They Call Me Interruptus

I work out at the straightest gym on the planet. Even the male aerobics instructors are straight, and honestly I thought that was against the law.

In a way, this is good because it means I have no trouble focusing on my workout. On the other hand, sometimes the parade of ugly straight men can be downright depressing.

And when I say ugly, I mean uhhhhhggglly. If Pope Benedict XVI came in and climbed onto the stationary bicycle next to mine I wouldn't even blink.

It's bad enough seeing these men naked in the locker room. Most of them go through incredible Kama Sutra contortions to hide their naughty bits when they change (who do they think is looking?) but there's still enough showing to wreck your appetite for a week.

Just imagine my discomfiture when yesterday I walked into the steam room and interrupted two of them who were lusting after each other.

They weren't touching or anything, but I could tell in an instant what was going on. There was a third fellow already in the room, and these two were obviously wanting to be alone together. Both had wedding rings and (judging from appearances) came from "I must marry and produce children despite my lust for men" sorts of cultures.*

As I sat down they glared at me, and then looked at each other, and heaved obvious sighs of discontent. (Amateurs are so indiscreet.)

I wasn't going to curtail my schvitz to enable their covert game of leapfrog. When I left ten minutes later for the sauna they were still sitting there, flirting with each other and with severe dehydration.

The sauna, ironically, was empty. I sat down in my favorite spot, this sort of deep niche to the right of the door that isn't well lit and where the heat tends to concentrate.

I hadn't been in there two minutes and was just getting to a marvelous state of relaxation when the door opened, and in came Tweedledee and Tweedledum. They were so in rut by this time that they didn't check the niche to see if it was empty. They just opened their towels and started playing Pole Position.

So I did what any compassionate gay man would do. I sat very still, waited for what dramatists call the Apex of the Action Sequence, and then I SUDDENLY COUGHED VERY LOUDLY.

Have you ever seen a man startled out of his wits while in the throes of orgasm? It's cute.

*I'll be honest. I have about the same amount of sympathy for these men that I do for the people who sue fast food chains for making them fat.

Maybe Tomorrow We Can Watch "Beaches"

When all goes according to plan, I work out on my lunch hour at gym near the office. I have nice little routine that fits into the hour, including a quick shower and the walk there and back. I occasionally get back five minutes late, but as the energy boost allows me to continue to produce while my colleagues doze off, I don't feel guilty about it.

Anyhow, this gym is (like every other damn thing in Evanston) distinctly yuppie in tone. The crowd is usually me, six or so sorority girls, a collection of women who could be extras on Desperate Housewives, and assorted straight businessmen who are generally either teaching or studying at the university's business school.

The businessmen are always outnumbered three to one by everybody else. But as is their way, they still manage to dominate the place. They shout personal conversations from one end of the room to the other, they loll about on machines while others are waiting to use them, they spread their belongings across the floors and benches of the crowded locker room. And although this is a gymnasium and not the offices of Merrill Lynch, they always insist on keeping the television facing the cardiovascular machines tuned to one of the financial channels.

Not today.

I don't know how it happened, but as I was climbing onto the whateverthehell machine (it's good for the glutes), I noticed that the television was showing HGTV or some similar network. A sweetly plump lady in a patterned blouse was planting herbs under a grow-light, assisted by a green queen in bermuda shorts and sandals (nice legs).

So instead of closing my eyes and blasting the "Hi-NRG Opera" playlist on my iPod as usual, I watched the show and I think even learned why my last rosemary plant went buns up on me even though I didn't overwater it. Most pleasant.

But this is really not about me, it's about the businessmen. Their reaction to this unthinkable state of affairs was extremely amusing.

There were three of them (out of about 14 people on the machines) and they were visibly upset and being deprived of their choice of channel for an hour. Two of them appealed directly to the crowd in general.

The first wandered in, looked at the television, and asked, "Are you watching this?" (A peculiar question to ask 11 people whose eyes are trained on the screen.)

We replied in chorus, "Yes."

The second came in about five minutes later. "Would you mind if I changed this?"

Again we replied, "Yes."

He shook his head and heaved himself onto a bicycle next to the first guy. They were near enough that I could hear them grousing. "What the f--k is this?" "Hell if I know."

The third guy came in and just walked over and reached up to change the channel.

"Hey!" shouted a woman on a treadmill, "We're watching that."

He turned around and look blankly at us for a minute, then turned back around and reached for the buttons again.

"I said we are watching that, do not change the channel," said Treadmill Woman, with more than a hint of firmness in her tone.

The guy turned to me - I was on the machine closest to the television - and said conspiratorially, "You believe this s--t? How long until these bitches clear out so we can have the TV back?"

I leaned over and whispered, "Soon, I hope. I want to flip it over to Lifetime so we can catch the Designing Women marathon."