Chapter 8 - the gym - part 2

"Not bad, not bad," she said, and went back to the weights. She put a couple plates on - it must have been 180 lbs, maybe 200. "Let me know when you're ready to spot me."

After another half minute of rest, I heaved myself off the bench and got into position. I could see her concentrating as she went to lift the bar. All her arm and shoulder muscles tensed and flexed, and her expression contorted as she lowered and lifted the heavy bar. She made a little grunt at the end of each lift, exhaling deeply as she lowered it toward her chest. Seeing her muscles flexing like that almost distracted me, and I was surprised as the bar crashed into the rack.

"There," she said, out of breath as she sat up. "I did five reps. Your turn."

We changed spots, and I readied myself to lift the bar. I took a few large, quick breaths, braced myself, and shifted it up. My arms extended, I felt the full weight of the bar - it was heavier than I expected. Years ago I'd benched way more than this, but I definitely wasn't expecting it to feel like so much weight! I'd obviously grown a whole lot weaker! I exhaled slowly, lowering it down toward my chest. It sank lower than my previous lifts, not intentionally, but because I was unable to stop its descent. The bar pressed into the flesh of my moobs. I grunted and struggled to lift it, the bar shifted up about an inch. After a few more quick breaths, I pushed as hard as I could, and shifted it another four or five inches. With teeth gritted, and sweat beading on my forehead, I grunted, and failed to push it any further. My arms started to quiver with the effort.

"You maxed out there, tubby?" my wife asked.

I grunted and nodded. She reached forward and grabbed the bar, pulling it back onto its rest. I laid on the bench, my chest heaving as I struggled to catch my breath.

"C'mon fatty, off the bench," my wife said, and she started to pull me up by the arm. "I'm going to get one more set in."

She lifted the bar four more times, while I spotted her. By the time she was done I had managed to catch my breath, but I was beet red, more out of embarrassment than exertion, I think.

She got up off the bench, her skin glistening ever so lightly. "Ok, follow me," she said, and we walked over to a rack of hand-held weights. "So, the bench press isn't your thing. Let's try some curls."

She lifted a 25 pound weight in each hand and offered them to me. As I received the weights I was relieved that they didn't seem too heavy. She grabbed another pair of identical weights and turned so that we were standing side-by-side, facing a wall-length mirror.

"You know the drill," she said, "you just lift them, one at a time." She demonstrated, flexing one bicep and bring the weight up to her chest, them lowering it and repeating the action with the other arm. "Just do as many repetitions as you can." The muscles in her arms and shoulders flexed and bulged with every movement.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror, and followed her example. I heaved the weight up with my right hand, surprised that it took much more effort than I had expected. She had made it look very easy, her movements so smooth. I kind of jerked it up, and the weight pressed into the flesh of the side of my moob. I lowered that weight and lifted my left arm, no more elegantly than the first. I glanced over at my wife to see her pumping her arms in a steady rhythm, her biceps bulging with each repetition. I kept going, conscious that no muscle was visible in my soft arms at all.

"There," she said, "fifteen reps." She dropped the weighs back in place on their stand. "How are you doing?"

I grunted, lifting the weight up slowly to my chest, and answered in a rasp, "Six..." My arm fell quickly. I was out of breath, sweating, and couldn't lift either arm up even once more.

"Okay," my wife said, and took the weights from my hands, "you look like you need to take a bit of a break." She dropped the weights on the stand. "Why don't you sit on the bench while I do another set?"

I took her up on her offer, glad to be off my feet for a few minutes. I was still breathing heavily, and I could feel my heart pumping hard. My wife went back to the weight rack and picked up a bigger weight in each hand - 35 pounds, this time. She did the same exercise, but her movements were slower, more deliberate with the heavier weights. She counted out five repetitions before stopping.

"Now it's your turn," she said.

I got up from the bench and turned to face the mirror. She handed me the weights, one at a time, and I held them at my sides. Bracing myself, I tried to lift the weight in my right hand. It didn't budge. I grunted, trying to will my arm to flex, but to no avail.

"I can't lift it," I said, out of breath.

"Oh," was all my wife said. Looking a little surprised, she took the weights from me and put the them back. "Let's go over here." She led me by the arm to a corned of the room with mats laid out on the floor. The two bodybuilders were watching us. I could just imagine what they were thinking, as the hot muscled chick led the big fat guy - they probably thought she was my trainer.

She sat down on the mat with her legs crossed, patted the mat next to her. I awkwardly lowered myself down, sitting with my legs straight out, my belly drooping between them.

"Lay down," she ordered. I complied, and lowered myself backward, my body jiggling and shaking all the way. "Good. Now, raise up your knees."

I did as she told me, and as I did she jiggled my belly with one hand. I groaned a little, but she just smiled. She laid down on her side next to me, resting her head on one hand.

"Now, my little piggy, I want you to do a sit-up," she said. She was grinning slyly.

I turned my head to face her. "You know I can't do a sit up!"

"Try." Her smile widened.

With a grunt, I tried to hoist my back up off the floor, reaching my arms forward. I struggled, but didn't get anywhere. I strained, and my face turned red, but I knew I'd never be able to budge my huge, blubbery gut.

My wife sat next to me, cross-legged, covering her mouth with her hands, and giggled. After perhaps half a minute of struggle, she finally said, "Alright, fatty, you can stop!"

My head fell back to the mat, I was breathing heavily. My legs collapsed against the mat, too, straightening out. I couldn't see the bodybuilders across the room, the mound of my stomach blocked my view.

My wife giggled as she laid next to me again. She placed a hand on my moob, and she squeezed it and fondled it.

"What do you want to do now?" I asked, still out of breath.

"I think you've done enough for one day," she said. "You can hit the showers."

I exhaled in relief and smiled. She smiled back.

"Now I have a pretty good idea of how weak and out-of-shape my piglet is," she said. Her comment took me off guard a little, and I turned to read her expression. She was still grinning at me. She licked her lips. "Let's go home and make sure you don't go hungry, hmmm? I've seen you try to lift weights... you're not very good at it. But I know you're great a lifting a fork."