My Six Pack’s Back

Since I haven’t been on any notable/horrendous dates since obsession boy, I’ve been lacking in some juicy relationship/datescapade writing prompts.  So when K called me up with the perfect topic, I pounced.  And so, here begins a new series where I relay the woes of love experienced by my closest amigas.  With their permission of course.  (And fear not ladies, your names will be disguised).

There’s something about self-consciousness and insecurity that’s just…so…sexy.  Like a warm fluffy pancake doused in dripping sweet maple syrup and slathered wi-

Just kidding.  It’s fucking annoying.

For some stupid reason, “the body” has become this focal point for any and all self-esteem issues.  “Waaaa, nobody thinks I’m sexy.  If only I didn’t have this eensy little pimple on my chin!”  “Waaaa, nobody loves me.  It’s because I don’t have boobs!”  “Waaaa, nobody will date me.  It’s because I have a short torso!”

No, it’s not.  It’s probably because your personality sucks and you’re coming off as this thing known as DESPERATE AND PATHETIC.  Respect your body.  Got hips?  Me too!  So does 99% of the female population.  OWN IT.  FLAUNT IT.  CHANNEL BEYONCE AND EVERY MAN WILL WANT TO BEAT DAT PUSSAAAAY UP (actually…on second thought, please don’t beat my pussy up – I much prefer soft caresses, thanks).

If you don’t feel that you’re sexy, join a gym or eat a salad.  But don’t do it to please anyone.  Do it for yourself – whatever makes you feel good!  (Aaaaand ending my self-help spiel right now.)

But body insecurity can be just as obnoxious on the other end of the spectrum.  People who feel the need to flaunt their abs/butt/arms/whatever in shameless mirror pics aimed at extracting pointless “Damn!” and “Lookin’ good!” facebook comments clearly have some issues.  Nobody cares that you’re ripped.  That’s lovely, but begging for admiration doesn’t warrant it.  If I think you’re hot, I’ll just skip step one and start taking off your clothes.

Right.  Well.  Moving on.

A little background on the leading lady of the hour, K.  This saucy little minx is a fitness fiend.  Girlfraaaaan’s got it goin’ on.  She just started teaching a spin class that I refuse to go to on principal (dancing on tables is what I consider my weekly exercise).  Once, I went to a punching/dancing/kicking/hard core class with her (with “Bruce” as the instructor – my thighs burn just saying the name out loud), and at the end of it, she was glowing like a fucking pregnant woman, barely glistening and ripped as fuck, and I’m bent over at the waist, breathing like I’ve just had the baby she’s so lovingly still carrying in the 1st trimester.  Awesome.  We now only hang out at happy hours.  I’m much more comfortable and find my breathing to be far less labored with a plate of chicken wings in front of me.

Now, as this is a “love story,”  I’ll go ahead and just jump right in.  K had been dating “Bear” (name change, obvi…who the fuck would actually name a child “Bear?”) for a solid nine months when she realized he was a giant doucher with a penchant for binge drinking and going nowhere in life.  Thank God, because for a solid five minutes I thought she was seriously considering moving to Europe to embark on a “vinyard tending” experience with him.  True story.

Anywho.  Bear lives in Chicago.  He and K were long distance lovers for the duration of their relationship.  For anyone who’s ever been long distance, you know that it consists of a whole lot of texting/phone calls, some phone sex, and upon reunion – fucking like rabbits.  Not that I’m speaking from experience or anything.  I’m merely assuming the obvious (most of which I learned from rom coms).

It’s been quite some time now since the big B (RE: breakup), and K has been happily single here in the tundra.  Always on the prowl, this sassy pussy cat always knows how to host the perfect party and wear the hottest outfits (meow).  I’ve loved welcoming her back into the world of singledom.  It’s meant having a fellow drinking/not cuddling/willing to dance on tables friend to entertain my weekends.  Hoorah!

In addition to teaching over-zealous fitness people how to die in an hour-long stationary bike class, K does event planning for a living.  Bear recently showed up in our city to attend one said event (a wine show).  They agreed to grab dinner one night and catch up.

Over what I imagine as him eating some boring marinara pasta and her eating something cool like a mediterranean panini (pronounced with an uppity British accent), it got to a point during the dinner when K realized that Bear was dominating the entire conversation.  And not in a “I just got a huge promotion and have to tell you all about it because I’m just so fucking chipper about it” way.  More like a “I’m going to spend a solid God-knows-how-long attempting to tell you all about my life and how I’m picking up more shifts at the bar so I’m really responsible now and I’m eating healthier and drinking less and I’m a better person and just the maaaaaaan fo uuuu.”

But it all came to a head when, after K repeating that they were never ever ever getting back together (cue TSwiftizzle) for the seventh time, Bear stuck his weird ginger head into the middle of her sentence to say, “But I’ve been working out!  I’ve finally got my six pack back!”


Though K gets high off of exercise endorphins and it’s a passion of hers, she doesn’t give two shits if a guy has a six pack.  In fact, she’s confided in me that she actually prefers a little cushion for the pushin’.  It’s cuddly-er.  (I suppose opposites attract – for the record, I’m not opposed to a six pack, but that’s probably because the closest I’ve come to one is buying my favorite IPA at the liquor store).

So clearly this comment was probably met with a look that went a little something like this:

…followed directly by no dessert and a quick drop-off at his temporary weekend residence.  After pulling up to the curb, he proceeded to make awkward grunts and weird “But…do you…I don’t know” sentences to prolong staying in K’s magical presence.

“Bear.  What do you want?  I have nothing to say.”

15 minutes later….”Bear.  What do you want?  I have nothing to say.”

15 minutes later…”Bear.  Get the fuck out of my car.”  Okay, she didn’t say that, but I’m positive she was thinking it.

Bear got the fuck out of the car.  K went home.  A little while later, ready for bed and chatting with her roommate D, K gets a call from Bear.

Bear:  “I’m laying in bed right now and all I can think about is laying with you and holding you.”

K:  “That’s not going to happen.”

Bear:  “But why not?  It’s not going to complicate things.  I have a flight tomorrow morning at 4am anyways.  I almost drove over there.  I was thinking about it.”

K:  “Well I’m glad you didn’t because I would have turned you away at the door.”

Bear:  “Well.  I really wanted to show you my six pack.”

I imagine this is how he thought she would respond:

Oh. Damn. That does sound scrumptious.  Get over here now big boy.  I want you to bury your confusion inside my body.

Unfortunately for him, imaginations can often run wild.  K muttered “I’ve got to go,” then hung up the phone in disbelief.

Ten minutes later, K received the following in a text:


Frankly, I’m just relieved to know he wears underwear.  Could you imagine the chafing that could occur?  Ouch!  Way to be on the ball man!  (Pun intended).

The best part?  He sent it in a group message including another number.  Somebody’s not getting laaaaaiiiiiiid.

No wonder, really, because from what K’s divulged about his sex chops…well, one would be better off sticking with a vibrator.

What’s that I was saying about fluffy pancakes doused in syrup?

Oh.  Yeah.


6 thoughts on “My Six Pack’s Back

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