Why, hello. It's your local Fentanyl and Fanny dealer here. By popular demand, I'm here to update you.
The gym has gotten very busy which is good because it keeps the gym in business. And the gym being in business means access to Crush Man.
But a busy gym also, paradoxically, means less time with Crush Man. Dilemmas, eh?!
So, what's been happening? Well, let me go in chronological order and draw out the interesting bits.
One time, he took his T-shirt off. Uh-huh. Ripped as fuck. Ripped van Winkle. A bit skinnier than I usually go for, but abs you can grate cheese on. I did a joke, I made a comment about being unable to concentrate. He went red but didn't take it further. I think I rinsed those knickers out about four times after that evening.
I thought I might reciprocate a few weeks later when it was still hot. I've been gymming for a while now and I'm really happy with how my body's looking, especially my stomach which I've managed to flatten and even get a bit of abs going. So, spurred by Chloe Kelly, I thought I'd whip my top off and train in my sports bra one time. I've somehow managed to find one that doesn't give weird fat bulges in the armpits. And I have leggings that don't give a muffin top. But then I had a big week. Several meals out, lots of wine, lots of junk food. And I lost confidence. And I realised I was 36. So I didn't.
Then mid-way through August, a newbie showed up. Geek Girl. Oh no, thought I, a rival. But she's shown herself to definitely not be a rival for Crush Man. She's hopeless at boxing, clearly devoted to her partner, and a bit incompatible with the vibe of the gym. Still, she comes every week and tries her best. The trouble is that she like to pair with me because I'm one of the very few woman-flavoured gym-goers. This takes me away from Crush Man. But Crush Man often comes over to give her some tips and uses me to demonstrate, which makes me feel like a super special princess.
Last week was the first time Crush Man and I had a properly long time training together. When we'd finished, he put his arm around my shoulders and said "Ah, I miss training with you". Somehow, I didn't die instantly on the spot.
I was quick, I put my arm around his waist and said "I miss you as well". I couldn't cop a proper feel thought because I was stuck in boxing gloves. Without the gloves, I might've gone for a low-down stroke. Not quite the waist, not quite the bum. The bit in-between. The bit which says "I like you but I'm not pushing it". But I was be-gloved so I didn't. Even if I wasn't be-gloved, my hands were dripping with sweat so maybe it wouldn't have been the sensuous caress I'm imagining.
Nevertheless, I wanted a Fleabag moment. I wanted to look directly into the camera, directly down the lens, directly at the Mumsnetters following my Crush Man journey. And I wanted to wink at you all. I wanted to wink and say "See, he misses me". But I couldn't. Because there was no camera. All there was over my right shoulder was Rough Al who owns the gym, who wouldn't have appreciated the wink. Or maybe he would. Maybe Rough Al is what Crush Man eventually turns into. Mid-50s, face and hand tattoos, incapable of saying more than six words without swearing, scarred from an encounter with an axe. You get the picture.
So, what's been happening? Flirting. Topless-ness. Near topless-ness. Arm drapery. But no shagging. Not yet.