Team Cross-Sex

Do we really need someone yelling encouragement to do what’s good for us? That annoyance should have ended with, “Eat your lima beans or no Oreos for you.” We don’t need trainers or teammates telling us to do one more rep. I hated having a spotter while benching. A man’s sweaty nuts inches from my forehead is motivation for nothing other than decreasing the weight so I don’t need a spotter.

Yet, I watch the news and see a new team fitness joint opening up almost weekly. Even in my 24 Hour Fitness center, I’ll occasionally find a bunch of miserable saps tossing balls, ropes, and kettle bells while an overly energetic guru yells instruction. Yesterday was one of my can-take-no-more days, so I asked the front desk attendant, “How can we make that stop?” I received a stink eye. The silly noises continued.

Well, if this is appropriate for gyms, how about the bedrooms? Sign me up. Call me Trey the Cross-Sex Coach. I’ll set up five twin beds in a circle. I’ll pivot in the middle, giving instruction.

“Joe, what are you doing? Rub her feet, damn it!”

“Amy, for fuck’s sake will you stop checking your phone while Rob goes down on you?”

“That’s right, Chris. Stroke, stroke, stroke! All right, mix in a little stirring action. You’re not a piston. Stir, Chris. That’s it. Like you’re making butter. Atta kid.”

“Joanne, why are you being so silent? This is not a theater. Tell Jack what you want. Insist upon it. No asking. Tell him. Grab his ears. There ya go!”

“Jeff, did you just have an orgasm? Are you kidding me right now? Look what you did. I ought to rub your nose in it. Bad boy! Now, you go suck down some coconut water, watch five minutes of porn, and get your ass back here. You’ve let your teammate down. Shame. You best come back and deliver her two orgasms to make up for your premi-puddle of disappointment.”

“OK, team. Take five. Remember to breathe. Yes, I know I should not have to tell you to do something so basic to survival. Deal with it. Next, I’m going to introduce some devices to help you feel the burn. This half-ball thingie—I want the man on it, woman straddling. Ladies, your objective is to knock him off. Men, if your ass hits the hardwood, I’m going to snap you with this wet yoga towel. By the way, it’s wet with foot sweat—old man foot sweat. Keep your balance. This is ideal core work here. Stop whining and start bouncing.”

“Next we have these five-pound kettle bells. Time to tighten those cheeks, ladies. Place the handle in your ass crack. Squeeze, lift … two … three, and down. Nice. I’ll add in another prop. Your teammate is to throw ping pong balls at your clit. Drop that kettle bell and I’m going to put Pro Wrestling on the monitors. There ya go. Lift … two … three. Oh, Alison. Really? You’ve let us all down. Ever hear of Haystacks Calhoun? You will. Embrace the overalls.”

Hm. I may be on to something.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.