Abdominal showman

NEW YORK POST – A (fitness) model was left red-faced after almost climaxing in her Pilates class. The 25-year-old normally loves working out, but during a recent group session she panicked after a specific ab exercise saw her oxytocin levels rise as she fought back an orgasm. Exercise-induced orgasms are fairly rare, but not unheard of. A sex researcher estimates that roughly 10% of people have them.

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(Our hero, ruminating on a cold February morning.)

Man. This sub-freezing winter weather is the worst. Blanketed in dirty white. Battling SAD. Whipped by windchill into captivity in my own castle, where the only entertainment amounts to dumping wine down my gullet and watching in 4K as the atrophy spreads from my calves to my collar bone.

You know what I need? I need to get moving. Kickstart the old ticker. I need some exercise. Yeah. I gotta get some exercise.

Too bad I don’t have any equipment that might …  Hey. Wait a minute. Haven’t I got some kind of apparatus down in the basement – something I bought when the world was supposedly coming to an end during Y2K? What the hell was the name of that thing, anyway. Pytolis? Lipotty? Pie Plates? Hold on. I think it sounds something like coffee and a prescription drug. Pill, pill … PILATES! Oh, my God. I have a Pilates downstairs!

OK. Let’s see what we’ve got here. Holy smokers, is that it? My God, really? It’s a floor machine? Jesus. How am I gonna get down there? Those two soft things sticking up look suspicious, for sure. And what are those ropes for? Cripes. Looks like a little bit more than exercise might be going on here.

All right. I think this is how I’m supposed to fit into this thing. So … what parts of this sagging sack of flesh should I begin to address first. Thighs? Nah. It wouldn’t be wise to work on my thighs, since they’re just the right size. (Heh, heh. Nothing like a little exercise poetry to get you motivated.) The bi’s and tri’s family? I dunno. I think maybe I’m already getting enough of a workout doing reps with the TV remote and the wine bottles.

Hey. What about my abs? That six-pack is starting to look like a keg, you know? Yeah. That’s a good place to start. What’s the best way to focus on that particular muscle group? Let’s see. If I slip my feet into these leather stirrups and reach back here with my arms for something to hold onto …

Whoa, whoa. This is definitely NOT a position I’d like to be photographed in. And I’m thinking it wouldn’t engender a hell of a lot of pride in my mom, either. OK, OK. Let’s just take a deep breath and see what happens here.

I’m thinking I probably should try to do a sit-up, and …

Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Is this thing sliding back and forth? Jesus! I’m strapped to a set of rails! What kind of demonic contraption is this, anyway? And why does it feel so good? So very, very good …

(Cheesy electric guitar music rises in the background as our hero slowly loses consciousness and the camera fades to black)