8/23/2004
 
Dancing at one of those late night clubs that my people love so much, what with the flashing lights and the hypnotic beats, there I am with my shirt off, amid a sea of muscled bodies. They usually leave me alone, I’m practically invisible to them and I kind of enjoy the anonymity that my relatively puny frame allows. Sure the pool at my gym has been closed two weeks for repairs and I’ve been forced to lift weights, but I’ve resigned myself to the fact that my body is a little muscle retarded. Anyway, I’m an intellectual, how many intellectuals do you know have biceps? Exactly, only two.

As I’m dancing I feel someone pinch my ass. I work in a little pirouette to see the culprit and twirl to find myself in front of a burly hunk of a man. He looks like he knows the difference between deltoids and, um, those other muscles on the, you know, legs. I could probably hang from one of his arms and swing my legs, but only if he let me. I’d definitely ask permission before swinging on one of his arms because I wouldn’t want him to get angry and make him charge.

He winks, which is strange. My people divide ourselves quite strictly into splinter groups and we tend to stick to our own. Indie boys grow their hair long and shimmy to the Velvet Underground only with each other. Bears let their chest hair roam free to ensnare other bears. I think there’s probably a fine if we interbreed.

I wink back at him, in a “woo, look at us with our tops off dancing in a big room” kinda way and he slips an arm around my waist and kisses me. It takes me aback and when he lets go I find I’m a bit flustered.

“You’ve got great tits” he says, smiling.

I’ve got what? Tits? I look down at my chest and there’s just my chest, no breasts, just my chest which, granted, has become slightly curvier over the past few weeks…

And there it is. I have pecs. I experience a rush of adrenaline, and then immediately after, a pang of guilt, like the committed feminist who secretly enjoys it when the sleazy guy comments on her ‘great set of pins’.

“Tits.” I think to myself, tutting quietly and rolling my eyes, all the while puffing out my chest just that ever so slightly as we continue to dance.
 

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sites what I wrote on:
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tools:

life hacker
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