by Jeremy Allen and Gary Goldman

Muscles ripple like tidal waves beneath skintight tanks. Sweat trickles down bulging biceps and hairless torsos. The breath becomes heavier by the minute. Moans of exertion are heard every now and then. No, this is not the opening scene of “Cockpit II”, but an everyday scene in our very own Lyon Center. There are many reasons why we would want to regularly attend the gym. As a gay couple with probably the most boring bodies in the world (think patches of hair between the nipples, abs-less stomachs and love handles), it would be a great opportunity to grow some muscles. Furthermore, as individuals with a stress-level that might make the most studious student pass for a pothead, we could seriously use the endorphins. Finally, we defy anyone to contradict us on the fact that this is probably as homoerotic as a place can get.

When the school year began, we envisioned ourselves working side by side, courageously supporting each other in the fight towards becoming Greek Gods. One drop of sweat after another. Surely, being gym buddies wasn’t a far cry from being boyfriends: it was all about support, encouragement, and meeting on a regular basis for physical activity. We could already picture a montage set to James Brown’s “I Feel Good”, with our puny selves running, lifting, and bench-pressing our way to the cover of Men’s Health or Playgirl.

So here we were, on a hot August day, wearing what could easily have passed as pajamas, and more than ready to begin our physical transformation. The lady at the desk swiped Gary’s card cheerfully, her face filled with optimism. Jeremy’s card made a very discouraging sound.

“Have you registered online?” the employee asked.

Jeremy shook his head no, bewildered.

“Oh, it’s okay honey, I always have to remind you freshmen.”

As Gary was about to rectify her mistake by telling her that Jeremy was in fact a Junior, Jeremy glared at him with menacing eyes that said: “If you love me, just shut the hell up.” That glorious first day ended with the two of us exiting the building, dejected but still feeling smug as we walked down the street in our workout appearance. At least, the people in the street would think that we were two smoldering young men back from the gym.

Try number two: a week later, after Jeremy had reluctantly visited the Lyon Center website (all the while muttering under his breath “Stupid card girl – I went to the gym ALL the time my freshman year”), we headed back to the lifeless block of a building, more determined than ever. We had noticed lots of gym buddies in line at Jamba Juice, and since we were very keen on following workout protocol, we guiltlessly snarfed down Aloha Pineapple and Caribbean Passion smoothies. It only occurred to us much later that this ritual was supposed to follow an intensive workout, not precede it. Full of more calories than we could possibly hope to burn in ten Pilates sessions, we entered the ground floor weight room and took it all in.

The joyful expression on our faces faded rapidly, and we could feel the color draining from our cheeks. Instead of the four inviting machines we had imagined (one for the arms, one for the torso, one for the abs, and one for the legs), we were stopped dead in our tracks by a wall of frightening contraptions for each and every limb we possessed. Yes, there were even some conceived to strengthen muscles we had yet to develop. Where to begin?

Then there were the people: men with chests bigger than our entire bodies, arms able to crush us upon contact, calves that looked liked baseballs were stuck in them, and abs that we could grate our finest mozzarella on. It took us a moment to shake off the image of us devouring the delicious cheese eagerly waiting for us in our fridge before we realized we had to get to work. We wondered where those people got the courage to spend their afternoons in this place. Well, that was impossible to tell: the people working on the machines looked like they were in excruciating pain, and the people who were resting just looked constipated. The people stretching had reached a perfect equilibrium between those two expressions. While we had arrived with a grin on our faces and a bundle of hope in our smoothie-filled stomachs, our hearts started pounding uncontrollably in our chests. We hadn’t felt this inadequate since those days in the schoolyard, stroking our Little Mermaid dolls’ luscious red hair rather than playing with cars.

We could feel our feet quake with fear as we approached a machine defiantly and stared at it. Even though it was meant to strengthen a part of our bodies we hadn’t dealt with since our 9th grade biology class, it couldn’t hurt us, right? We would never know. The only exercise we got out of that machine was stooping down to read the ridiculously small instructions, and successively pushing, pulling, lifting, and prying the menacing black bars in order to figure out how this thing worked. The only resemblance we had to our fierce neighbors was the drops of sweat rolling down our foreheads violently as we tried to locate the “axes of rotation.” The girl jogging next to us couldn’t help but stare with a face that seemed to scream: “Morons! Morons!”, as she completed her tenth mile. As we left the Lyon Center defeated that day, having accomplished nothing except drinking out of every water fountain, we consoled ourselves by picking up another round of Jamba Juice confections, much more justified this time.

That’s when we understood. We were in the wrong gym! Surely, there was a place for beginners like us who had no care for strengthening their Gastrocnemius, but who just wanted a firmer ass. It was an underground club where all the normal USC students ran for five minutes before taking a break, smiled and encouraged each other as they completed their series of three push-ups, and lifted Hershey’s bars instead of weights.

Unfortunately for us, there was no such place. And until USC decides to build such a wonderful gym, we decided that we would not be coming back to the Lyon Center. It was just like a hunger strike, but with our muscles.

They say that there’s no time like your first time. Well, truer words couldn’t be spoken: there hasn’t been another one. And if one day you do happen find us there, miserably attempting to climb those stairs or to lift those weights, there is only one possible explanation for it: those smoothies are too damn good.