When I was a young man, health clubs had strict attendance days --  Monday, Wednesday and Friday for the men; Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday for the women.  (I don’t remember how Sunday was handled; perhaps, like God, it was assumed that we all rested then.)  The reason for this separation of the sexes was that the women wouldn’t want to be observed by men as they twisted, stretched and strained in very unlady-like positions, wearing skimpy gym attire.  And as to the men, who could expect them to work diligently on their routines when feminine temptation beckoned from every corner of the gym? 

Well, times have changed.  Our sense of equality requires that all have equal access to the gym.  And the fears about the women proved unjustified.  They perform their exercises seemingly unconcerned about the male gaze.  As for the men, they likewise have become blasé about the presence of the opposite sex. 

But not everyone.  There I was, on a rowing machine, plugging away as if I was fleeing from Alcatraz.  But I actually don’t enjoy rowing.  No.  The allure of the machinery was that it was directly behind a stair-step machine, on which a beauty was climbing to heaven.  Or at least I assume that is where an angel would be headed.  Tall, lean and blonde, her body was encased in skin tight pieces of spandex.  Her round, perfect behind flared upward in clinging pants, jiggling as the propulsion of her legs churned her body. 

Now, the sight of the female form is endlessly fascinating to men.  The male could watch 100 women walk by, but when he is advised that the 101st is approaching, the male would yet again turn to look.  He wants to see the curves of the breasts, the indentation at the base of the spine, the flare of the hips and the valley of the midsection.  Always hoping that the next one will be more enticing that the last.  And this is a good thing.  It has propelled our species to fill virtually every corner of the planet.  But it’s a bad thing when the excitement of possibilities is replaced with the reality of age and everyday life. 

I guess I’m talking about myself.  I’m in my 40s, dating but not in a relationship.  And not fully satisfied.  I was never a Romeo in my youth, but I had my moments-- the occasional conquest of a beauty, an intoxicating love affair, or a crazy night of sexual excess.  Is that gone forever?  Is one to go quietly into the night? 

Well, I’m still able to engage the opposite sex in conversation.  Not flirting exactly, just pleasant, social talk, like when we’re on adjacent exercise equipment.  That’s how I chatted up that angel; she has a name, Ashley. 

I’ve learned Ashley is the manager at an accounting firm; mid-30s, is divorced (no kids) and lives with a roommate in Arlington.  Has a boyfriend (of course); loves cats. 

We never had coffee, never had a conversation outside of the exercise room.  But then that sign appeared in the gym.   “This facility will again feature our annual Nude Day festival.  The gym on the 14th of this month will be clothing optional.  Do you dare?”

The sign provoked the to-be-expected gasps, giggles, frowns and smiles.  When Ashley was walking on a treadmill, I joined on the treadmill next to her.

‘Hey Ash,” I said.

“Hi Brad.”

We chatted casually about nothing, really.  I just needed some filler before I broached what was on my mind.

“What do you think about the Nude Day thing?  Certainly something different,” I said.

“You can say that again,” she replied.  “I don’t know who would have the nerve for that.”

“Well, it’s all in what one is used to.  When I vacationed in Martinque, all the women went topless on the beach.  And there was nude bathing at the end of the island.”

“I can see you there, Brad,” she laughed.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never done something risky in your life,” I suggested.  “Never skinny dipped?”

“Well, once or twice, yes.  But I was younger.  Crazy stuff teenagers do.  And I had the body for it then,” she said.

“Don’t take this as being forward, but you’ve got a dynamite body.  You work out on that stair-master like a 20-year old.”

“I try.  We women have to fight gravity.”

“Gravity doesn’t stand a chance,” I said, smiling at her.

She smiled back. 

I pressed on.  “So, once you’re thirty, does one stop doing bold, daring things?  Is life now all maturity, boring and predictable?”

She didn’t answer.  That was ok; I was planting a seed.  Seeds need time to nurture.

I didn’t see her the next time I was at the gym.  We each worked out three times a week, but not all days overlapped. 

But I did see her the time after that.  I went up to her while she sat at the juice bar of the gym.

She brought it up.  “You know, Brad, what you said to me really hit home.  Am I too old now to take a risk?  Have I become my mother?”

“One is only as old as you want to be.  It’s up to you,” I said.

“Are you going to do the nude thing on the 14th?” she asked.

“I’m thinking of it.  But I won’t do it alone.  I don’t want to be the single, creepy guy.  I’d only do it if I have a partner in crime.  Someone to work out with.”

She didn’t reply.  She finished her juice, and said she wanted to lift weights.  “Will you spot me?” she asked.

“Sure.”  I had done that before, although not recently. 

She lay on a bench and I handed her a bar with weights on each end.  I stood over her as she pressed the bar upward, waiting to assist if needed.  While I waited, I stared down at her chest.  Nothing wrong with that; that’s the direction a spotter should be looking.  But the action took on a different tone after our Nude Day conversation.  It was like our relationship had subtly changed.  I was staring at her breasts; her head was only inches away from my shorts.  Maybe the sexual tension I felt was one-sided.  But maybe not.  After she finished the weights, she spoke.

“How would we do this if we worked out together on Nude Day?” she asked.

The hook was planted.  I just needed to reel it in.

“I think it would be like a regular day.  Probably use the treadmill, some light weights, you love that stair-master, and I’m often on the rowing machine.  For sure we’d hit the hot tub after the workout; be silly not to get a soak in as long as we were naked.”

“And afterwards?” she asked.

“We’d each go back home.  It’s not a date.  I’ve got my own life; you’ve got a boyfriend.  I’d probably stare at your beautiful body and I’d expect you’d want to admire my wonderful physique too.”

She laughed, as I hoped she would.

“Let me think about it,” she said.

It didn’t take long.  “I’m in,” she said the next time we met.  “But please don’t stare at me.  I’ll be nervous as one of my cats.  I’m very self-conscious about my body – in fact, that’s part of the reason I’m doing this.  I need to relax a little.  After all, I’ve got nothing unique.  All women have the same body parts.”

Uh huh. 

“Of course,” I said.  “I think everybody will be on best behavior.  And guys are much more nervous about their naked bodies.  We can have unfortunate occurrences when naked.  That would be embarrassing.” 

“You wouldn’t, would you?” she asked.

“I don’t expect that.  But isn’t that just part of the daring, the excitement, of the day?

I could see she hadn’t contemplated that.  Would our relationship be the same after we saw each other naked?  What if I do have an erection?  Can that be un-seen?

When the 14th rolled around, we met at the entrance to the locker rooms.  As normal, I’d walk in to the right, she’d go in to the left.  What would be different is how we exited.  Unbeknownst to her, I’d gone to the gym every day prior, so that my muscles would be tight and prominent.  (Not vain, am I?) 

When we walked out of the locker room, she took my breath away.  High, firm breasts, not huge but well-proportioned to her body.  A lithe, trim figure, with beautiful curves at her waist.  Her vulva was covered with fine, wispy blonde hair.  (So, she’s a natural blonde – a la that wonderful scene in the movie, ‘Mash.’) 

“You’re a beautiful woman,” I said.

“Thank you,” she replied.  “But don’t look at me too much.  This is new territory for me.  And you’re a handsome man,” she said.

“Now that we have the compliments done, let’s work out,” I said.

And that’s what we did.  As much as possible, we had a normal day at the gym, with asides to stare at each other – and to take in the other scenery.  There were more attractive, naked people in one place than I’d seen in a long time.  Everyone was respectful, but one wouldn’t have been there if he or she didn’t want to see and be seen.  And that’s what we did.

After our workout, we went into the hot tub.  It was full of people.  Women didn’t cover up as their breasts floated freely on top of the water as they leaned against the wall.  Men were more screened with their private parts submerged, but they were not invisible.  Everyone looked.  And they talked – there was more conversation than normal.  It was the shared bond of doing something outrageous, of public nudity. 

When it was time to get dressed, Ashley told me it had been an unforgettable experience.  She leaned in and kissed me.  Not the kiss of lovers, but of friends who’d shared something wonderful.

“Do you think we’ll do this again?” she asked.

“God, I hope so,” I replied.  “Let’s talk to management.  I don’t want to have to wait another year to see my beautiful friend in all her natural glory.”

“Me neither,” she answered.  And then she took hold of my penis. “And this instrument of yours behaved today.  Maybe I need to work out more.”  She turned and walked into the women’s locker room.