“Sittin’ On The Dock Of The Bay”, by Otis Redding, is a catchy song, but once you listen to it, you realize that his concept of “wastin’ time” is pretty depressing. But once again, I was just “wastin’ time”. I didn’t want to go in the building yet, so I sat in the parking lot like a police officer on a stakeout. I used to have a “come-early-stay-late” mentality, but now I was content enough to arrive right before my appointment time, which was considered late by company standards.

After I realized that I was mostly commissioned, I became more lax, since I reasoned that it would be stupid of the company to let me go and lose the money I was making them.  That being said, I sat enjoying watching the young ladies walk down the long parking lot sporting yoga pants—those nylon or spandex or whatever it is—call me a creep if you will—but there’s something about those pants. Those pants can even make women that have goat cheese look appealing; the same way the wrapper on salami disguises the fact that it is just offal.

These women walked to a building that seemed monolithic—its roof jutted erect into the sky—higher than the other buildings in the shopping center. Even when it was still and empty, somebody was getting fucked, as the mini-skyscraper’s boner was covered by mirrors to make it look professional–a “church for thugs” if you will. On either side of it, there were stores suited to undo all of the discipline the building helped them obtain: Toys R Us, Chipotle and AT&T offered a way of reneging some of that discipline and letting the denizens of this mirrored “church” indulge in the shopping and eating that was supposed to be off limits during their time in congregation.

Like the outside, the inside was heavily mirrored, so that the people could look at themselves doing movements that accentuated their newfound “sexuality”. Guys often checking the mirror for vascularity after doing dumbbell curls; looking for that big vein that runs squiggly down the center of the arm, like a river bed running on top of a mountain. Girls liked to watch themselves squatting, and they often squeezed their butt cheeks together when standing in the mirror; pony-tailed and sports bra wearing girls.

I’ve got to admit, I’ve often looked at myself in the mirror, not always liking what I see. I am one of those chicken-legged guys. Chicken legs occurs because the gastrocnemius (calve muscle complex) begins closer the upper leg making the lower leg appear more slender and sticklike. Because of all of the leg work I did, my thighs were massive, but it still looked like I was supporting my big frame on a pair of chopsticks. I would do three sets of thirty to fifty repetitions on each leg with thirty five to fifty pounds of weight (not including my body weight) and only get a temporary pump. I guess I wasn’t built to be a body builder.

I closed my sunroof and windows and hopped out of my car sporting my red and black company brand shirt with the cursive capital “B” that was imprinted on my left chest. I chose shirts that hung loosely on my body. I decided to get the shirt a little larger so that the shirt would hang off of my chest and over my belly, giving me that “draped” look. My main asset was that my chest muscles grew easily, and responded positively even to calisthenics.  But my stomach was a detractor. I could drink a half a glass of water and have my belly protrude as if I was a silhouette of Alfred Hitchcock. I didn’t have that tall, lean, “humping the sky” waistline like a lot of my meathead counterparts had. My baggy black Tommy Hilfiger windbreaker pants, a remnant from my warehouse techno party days, had a zipper on the side of the pant leg that served to “widen” the pant leg.  Most people know this look from the era when “JNCO” was more than a bunch of jumbled letters— when people wore their jeans over their feet.  To complete my ensemble, I wore a pair of orange and black Nike pool shoes. They replaced the Nike “presto” style. I dragged my feet as I approached what folks call “the gym”  lookin’ like a straight up bamma.

When I got to the door I saw Gussut, this chubby Cambodian dude who had big lips, wore glasses and was raised in a ghetto neighborhood. He had tats and said “nigga” all the time. Next to him was fat-assed Shirley. A sexy chocolate thing; Shirley was one of those queen-bee black girls with the little waist and “Hips with an Ass”, when one can tell how fat a girl’s ass is by looking at her hips. I wanted to fuck her face-to-face, with her on top, using her hips as a steering unit, and grab on to her two huge , humongous butt cheeks for dear life. She also had a decent rack I might add. Another thing that turned me on about Shirley was that she wore glasses, giving her that “intelligent lay” look.

“What’s going on guys?”

I said looking at them like they were ghetto poster children for an Hour Eyes commercial.

“Whatup yo?”

Gussut said, choosing to be politically correct.

“Maintainin, maintainin’. “

I looked over at Shirley and she was just putting down the phone and looked up at me.


“Hey girl, what’s good?”

Although I had an appointment, I was always willing to take time out to talk to Shirley.

“Nothing much, just workin’…you know how it is..”

“Fo’ sho’”

I said, trying to be hip.

“Aite then y’all, time to get my grind on…I’ll holla”

“Aite then.” they said in unison.

I made my way up the stairway that had a mirror on the wall to the side of it.

This place is totally self-conscious.” I thought, checking out my imperfections. I tried to look at myself out of the corner of my eye on the peripheral to see how much my belly or nose jutted out as I walked up the stairs. I briefly reminisced on how Shirley told me she was only giving me her phone number for friendship purposes and that she didn’t date people she worked with.

That’s plain bullshit.”

I thought because although we work in the same building, we don’t have the same boss.  I know this because when the other alpha-male trainers invite her out, she eagerly goes.

Ah, the plight of the gamma male. See, guys are like wolves. I have heard some people casually talk about social circles with two types of dudes: alpha and beta.  Where alpha is hot shit and beta is a chump.  But I think male interaction is a little more complex, with at least three types of wolf personalities: alpha, beta, and omega. The alpha male, is usually the leader of the pack and always looking to show his superiority. Then there is the beta male. The beta male role can go two ways. He can be always looking for alpha to show signs of weakness to vie for his position; or, he can be alpha’s right-hand-man. Last, there is the runt, or omega, who is the one who is the last for everything. He is last to eat, gets picked on, hangs around the other wolves, never vies for position, never points out when alpha is abusing his power.

In my mind’s eye I’m a gamma. I’m not power-hungry enough to be an alpha, and although I have beta tendencies, had I the chance to usurp alpha’s role, I would probably pass it to someone else. Simultaneously, I am not the one to lie down and take anyone’s shit for long. I point out to alpha when he’s wrong, and I hold my ground, although I don’t usually choose to attack unless absolutely necessary. So I don’t consider myself an omega, or a “yes” man.

I made my way up the stairs and finally made it to the top. There were two flights of long stairs with a mirror on your left if you are walking up. In the middle of the staircase, there is a railing that show-off monkey trainers like one guy we called “Junior” used to slide all the way down to the bottom as if they were Fonzi on Happy Days. The tiles on the staircase are highly bathroomesque, being grey with grout in between them. On the right side of the staircase was a railing that from different points one could look down on the tops of the heads of Gussut and Shirley. At the at the bottom of the staircase, where people entered, was a two-level glass case retailing all types of protein, creatine, xenadrine tablets, ephedrine tablets, and all of those supplements with all of that shiny-shit packaging.


Stay tuned for the next story:

Part 2: “Crater-Face Jake”



Leave A Comment