My Gym Playlist Indicates That I Might Be Into Hardcore, Kinky Sex (Which, Am I?)

The other morning I was working out intensely at the gym while listening to Beyoncé’s limousine-blowjob song “Partition” at full-blast on my headphones and envisioning myself as the male lead in my own mental remix music video.

This fact is funny in and of itself, because I’m a lanky white guy from Connecticut with a generally awkward demeanor and a wardrobe from Kohl’s comprised mostly of unassuming sweaters.

gymmemeOther songs that really get my juices flowing (pun totally intended) at the gym include the vulgar whips-and-chains anthem, “S&M” by Rihanna; the strip club hymn, “Pour It Up” by Rihanna; that song about penises called “Rude Boy” by Rihanna; aaand… “Bridge Over Troubled Water” by Simon and Garfunkel.

(Just kidding about that last one. What I really meant to say was “My Neck, My Back” by Khia.)

(Side note: If you’re unfamiliar with “My Neck, My Back,” then I highly suggest you look it up on YouTube right now. Actually, just click this link. Especially if you’re at work. In fact, take your headphones off and let it play aloud. It’s totally not NSFW… it’s SFW, if that’s a thing. Crank up the volume, too – the song’s uplifting lyrical content will motivate you and your coworkers to be your best selves, and then you’ll all be really productive, and then your company’s stock will go up, like, a lot of points, and then your boss will notice that this positive chain reaction all originated from your desk, and then you’ll get a raise. And you won’t even have to give me a cut, because I’m selfless. You’re welcome.)

(Side note again: I’m sorry if I just got you fired. I SWEAR I DIDN’T MEAN TO. I was just being a practical joker. And it’s not my fault your boss is such a douche canoe.)

(Side note again: I know this was like, two paragraphs ago and the moment has passed, but can we talk about how I referred to “Pour It Up” as a strip club hymn up there? What the fuck was I thinking with that choice of words? And am I going to hell?)

Anyway, I’m just writing this post because I think it’s interesting how it took me ten years of being a gym-goer to finally become aware of the fact that I’m essentially a classic example of a “lady in the street but a freak in the bedroom.”

Except replace “lady” with “wholesome gay man.” And also I guess by “bedroom” what I really mean is the in-my-head-while-I-have-motivational-daydreams-at-the-gym-of-myself-and-Nick-Jonas-dry-humping-on-the-elegant-chaise-lounge-that-I’m-sure-he-has-in-the-corner-of-his-real-life-bedroom-bedroom. In the actual bedroom, if I’m being totally honest, I’m more likely to watch the OWN Network, read a book, maybe do a Bioré pore strip if I’m feeling frisky, and go to sleep by eleven. But still.

Okay, I think I’ve revealed enough about myself and my inner demons for one post.

Now, what do YOUR favorite workout songs say about you? Feel free to get vulgar in the comments.

 

Advertisements

Recent Conversations I’ve Had About the BEYONCÉ Visual Album

With my writing pal Steven:

  • Nic: Dude. I have listened to nothing else for weeks. I stayed home today because of the snow and ended up just sitting on my couch watching the videos in sequential order. Over and over again. For many hours.
  • Steven: Has anyone ever told you that you have an obsessive personality?
  • Nic: I just can’t stop. It’s like I’ve been sucked into a black hole.
  • Nic: The black hole that is Beyoncé’s vagina.
  • Nic: I’M TRAPPED IN BEYONCÉ’S VAGINA.
  • Steven: You’re scaring me.

With my work-wife Mila:

  • Mila: Try watching the videos while eating like a fat pig.
  • Mila: You will feel so inadequate.
  • Nic: I just don’t get how these videos can be so perfect.
  • Nic: And there’s SO MUCH SEX.
  • Mila: I know!
  • Nic: And all of this sex is with a man she’s been with for years and is married to, so it’s super classy. Like, Beyoncé is singing about giving a raunchy limo blowjob and meanwhile I’M the one who is made to feel like a dirty, inferior slut for having multiple partners.
  • Mila: I KNOW!

With myself:

  • Nic: Two more viewings of “Drunk In Love” and then I’ll shower.
  • Nic: Okay, maybe three.
  • Nic: SURF BORDT!
  • Nic: Four.
  • Nic: After the fifth one, I swear I’m going to get my shit together and do something productive with my life.
  • Nic: Fuck it.
  • Nic: Six.

With God:

  • Nic: THANK YOU FOR CREATING THIS WOMAN IN YOUR IMAGE.
  • God: You’re welcome.
  • God: …Surf bordt.

 

My Home Needs Baby Proofing Like, Now

First of all, I might have a concussion. So if this post makes absolutely no sense at all, feel free to categorize it into “Posts Written While Nic was in a Delirious State,” and move on with your life.

Or actually, don’t do that. Because I feel like, on some level, that category could apply to everything I’ve ever written, and I’d rather not go down that road.

I’m just sick of living in a hazardous, potentially fatal environment.

Have I made it obvious yet that my apartment is trying to kill me?

It’s filled with these seemingly beautiful white cabinets throughout the kitchen and bathroom — but although they may appear to be harmless, they actually have nefarious intentions because I keep violently hitting my poor little fragile head on them and it’s destroying my life.

Sometimes I’m tempted to ask other people in my building if they have the same problem, but then I realize that they probably don’t leave their cabinets wide open, clumsily drop random items (pencils, blood pressure medication, toasters, etc.) on the floor, perform fast-paced Beyoncé-at-the-Super-Bowl-esque squat moves to pick them up, dramatically bounce back up while shouting “Wabah!” (to absolutely no one), and accidentally get slammed in the head with a sharp cabinet edge in the process.

This cabinet and Charles Manson actually have a lot in common.

This cabinet and Charles Manson actually have a lot in common.

The first time this happened I was like, “Eh, whatever.” And then the next time it happened I was like, “Dammit! This can’t be good for my already-failing mental health.” And then it happened again yesterday and I was like, “OH MY GOD I HAVE NO BRAIN CELLS!”

This drives me to eat, because my mind obviously starts to go down this weird, like, I-just-cheated-death-and-suffered-head-trauma -and-so-now-I-think-I-deserve-to-eat-an-entire-cheesecake road.

So if my cabinets aren’t trying to kill me, they’re at least trying to make me fat and forever alone (which is something I really don’t need help with, so maybe the joke here is actually on the cabinets for wasting their efforts on something that’s already taken care of… Wow, that almost makes me feel better about this whole situation – like on some very sad, sad level, I win).

(Actually, I don’t win. Because I’m still the one in this scenario who might have a concussion. Ugh. To quote Kim Kardashian, “Why me?” Oh my god, I’m quoting Kim Kardashian. I definitely have a concussion. And I’m generally losing my mind. GREAT. Also… I don’t know why this entire post is turning into one big parenthetical. What is going on and how do I make it stop?!)

Okay, I’m out of the parentheses. I think. I can’t really tell because of the whole loss of brain cells and losing my mind thing.

Anyways, adgshljhvcnugr…

 

%d bloggers like this: