I was supposed to have a session with a personal trainer (yes, I know!) earlier on this week, but due to lung seppuku issues I failed to actually turn up. Upon talking to my dad about this, he said how helpful a trainer had been to him when working out an exercise régime. Rather than telling him that I don't really want an exercise régime, I just want to look fitter by Eroticon and anyway I just wanted to be on the treadmill while watching My Little Pony on TinyPop, I instead went with:
"Oh, someone I know once had a personal trainer."
Which is true. Except I haven't heard from her for years. Still, one of the things that's imprinted on my mind (and evermore shall be so) happens to be a memory of the time she wrote about having a personal trainer.
"How did it go?" he asked.
"Well, she had sex with him so she had to find another one."
Which is also true. At least according to her blog on a marvellous post called, simply, "I Fucked My Last Trainer", a short and sweet burst of sexual frisson which went something like:
Therapy or personal trainer[?]. Mind you, the last time I had a trainer I fucked him. "That's why you need therapy," someone remarked.Followed by DETAILS.
SO MANY DETAILS.
This, obviously, was something I didn't share with my dad; the fact that Naive London Girl fucked her personal trainer was none of his business. However, she did put it up on the internet once, on her sex blog, for the world to see.
Why is this relevant? Because, given the amount of times I masturbated over that one particular post, I am unable to mentally link anything else to the concept of personal trainers. Personal trainers are people who, in my head, have sex with Naive London Girl. That is, clearly, THEIR PURPOSE IN LIFE.
Except I went to the gym today (shouldn't have done so; my chest is RAW) and saw, from afar, the guy who is apparently going to be the trainer I'm talking to this Friday. And I most certainly won't be fucking him.