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July 2010 Volume 12 , Issue 7 submit to us!

by Glenn Parkhurst -- Contributing Author [Email This Story]

To beat the after New Year's rush, I took out a membership in a local gym. With the membership came a free session with a personal trainer. Free is a word I like. I took it even though the guy that spoke to me, Gymli, looked like a taller version of the dwarf from Lord of the Rings and crushed two of my four fingers during our handshake.

When I arrived for my appointment, instead of Gymli, a tall, lithe, very hot, long haired blonde beauty greeted me.

"Gymli isn't here, so I'll take care of you, if you don't mind," she said.

"Gymli?" I asked.

Wow, I thought.

"Gymli, I guy you scheduled with?" she asked.

I forced myself to concentrate.

"Oh, Gymli. Yes. No. I mean, you'll be fine," I said.

I gazed at her pretty smile, white even teeth, the sparkle that was a tiny diamond glinting from the side of her nose. I fell into her blue green eyes. I forced myself to restrict myself to her face.

As I did, she explained all about physical fitness, an hours worth in twenty minutes. I should have paid more attention when words such as low fat, break down, and exercise, words I didn't understand, crossed through my occupied mind. I distractedly wiped the goose bumps flat when statements like ‘work more' ‘eat less' came from those perfect lips.

"Mr. Parson? Mr. Parson?" she asked

"Huh? Oh yes?" I replied.

It took all my effort to focus.

"Let's do a little workout," she said.

"Okay," I replied.

I wanted to be sure she knew I was eager to be there.

Then she said those two words I had been waiting for.

"Follow me."

"Yes, ma'am!"

She led me into the main floor where several people were in motion doing . . . things.

"We'll start with a five minute cardio warm up," she said.

I climbed aboard the running thing and began to cycle my legs while I hung on to handles that went opposite my legs. It was like running, I thought. I don't run, crossed my mind but she interrupted my thoughts.

"I'll be right back," she said and left me.

No sweat. I'm here to kill fat so away I went. Round and round went my legs. It wasn't long before I realized why I don't dance. My arms and legs disagree on who goes where and when and my right didn't want to go forward when my leg went back and versa vicea with the left. A few passerbys stopped to watch, smiled, and continued on their way. It wasn't long before I tried to remember what she had called the machine. Cardiac arrest may have been the name.

She returned.

"How's that?" she asked.

"No sweat," I said.

"Need a few more minutes?" she asked.


"No, I think that's enough," I said or panted as some may describe.

"Follow me," she said.

Happy again, I complied. Had I known where she was leading or what the future had in store . . . .

"Sit here," she said.

I dropped into a seat and looked up at her. Not bad, not bad at all.

"Grab the handles and extend out all the way," she said.

I pushed them out. Nothing to it.

"Okay, all the way back and do it again," she said.

I did and stopped all the way out.

"No, in and out till I say stop," she said.

Oh, I get it. So I did. Then it got harder but I refused to show pain.

"Okay," she said.

Thank God, I thought and started bringing the weights back to rest.

"Stop at half way," she said with an evil smile.

"Now all the way out and back half way. Do a few," she said.

I'm not sure when it happened but I swear her lycra turned to black patent leather.

"Now all the way out and back slowly. DON'T let the weight touch," she said.

I think I saw a fang peeking out from her smile.

"That's good," she said. "All the way down."

My arms floated toward the ceiling on their own.

"Follow me," she said.

This time I looked for an exit as I trailed behind.

She pointed to another chair, similar to the previous torture device.

We followed a similar routine. Her black leather whip tapping against her thigh.

When the horror ended she spun around on her spiked heels and said, "Follow me."

I knew she could take me so I decided against trying to run and prayed we were near the end.

"Almost finished," she said, her white angelic wings spreading out.

She had used them to hide the next chamber of horrors.

"Sit here," she said in her satanic voice through the black leather mask, fire flicking all around her. Oh, the devil is tricky.

I crawled through the seven levels of hell as she poked and prodded me with her fiery pitchfork and planted those spiked heels in my back. She put chrome barbells in my hands no bigger than a sixteen ounce coke yet somehow they weighed seven thousand hundred billion pounds.

"Keep your elbows bent," she said.

Happy as a lark she was.

Finally, finally, F . . . I . . . N . . . A . . . L . . . L . . . Y she said, "That's it. Need a drink? Grab your credit card and meet back at our table."

I wondered how much it was going to cost me to never, never, never come back here again. I staggered back to the locker room, looking over my shoulder only once, just to confirm that a short hairy slobbering monster dressed in skin tight black patent leather holding a whip, waited.

I huddled next to my locker sobbing. A nice man came by and lifted my key for me and unlocked my locker.

"It gets better," he said.

"Death?" I asked.

He laughed as he left.

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Features -- July 2010 -- Mid Month Issue