After hoeing into a 'New Yorker'* at my local burger joint. Rephrase. After hoeing into a 'New Yorker'* and a regular size chips with a nicely dolloped size of aioli and tomato chutney on the side, I returned home wistfully on this rainiest of rainy nights to flip open my laptop only to be greeted by my lovely, inspiring yet somewhat disheartening background:
To some this may not be the dreamboat you lust after but I am entirely sure most of us, strike that, all of us (us being me and...) would indubitably concur that this man, the lusty Aaron O'Connell, is a damn fine specimen of beef. Many balmy nights I have spent sweating under a single cotton sheet, dreams filled with scenes of my tongue working it's way over the ridges of his tightly formed stomach and perfectly sculpted chest; my hands finding their grip in the grooves of his robust back and rigid traps. I awake to discover my hands mulling over my flat chest, ill-shapen stomach, weedy arms and strangely thick thighs, not the adonis they were screaming for. Or even, possibly much more depressing, a pillow I have clambered for whilst caught up in one of the aforementioned sultry dreams, not the chiselled man-hunk they were fingering for. Fuck this!
Apparently women have it hard, but can I just say men have it harder. While my salivating over this very hot and handsome but hopefully, oh hopefully, daft, vague and dim witted stallion may be a silly teenage fantasy the real fantasy is me ever hoping to achieve the same classical, Raphaelite physique modelled by my wall-poster lover. Women have nifty fad diets, brisk walks with ineffective, feather light but aptly coloured hand weights, Dr. Terry White Chemist meal replacement shakes, grapefruit and, if all else fails, girls best friend: two fingers, a gag reflex and a toilet bowl. We on the other hand have to lose weight BUT add muscle. Then throw penis size and ego into the mix and you've got one fucking exhausting and sore workout. Perhaps the above picture has been cropped at the waist because O'Connell's little fella is actually a little fella. I'm thinking otherwise. Who has the time/effort/disposition/money to throw in the hard yards and strive for such perfection? I have made many an attempt but I find going for a 40 minute jog, doing 25 push ups, bench dips, chins ups, and sit ups all on a juice made from beetroot, carrot and ginger accompanied by a small salad and a handful of nuts fucking difficult. I don't fancy fainting halfway through a run only to come to thanks to some O'Connell look alike poking me to politely denote that a bum just ran off with my iPod and that I've spent the last five minutes marinating in a pile of dog shit. I'd then have the embarrassment of having to make the twenty-five meter walk of shame back to my house panting like Star Jones after a pie eating contest.
On the catwalks of Europe, stick thin men are all the rage. Hooray! Perhaps if I vomit involuntarily and cement over my food hole I'd be welcomed with open arms into the frail but pretty realm of the aesthetically elite. Alas I enjoy whole egg mayonnaise, beer and donuts, more often than not all in one gastronomically pleasing sitting. I know all of this isn't new, some apathetic, realist fuckwit yapping on about how healthy living is less fun than sitting on the bad end of a pineapple but I feel the more I can rant on about it, the more people hear about it, the less people wanna do about it and we all become the lazy, crumb ladden, crack widened chirpy people we all long to be; content in our unhealthy ways swimming in our own filth making sweet sweet love by heaving on top of each other...actually, again, strike that. Image. Bad. I like Aaron O'Connell. I enjoy Aaron O'Connel. Even if both dreams that have stemmed from his existence seem considerably far far far out of reach. Who knows, maybe one day you'll find my jelly-like, cushioned arse toning itself in a variety of versatile squats sourced from both a personal trainer and a Belami porno. Right now I'll just deal with the padding seeking for a way out from my waistband, here's hoping it's just gas. O'Connell gets gas too, right? Knowing my luck it probably smells like Chanel Sport Pour Homme.
* A 'New Yorker' contains chicken breast, tomato, swiss cheese, pickles, rocket, American mustard and tomato relish all served on a sugar-full toasted white bun. Cholesterolic yum.
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