I was at the gym earlier this evening, grinding out my 30 minutes on the elliptical trainer while watching the anomalously scheduled Giants–Saints game. Two machines to my left, a woman was going at full pace on another trainer. It was difficult not to notice that this woman had — at minimum — 40DD breasts.
I avoid leering at the women who go to my club — between sweat, inadvertently revealing gym togs, air conditioning, and awkward motion or position on a variety of machines, they might feel more exposed or vulnerable than they'd like. Why rub it in? A quick look to satisfy my werewolf side is enough.
In this case, however, something additional drew my attention. From the corner of my eye, I saw the woman fumbling with her décolletage. When I looked again, she was fiddling with an iPod Shuffle . . . which, upon finding her desired track, she slipped deftly into her ample, exercise-flushed cleavage.
Is it possible to be reincarnated as an MP3 player?
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