Swell Zine: "Abs on Demand" and "A Go-Go Guy in a Bye-Bye World"

I am here to testify on the morning after an abdominal workout that has left me moving as if every rib in my torso has been kicked by a kangaroo. I am here to testify I am a victim held hostage in the body cast that are my severely contracted abdominal muscles. That the pain in my obliques wraps around to my back, sending pulsating pain shooting up my spine. That I am aware of muscle groups I didn't know exist.

I am here to testify that when the chipper, lean host of Comcast On Demand's ExerciseTV's eleven-minute SuperAbs workout says, "We're going to inject some fun," he really means to say "We're going to inject some pain that's going to leave you crippled tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow. Pray that the elevator works, because you'll never climb stairs again. Now let's get started, you sick masochist."

The eleven-minute workouts have seductive names like "Slim & Sexy Abs," "6-Pack Abs," "Lean and Trim Abs," or "Slim Body Abs, Level 2." For the super-whore, there's "ABSolutely Flab-u-Less," a twenty-one minute tour that includes foreplay, plateau, climax, and recovery. They refer to them as warm-up, reps, and stretching cool-down.

"Can you feel the tingling sensation?" the hosts asks at the point my blood-engorged abs suck the oxygen from my brain like a Brawny paper towel, leaving my head spinning as he encourages me to double-time with quick pulses.

The dog tries to lick beads of sweat from my face. With the power of a surge, the dog flies across the floor with a look of utter confusion.

"Uh! Back away, Buster!" I say, breathlessly, as I expand and contract on the bedroom floor. Thank God no one is secretly filming me.

"Congratulations," the host says, "You've just completed the twenty-one minute ABSolutely Flab-U-Less workout. Whether this is one part of your workout, or the only workout you can get in for the day, you're well on your way to a slimmer, sexier you."

I lie on the floor recovering, exhausted and in pain. The dog, tail wagging, climbs up on my stomach, his ten pounds tenderizing my raw, fragile torso.

"What's the matter, honey?" Tony asks me as he puts the water on the stovetop for his morning tea. "You look constipated."

"You're hot to me every day, but your face tells me that something's not right. You want me to make you some green tea? Get things moving?"

I am here to testify the titles are misleading, and the workouts should be named "Suffer While Sitting," "No Sleep With These Sexy Things," "Never Tie Your Shoes Again!" or "Death by Abs."

I stand in front of the mirror this morning. Naked. For the first time in years, I notice dimples in each side of my stomach. I look great, if I may say, but I can't breathe. Walking to the train, I notice air - air - between my stomach and the material of my coat. Quite the miracle considering there is a layer of fat covering my six-pack. Maybe one day, I'll look ABSolutely Flab-U-Less, if I don't first suffer Death By Abs.

A Go-Go Guy in a Bye-Bye World

We cozy up to the bar at Café Lafitte in Exile, a neighborhood-style establishment in New Orleans' French Quarter. It's a comfy little place. Standing on the bar above us, a go-go guy gyrating in tightie whities. We don't even have a cocktail yet when he squats down, thrusting his bum just mere inches from our faces. Normally, a bulbous orb wiggling in my direction would bring on schoolgirl giggles from a guy like me. But not tonight. This rounded bum shaking like a baby rattle in my face brings a gasp of horror.

Might I suggest, if one is going to be a go-go guy gyrating in tightie whities—skid marks are a no-no. Lucky for me, the bartender is a noble man of utmost standards. He does not allow trash in his establishment, ironic as it may seem.

"No, I will not serve you liquor while you are dancing on my bar," he instructs No-No Guy. No-No Guy's bum glares in my face. It was a shiner, and it makes me squint in disgust as the two converse.

Apparently, they did not cover the code of etiquette for go-go guys, which distinguishes Café Lafitte from other establishments of ill repute. A go-go guy might be able to partake in liberating spirits while dancing on the bar in other establishments, but not Café Lafitte; pop music videos play on plasma screens for goodness' sake. Café Lafitte is a place with class.

No-No Guy quickly jumps down off the bar, insisting on a cocktail. The bartender insists he finish dancing to Britney Spears. Apparently, the bartender thinks he was paying No-No Guy to dance, not drink. No-No Guy will have none of that. When the bartender refuses to serve No-No Guy standing on the floor like a normal, respectable customer in marked tightie whities, he storms off, putting on his shoes and running out the door and down Bourbon Street. Say bye-bye to this go-go guy.

Part of me secretly celebrates No-No Guy's independence. What does this bartender think? That he is just another piece of meat to be paraded before nasty local trolls and gawking tourists? Certainly not. No-No Guy is an artist. An interpreter of music. A cultural conveyer who has feelings. And also has a strong need for a cocktail. If he doesn't have his needs met, well then, take those talents and tightie whities where they will be appreciated.

It's hard to find a respectful workplace these days, where one is truly valued for the worth he brings to the bottom line, especially such a distinct bottom line. If a go-go guy is going to be treated like yesterday's leftovers, then move along. I find myself applauding. You go-go, No-No Guy. And don't forget your trademark skid marks.

Timothy State's blog, BalancingBoyfriends.com, has been highlighted as a "Best Gay Blog." He is a regular contributor to Chicagoist.com, as well as SWELL. Most recently, State has had his short story "Muff Walk" accepted for the anthology Gay City, to be published in 2008. "Weenie Scallopini" has also been accepted for an anthology, Nine Hundred & Sixty-Nine: Stories of West Hollywood, of which the publishing date is yet to be determined. In 2006, two of his stories were included in the Lambda Literary Award winning anthology Love, Bourbon Street. State was recognized in 2004 as one of Georgia's "Newest and Most Promising Writers" by the O, Georgia! Writers Foundation. He and his main boyfriend, Tony, now call Chicago home.