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Dear Hot Guy in My CrossFit Class

I still remember the first time I saw you. I was sitting on the floor of the gym at 5:56 a.m., groggily stretching the hamstrings I had brutally tortured the day before when I looked up. There you stood, navigating your bicycle through the door in a backwards baseball cap and those glasses that made you look like Clark Kent. You paused briefly to smile at our trainer, and I fell in love with the way your black old man knee socks clung to your muscular calves. I remember thinking to myself, “This is totally working for me.”

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Like Superman you stripped off your hat and glasses, pulled your pants up a little too high, and got down to business. I convinced myself that since you had ditched your glasses in favor of fitness, you were unable to see me as I stared at you like a total creep all through class. I fancy myself invisible at that time of day, like a spandex wrapped potato blending in with the MMA bags, drenched like I have some sort of perspiration disorder.

You jumped and lifted and ran and sweat like a sexy beast, and through it all your knee socks stayed perfectly in place. I guess they are as happy to be hugging your calves as I was to be watching you clean and jerk twice your body weight. Who knew a man doing burpees could be pornographic? I imagined myself lying underneath you when you did your push ups, the perspiration dripping from your brow onto my smiling cheeks while your heavy breath caressed my lips. I truly needed a cold shower.

I hope if there is ever a zombie apocalypse we will cross paths so you can sling me over those hunky shoulders and carry me to safety, preventing my face from being eaten off.

When it was over, you stood in the corner panting and wiping yourself down with paper towels—oh to be that paper towel in your chalk covered, calloused hand.

I wondered if you were a firefighter or one of those special rangers who dropped into canyons from helicopters to rescue dogs and children lost on hikes their parents underestimated. The idea of you dangling from a flying machine in one of those harnesses is even better for the fantasy reel than a European cologne ad. I finally decided you were probably a paramedic. You can scoop me up and run down the street (not that this is what paramedics do, but cut me some slack) any day of the week. As you lay me down on the stretcher and ask if I have any pain I’d gaze into your eyes and suddenly I wouldn’t feel anything...

“Time’s up,” our trainer shouted as he drank from a bottle of water filled with chia seeds. I snapped back to reality and frantically searched the room for you.

Backwards cap returned to your head and sexy glasses propped upon your glistening nose, you escorted your bicycle back outside and rode off into the sunrise without so much as a glance in my direction. I haven’t seen you since, and there is a part of me that prays I never will—I’m really enjoying the filthy dreams I’m having about you wearing nothing but your glasses and socks.

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I hope if there is ever a zombie apocalypse we will cross paths so you can sling me over those hunky shoulders and carry me to safety, preventing my face from being eaten off. Sigh.

Keep up the good work, it’s totally working.

— XO Me

Image via Daily Hot Guy

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