So we joined the Y and have been going pretty regularly. And I’m pretty sure it made me gay. I mean I am constantly checking out other women.
“Look at the guns on her; she makes Michelle Obama look like Olive Oyl.”
“I bet she does squats…Her thighs make me sore just looking at her.”
“Have you ever seen boobs like that? I want to touch them. No I don’t. Yes I do, but not the nipple, I’m not that gay.”
“That ass is perfection. A solid gold glute machine and the world’s finest plastic surgeon could not give me an ass like that.”
“Look how much space there is between her legs; you could throw a cat through there.”
I said cat, if you used a different term, then you are a very crude person.
So I asked my husband, who promises he has not been checking out the same women I have, if he thinks I’m gay.
“Baby,” he said, in his sweetest condescending tone, “if you were a lesbian you wouldn’t do what you did to me last night.”
“I might,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he grinned, “but you certainly wouldn’t have been so into it that you stopped in the middle to yell giddy up.”
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