In Her Words
Sex and the Art of Boxing
A one-night stand without losing a shred of dignity
By: Gina Anderson
Maybe I’m just really into getting fit lately (okay, I’m not). Or maybe I have a lot of pent-up aggression (okay, I do). I wasn’t entirely sure of the reason, but I was recently compelled to try my (gloved) hand at boxing. I arrived to the first class, and after rummaging through dozens of mismatched gloves, found a pair and then fumbled trying to figure out which glove fit which hand. Finally, gloves on, I prepared to conquer my quest – and realized I’d fumbled my way right into an extraordinary fantasy.
About 15 people – mostly men, that is, mostly hard-shouldered, thick-thighed, eight-packed men – huffed and puffed in a circle around the studio. Running and punching, punching and huffing, huffing and puffing.
And blowing my house down.
Of course, Luis didn’t help reassemble my abode. (Luis? Or was it Anthony? Or John? Paul? George? Who cares, really – let’s go with Luis.) The hunky Hispanic heartthrob instructor shouted commands by the vibrating stereo. Shouting. Vibrating. HELLO.
I eagerly joined the circle of men and was sucked in. Instantly. I attempted shadow boxing, squat-thrusts, the bear walk, jumping rope. And in the midst of my cardio craze, I found myself slipping to the back of the room for a better … view.
As the calories melted away, my libido heated up. Way up. The grunts, the moans, the occasional “Son of a bitch!” bounced around the steamy studio. Mix that with the throbbing beats of rap songs and you’ve got the perfect scenario for “Take me on the piano like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman!” sex – er, boxing.
After nearly an hour of equal parts panting and scamming on boys, I was exhausted, breathless and incredibly s-a-t-i-s-f-i-e-d. It seemed everyone else was too. The guys exchanged enthusiastic high-fives and flexed their stuff. One of the few other women in the class turned to me for sympathy and said “I shouldn’t have gotten my nails done.” Which led me to think of all the poor manicures that had ever lived and become the casualty of … well, you know.
When the punching bags started looking like black prophylactics – the kind that sexual urban legends are made of – I knew it was time for me to take my butt home to a cold shower. (Also, my nonsmoking self had a sudden urge for a cigarette.)
I made my way to the subway and ran into Luis on the platform. Still dripping, I smiled awkwardly and tried to make small talk. He grinned back, which prompted me to say “That was great, thanks.”
“I hope I see you again,” he said. I assured him he would as the train eased into my stop.
“I’m gonna go take a shower now,” I smiled. I left the train and never looked back. Quite possibly the best one-night stand – ever.