Puerto Rican Patrick Bateman and the Art of Gym Dodging

When I go to the gym I have to do a lot of “dodging.”

I have to dodge Pasty Gym Stalker lest he slip a roofie in my BPA-free water bottle and I find myself in his basement, tied up with one of his red, white or blue bandannas while he spanks my bare ass with his Skecher’s Shape-Ups.

I have to dodge Yoga Chick because I’m afraid if I repeatedly turn down her services as a masseuse, trainer or physical therapist it won’t be long before she offers me a handy j for $5 behind the trashcan next to the pool.

I have to dodge Invisalign With a Side of Low Impact Cardio because we have the same body type and yet he never raises his heart rate above 116 BPM and that makes me want to strangle him/ask him for skin tips. (His skin is great).

I have to dodge Nobody Wants to See Your Ball Sack because I don’t want to get hit by those low hangers either.

I have to dodge No Underwear Asian Guy because I let him talk to me once and then he showed up at my work and I was wearing long sleeves and I couldn’t rely on my biceps as a visual reminder of my general dominance and that wasn’t so bad until his friends showed up and they were all male models and I then I had to spend the next five minutes trying to decide whether I’d die quicker by impaling myself on a fork or a knife. (SPOILER ALERT: I didn’t have time to kill myself because my favorite work gays, I Hate Everyone and Everything and Bitch You Must Be Confused flew into a tizzy and started dry humping everything in sight while salivating over The Real Male Models of the San Fernando Valley.)

I have to dodge my Gym Nemesis because one time we accidentally locked eyes and I saw him try to non-verbally communicate the entire plot of Twilight to me  which in turn made me think about wolves- and then I went home and watched Dances With Wolves- and then I made it a point to bring up how much I love Kevin Costner to some actor friends during Happy Hour and they threw copious amounts of shade at me.

I have to dodge Slightly Brained Damaged Possibly a Male Escort because he drives a nicer car than I do and when I realized that it made me imagine having a conversation with my mother wherein I break the news that she raised a hooker.

The plus side of all this dodging is that I get to keep my cardio to a minimum, but it makes me anxious. I’m sure it’s great for my metabolism, but what about my blood pressure? I thought I had my dodging down to a science until I was approached by a new member of The LA Fitness Circle of Trolls: Puerto Rican Patrick Bateman.

bateman3

I never even saw him coming. He looks like the kind of guy Madonna used to cast to dance in her videos-ya know, back in the day when the twinkiest of the latino lot didn’t have any expectation of going on to become her boyfriend. Perfect hair, perfect body and perfect teeth. In other words, he was fucking crazy.

bateman1

When he approached me he flashed a disarming smile.

“Hi.”

Oh my god no one should be that hairless.

“What are they called?” he asked while he adjusted his junk, pointing at my lower half.

It’s a one-legged dumbbell deadlift and I find it hard to believe you don’t know that considering your quads are the size of my car.

“It’s a modified deadlift to isolate one leg at a time.”

Stop touching yourself.

“No, your sneakers.”

I’m sorry I was distracted by the testicular exam you were administering.

“Oh. They’re Nikes.”

“Yeah but what’s their name?”

I don’t name my shoes.

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“Can you lift your foot up?”

What the fuck?

“Okay.”

“Zoom. It says it on the sole.”

GET AWAY FROM ME BEFORE MY GYM CRUSH THINKS I STEPPED IN DOG SHIT.

“Where did you get them?”

bateman 2

Holy Fuck I’m in a Bret Easton Ellis novel.

“Online.”

“Where?”

What do you want-my goddamn IP address?

“Foot Locker, I think.”

“Cool, I’ll have to get a pair.”

Great, now I’m going to have to burn them.

He flashed a smile that said I’d probably slit your throat in the bathroom stall of an Ibiza nightclub and went back to the Smith machine.

bateman4

I’m telling you guys this because if I wind up hacked to pieces by a chainsaw- I don’t want Bret Easton Ellis writing the novel that the movie is based on. Sell this blog entry to a studio and give the money to my mom so she can lead the life she would have if I had gone on to become a successful male escort.

PS. Make sure they cast Jake Gyllenhaal, but please make him shave first.

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