Do I Enjoy Running, Or Am I Just Horny?
Perhaps they aren’t mutually exclusive concepts
I’ve finally unlocked the ultimate secret that allows people to enjoy running for exercise, and it has nothing to do with running and everything to do with being horny.
The secret is shirtless men.
But before I proceed with the details of this secret, let me set the record straight: running sucks.
Every minute during which my legs and arms are pumping me forward feels like several hours, so that time itself becomes a cruel joke being played on me and my screaming lungs. Sweat slicks over every inch of my body until I am drowning in an ocean of my own fluids and my eyes sting from salt. Every hill becomes a mountain and the sun is a bright, blazing task-master.
So, naturally, I run several times a week.
Before the coronavirus, I was not what one would consider a runner. I worked out, but mostly on the elliptical that sits in the basement gym of my apartment building, largely neglected by the people who actually want to burn calories but beloved by someone like me who wants to create the illusion of burning calories.
When the world was locked down, though, I found myself taking daily walks just to get outside. As the weeks wore on, these walks became longer and longer and I started to vaguely fantasize about breaking into a brisk jog.
One day, I decided to throw caution to the wind and go for a run. Outside. In public.
That whim turned into a hobby, and now I wake up and go for a run most mornings before work, having woven it into my routine.
What motivates me is not the exercise, the thrill of burned calories, or even the fresh air and injection of nature that start my day — though all of those things are nice.
What motivates me are the other runners, particularly the shirtless men.
On any given morning, I will encounter at least two or three shirtless male runners. On a good day, that number looks more like four or five. Often, it’s the same people each morning, but occasionally there will be a new chiseled body thrown into the mix.
The male runners in my city must have signed a pact requiring them to run shirtless, as I would guess that over half of the male runners I see are not wearing shirts. I am not complaining about this, but I do find myself wondering why I have not yet been folded into this pact.
But, no matter — I benefit from it.
As I am plowing along on my run like a dilapidated train running on a dangerously empty coal engine, I get the occasional burst of inspiration from the glorious, sweat-slicked torsos that run past me.
These encounters are nearly always torturous — as a gay man, or really as any self-respecting person, it is not prudent to voraciously stare at the body of a stranger — so I typically glance once at the physical perfection of those who pass me and then stare humbly at the ground as we cross paths, yearning the entire time to take a long, delicious gulp of their physical prowess.
What these men see in me is likely a tall, lanky plow-horse with sweat stains on his t-shirt whose eyes lingered for one second too long on their washboard abs, but I prefer to imagine they respect me as a fellow runner and think I might be one of them, despite the fact that I feel like an imposter.
It is so common to encounter shirtless runners that I have even found myself wondering if I would ever feel comfortable going for a run without a shirt on. I like my body and am certainly not ashamed of it, but would I be comfortable enough to join the Adonis-lined ranks of the other shirtless runners I encounter and parade it in front of the entire city?
Perhaps not, but I wouldn’t rule it out.
The point is, running has become a means to an end. While I suffer on my daily jogs in the ever-increasing heat and humidity of the Midwest, I am offered motivation in the form of hot men and the fantasies they evoke in my meandering mind.
Perhaps, one day, one of these men will stop me with a heated glance and we will have an illicit encounter among the milkweed that grows along the river before continuing on our respective journeys.
Or perhaps I need to get a reality check.
This story is a response to Prism & Pen’s writing prompt I Like It Hot!
