How Taking Pre-Workout Completely Ruined My Chances At Getting Laid

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Nice Move

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The following is loosely based off of an actual reader submission.

When Sarah told me she wanted to take me to the gym, I figured I was already an inch or two inside of her, as nothing gets a woman wet like my Dan Regester-caliber bench and Dwight Howard boulder shoulders. Naturally, I grabbed my best Rowdy Gentleman tank (shameless plug) and got some body weight work in beforehand for a nice pump. By the time I was supposed to meet her, I was looking like Stallone in Rambo: First Blood (not the sequels when he was off the juice).

Sarah gave me the address, so, as is part of my cautious but supposedly spontaneous game, I decided to leave early to make sure I was on time. I’m driving around this hippy granola area wondering where the fuck she’s trying to take me, when my worst fear strikes: sharks. Wait, no ; it was my second worst fear: yoga. I’m parked outside the address she gave me, checking and rechecking to make sure I hadn’t Steve Wonder’d the text when the realization crushed my pre-workout enhanced half-chub like a ribbed waistband. Sarah’s a yogi.

I’m a strong guy. I’m not just saying that to be a douchebag; it’s the truth. But I understand my limitations. I can’t touch my toes nor stretch for shit, cigs and weed have me wheezing like I have emphysema, and the last thing I want is to be failing to touch my ankles during what’s basically a sexual audition. This is totally fucked. But then I see Sarah. She’s stacked like a post-edit TFM Babe of the Day, and her ass shaking ever so slightly in her leggings is whispering “anal” to me with each stride. Yep, guess this is happening.

To my absolute horror, it’s something called “hot yoga,” meaning essentially the room is a packed sauna of geriatric fucks trying to warm themselves to a point where God forgets it’s almost time to die. We grab two spots right in the center next to each other, flirtatiously helping each other through warmup stretches and unnecessary amounts of “flexibility training” on her part.

The teacher, or coach, or whatever they call the leader of this hipster cult comes in and we promptly get started. I soon realize maybe this shit isn’t so bad, seeing Sarah with her legs damn near behind her head has me holding back an inappropriate erection akin to Bill Cosby in the coma ward. I’m finding my stride a bit, too. The stretches and shit aren’t all that bad as the sweat glistens off her perfect body.

But then it hits me: I took the wrong pre-workout.

Does this matter? For me, and anyone else with a severe lactose intolerance, yes it fucking does. My idiot roommate put his shit next to mine and, in my idiotic haste to beat her to the gym, I must’ve scooped the wrong one. My stomach is rumbling audibly as I pray to whatever higher power will listen to let me make it through this hour before the explosion.

I continue to slog along, holding it all in, clenching muscles I didn’t even know I had like an NBA groupie after a condom blowout.

The lights go out. It’s apparently time for sleep, the instructor says. Can you believe this shit?

We’re on our backs in the dark and her hands are making her way towards my cock at literally the only time I’ve never wanted them to. The instructor tells us to move into happy child pose. I was in this bizarre, legs spread and up “I’m about to be jack hammered” position that I prayed nobody would document me doing when…

*WHOOOOOOSSH*

In the silent room, my silent assassin had escaped. I closed my eyes begging for no odor, sniffing carefully as the milliseconds passed like hours.

“Oh my God.”

Sarah turns and plugs her nose. It’s escaped. The jig is up, and, like a teenage pregnancy, it’s time to abort.

I stood and ran out of the yoga room, idiotically admitting my own guilt when I could have easily played this off as the work of the behemoth to my right. I found the nearest restroom, Sarah found her way home. Without me.

The rest is history.

Image via YouTube

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