“Botendaddy, what was that?” Asked the Carribbean Queen. “You passed that young guy who was 300 yards ahead of you. Made all your splits. You missed passing time on the Army PT run by only three seconds. You ran a sub 30 minute three mile time and you beat your 5k goal by 1:10! Your waist is in the 30s (high 30s) you are only 3.9 pounds away from escaping BMI obese!”
The CQ sat next to me on the bench. I was massaging her shoulders and back. She was sighing with deep erotic/romantic pleasure.
“Well, maybe I just got out of the physical fitness plateau. I’ve crossed some kind of barrier.”
“So you think the physical fitness is like any other body system? Slow and consistent work, often with invisible gains leads to progress.”
The Carribbean Queen moaned as I massaged under her sweaty shirt and moved my masculine hands down to her hips.
“Why are they all obsessed with me?” I asked myself, with a dotted outlined bubble over my head. Am I really an evil cult leader? “I’ve figured it out. They are all at points in their life where they aren’t ready to settle down, get married, do the <quote> normal <quote> thing. I may be the last escape for all of them.”
Despite my blistering literary critiques of their sub-standard, unimaginative, derivative and generally uninspired shitty writing, they all do love me in their own way, but it’s like going to the movies. A respite from normality, a respite from reality, a respite from routine.
“CQ, I have lost 51 pounds and although I look good in clothes. I know I don’t have that trim sh!tlord look yet. The psycho hose-beast Voat-FPH girl was right. Maybe if you are even one pound over the BMI for the ‘good’ range, it is still not healthy. We can’t delude ourselves. It’s unmistakable even with clothes on. And I am not a hater. I have no negative judgment of peoples’ bodies. I love big broads. BIG. They are the only ones to whom it’s proper and necessary to give a bare-handed spanking, or maybe… large transvestites, or… cross-dressers, or… anyone I can talk into it and hold down long enough…”
The CQ leaned back, shaking her head in disgust. “I know. I am still sore, you dirty, old, filthy, Aqualung, perv. I’m 22 and you sullied my person. And, I let you. I must have gone insane. My mother warned me.”
“Did you know that the BMI came from insurance mortality tables? Mortality as in mortal? As in death? This has me worried. Maybe the only way to look good naked is to be within the good BMI? The Army has me at 223 max. The BMI chart has me at 199. The BMI calculator has me at 194 and the insurance table has me at max 178! WTF? I could do a Meadowlark Lemon-Memorial, reverse David Thompson 360, Connie Hawkins, Dr. J., ABA slam dunk with oak leaf cluster and sugar on top at 178. Not to be racially insensitive, but this white boy can jump.”
“You looked good naked, Botendaddy. Your tan, your milky white buttoc…”
“Stop, I don’t want my readers to hear this, they are nice people. They don’t need to hear all of this prurient filth. You know, too thin and you look weak-for a man. If you’re old, you look like Mr. Burns. It’s not a good look. I like looking strong, like a muscular, phallic, macho, bull or a gold-plated, Soviet gangster, miniature giraffe.”
“I can’t take it anymore, Botendaddy. We’re going back to my van and you are making love to me right now. Right now or I’ll die, I need you close to me, touching me, invading my body and my very soul! You disgusting, perverted, freakish, macabre, Lovecraftian silver devil!”
Peace be the Botendaddy