Page 1 of Thigh Highs
The Douche King
“Come on,ladies! Harder! Let me see youpunch!”
I blink back the sweat dripping into my eyes as Coach Kelsey’s shouts ring out over the sound of a dozen women attacking punchingbags.
“Almost done now! Let’s go! Ten...Nine...”
My arms are on fire, but I summon up a final spark of adrenaline and blast through the last ten seconds of the drill, my fists a blur in front of me as I drive them over and over again into the red padding of thebag.
“And...time!”
The pounding in the room stops, replaced by all our heavingbreaths.
“That one always kills me,” pants my friend Alice from besideme.
I just nod in response, leaning against the bag as I gulp air down into my burning lungs. We take a minute to rest and shake out our arms before strapping off our gloves and heading over to where Coach Kelsey is leading the cool-downstretches.
I follow along with all the lunges and shoulder rolls, already feeling a satisfying ache settle into my body. I’ve been kickboxing for half a year now and the classes have become an addiction. My schedule is tight, but I always manage to fit in at least one session a week. I don’t feel right if I go too long without working my arms so hard they feel like Jell-O.
The stretching ends and we all file out of the mirrored gym, heading towards the lockerrooms.
“Christina!” Coach Kelsey barks as I pass her. “Good work today. You’ll be ready to move up a levelsoon.”
I smile and thank her. When I first started taking classes here, I got scared shitless every time she walked into the room. She’s a five foot two Malaysian woman who makes up for her lack of height by being a solid wall of muscle with a booming voice to match. She’s an incredibly supportive coach though, and just the sight of her kicks is enough to push me to workharder.
“At least one of us is moving up,” remarks Alice, as we open up our lockers. “I think I’ll be stuck in Beginner Two for the rest of mylife.”
“Not true,” I counter. “Have you seen your arms lately? They’re turning into steel rods before my veryeyes.”
“They may look like steel, but they feel like mush after a workout like that. Why is it I keep letting you bring mehere?”
We both grab our towels and head to theshowers.
“Because despite all of your complaining, youhaveadmitted you like it,” I answer. “Also, there’s the cute buttbenefit.”
I squeeze the curve of her Lycra booty shorts to emphasize mypoint.
She sighs. “My butt may be cute from doing all those kicky things, but I still haven’t been on a date inmonths.”
“Have a cute butt for your own sake. You don’t need a man to validate yourass.”
We step into adjacent showers and continue our conversation over the streaming jets. I think this place might have the best water pressure in the city; I exhale in relief as the blast pounds into the tender muscles of myshoulders.
“True,” Alice responds, “but I would still love to have a manvalidateme tonight. Allnight.”
“Maybe if you weren’t sopicky.”
“Are you kidding me?” she snorts. “You’re, like, the queen ofpicky.”
I take a minute to consider the accusation. My love life is basically a conveyor belt of different dinner dates, but I rarely find anyone that’s worth putting the procession on holdfor.
“Okay, you’re right. That’s a crown I’m willing towear.”
We quiet down for a few minutes, steam rising in the room as the rest of the showers fill up. I try my best to keep my shoulder-length hair from getting hit by the spray. Along with skin that never fails to get the perfect tan, my Portuguese heritage gave me the kind of wavy mane that would make even Shakira jealous, but any contact with water turns my head into a frizzball.
Alice starts humming the tune of the latest Ed Sheerananthem.
“You know,” she ventures, cutting off the musical interlude. “I think I should just change my profile picture on OkCupid to a shot of my cute butt. Then maybe I’d have moreluck.”
