(June 19, 2002)

He watches me as he moves, his rhythm strong and quick - perhaps quicker than I would have chosen, though at this moment it doesn't matter. His breath is steady but strained as he exerts himself, low sounds forcing their way out from between his lips. Trickles of sweat dance across the exposed flesh of his chest as he thrusts harder, determined to bring this endeavor to its inevitable conclusion even as he tires.

He watches me as his sounds become low grunts, his finale nearing. The muscles in his arms bulge, veins rising to the surface as he begins to shudder. Finally, with a last growl, his movements stop, and he gazes at me expectantly, trying to gauge my reaction. Overcome as I am at this display, I can think only one thing:

Yuck. Why do men always think they're being sexy when they're getting all sweaty doing bench presses?