Ladies, Meet Playboy Pete

I am a gym whore. I put out to work out!

The thing I love most about going to the gym is that I can lose my public persona, and transform into a sweaty, unrecognizable civilian. Outside, in the world, I’m “Dr. Gilda,” but inside the gym, I’m just plain “Gilda,” and it suits me fine.

So why did Playboy Pete ruin my stride today? The dude approached me, wearing a tight knitted cap, a straggly mustache, army fatigues, and a doughboy body. “Some specimen,” I thought. As I was lifting weights, he hovered over me. “What’s your name?” I told him and moved on. He followed. “What do you do?” “Write books—and I’m going to write about you today if you’re not careful.” That still didn’t stop him. “Maybe he suffers from low IQ,” I reasoned. “Or impaired hearing.” I moved to another spot in the weight area. “Are you married?,” he persisted. For him, my answer was “Yes.” That ended it. Playboy Pete moved on, ever so confident and cocky. A few moments later, he had found another woman to bother. I noticed she giggled and cooed at his inquisitions. “Perfect match,” I thought. But when she left, he was on to another.

Wow! This is this guy’s gig. And this gym is his playpen. I’ve seen him roam before, and you would think that for the time he spends at this place, his body would be buff. Which women would even find him attractive? I look forward to seeing how he continues to operate, and if he ever scores!