't know any of his lines fell on deaf ears, and I spent the next 60 minutes desperately trying to learn the role of Gabriel, whilst another child (I can't remember, but they'd probably been promoted from playing a farmyard animal) smugly took my part, safe in the knowledge that all their new lines could just be read off the paper in their hands.

All the rushing around learning lines and being fitted with a tinsel halo and angel's smock (a hastily adapted white bedsheet) meant that I didn't have enough time to go through the usual preparation for a child actor - namely a trip to the little boys' room. It was only when I strutted onto stage in our school gymnasium, followed and quickly surrounded by a veritable harem of angels (the entire female population of the reception class) that my oversight became apparent. All that time spent filling up on fizzy drinks earlier in the day came back to haunt me spectacularly, and I was squirming around like Michael Jackson's personal physician under cross-examination.

Angel Gabriel didn't have many lines in the play, and from what I can remember my basic job was to inform Mary early on that she would give birth to the son of God. (I can remember that even now, so why the hell couldn't I remember it then, given my hour's worth of intensive training?)

The play started, and all was going swimmingly until the a deathly silence fell upon the stage (a clear sign that it was my line). Try as I might, I couldn't for the life of me remember what it was I was meant to be saying.

With the school gym full of parents (including my soon-to-be not-so-proud mother) watching, I let the pressure get to me in the only way an 8-year-old boy can: I wet myself.

The afternoon spent imbibing my bodyweight in cola meant that my accident was regrettably spectacular - I kept going and going, leaving the crowd of angels around my feet like a pre-pubescent piss-Pompeii, drenched from toe to tinsel.

I then took the only logical option open to me, and attempted to flee from the stage, tripping as I did over my hastily-fashioned smock and falling smack into the middle of a crowd of angels, only succeeding in spreading the flow of piss yet further.

Picking myself up and running to the back of the gym, my last memory of that nativity is hearing the stand-in narrator continuing with his next line, cool as ever:

"And so the Angel Gabriel left Mary, bathed in a golden pool of light..."

Smug bastard.

And no, since you ask - nothing else funny has ever happened to me in a gym. Or with a tramp. Or on a bus.

*flounces*
( TheMagicDwarf is back like ballroom dancing, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:05, 3 replies)

One day...
I'll open a bar called "The Gym".

Problem solved.
( Zak McFlimby Twibbling @McFlimby, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 14:01, 6 replies)

I went to a gym once.
He fixed it for me.
(jamesthegill opens new tabs with his scroll wheel, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 13:49, 1 reply)