A Boner In The Locker Room Means Nothing!

So, I'm on my last set blastin' my glutes with a set of squats that would make Ferrigno puke from fatigue when I see this short haired goddess across the gym makin' eyes at the Fango's bulge. I crank up the Bullet Boys, get psyched and go over to get the digits. Like two cats of prey in heat, I smell her desire as I walk across the gym floor. I, a panther licking my chops from a freshly fallen Impala, and her, a lust-driven sex-lynx poised to present in a gesture of mating. Smooth Up in Ya pulsed as I popped the buds from my ears and put my line on her.

"Need a spot?" I say. My junk-yard dog in full-on go mode, only neoprene mico-fibers between me and ole girl's no-doubt inflamed nethers.

Turns out she did not need a spot. She was just stretching, and she was a dude. In Fango's defense, I just saw the dude from behind - he must have been some kind of model. Anyway, he didn't hear me so no harm done.

I get downstairs, I'm halfway to the shower and I realize that the Tango's dealing with a full adult boner. What can ya do? Anyway, long story short, an employee sees me and writes me up on grounds of lewdness. He says once more and they revoke my membership. I told him that's the way I roll. The Fangtango's always gotta be ready.