You’re looking good lately. Really nice, even. Those pecs…you’re packed tight, man. Nicely chiseled. You’re working out, aren’t you? Yeah. You are.
It’s reassuring to know you can watch The O.C. every Thursday night while you’re on the stairmaster at Bally’s 24-Hour-Fitness, plugged in to little more than a set of earbuds and, don’t you know it, an entire world of opulent gorgeousness. This is the sort of drama you dream about mindlessly as you polish the sweat from your glistening calves. Of course, the television sets lined up next to the one blaring FOX’s hottest second-season property may try and distract you with their depictions of a smirking Bill O’Reilly or some aging Matt LeBlanc character study, but you won’t be swayed. You understand guys like Tate Donovan, you really do.
He looks a lot like that guy who comes in on Tuesdays. That guy. He lingers around the benches for about thirty minutes. Eyes you as he pulls up his socks around his shins. You’re sure he’s the most beautiful man you’ve laid eyes upon…at least at this gym, right? Ha. You know what I’m saying. You’re a total pro.
And Catherine keeps calling you from the car. You just know she’ll be home before you, destined to get off early from her freelance gig at Leo Burnett. Why don’t you tell her about this guy? This perfect specimen of O.C.-esque beauty laying out in front of you, his arms pushing and pulling on the bars of a free-weight machine, such that you’re just positive what he’s doing with those lifts could “plug-n-play” nicely with your own frame.
You’re glistening, again. Sweating. Excited. And Catherine keeps on fucking calling you, and you just let it go to voicemail. What the fuck, right? Let her bring something back from Koo-Koo-Roo or California Pizza Kitchen for the two of you to eat later that night. The fuck if you care, right? You’re all over this guy. All over him. And he’s reading you just right.
Time to towel off, then. You nod at each other. It’s not even like some obscure code anymore. You know the drill. And he doesn’t even bother wrapping himself in a towel as the two of you leave the gym’s shower and head to the back lockers. Again, you know the drill. And, fuck, it’s a good thing Catherine doesn’t, right? God, would your life be over, or what?
And speaking of, you better finish up in here. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Right there. Sharp, so sharp. This may or may not be the world’s longest commercial break, but you don’t want to miss seeing the end result of Marissa’s hooking up with the pool boy. Pool boys. So perfect. So very, very right.
Actually, I’ve never seen The O.C.: I’m sure it’s pretty good.
The O.C. airs at 8PM EST on FOX.
Earlier: Obligatory Pop Culture Entry to Prove We Haven’t Become Humorless Prigs; O.C.D.; The O.C.: Your One and Only Friend; The O.C.: Your ‘Not Guilty’ Pleasure.
