Heads up! We’re working hard to be accurate – but these are unusual times, so please always check before heading out.
RECOMMENDED: Fitness guide to NYC
I always had an inkling that we ladies were way worse off than men when it came to comfort and exercise, but it’s only now that I get just how easy it is to work out with the family jewels. Jogging through the East Village with a 5.5-inch flaccid penis and creepily true-to-life testicles strapped to my crotch (thanks, Babeland!), my biggest source of discomfort was the worry that someone would notice my bulging package. The second thing on my mind was, as always, the distractingly mobile contents of my sports bra. The third: my keys, uncomfortably wedged into my sneakers. It was only somewhere in the back of my huffing and puffing brain that I was conscious of how the faux junk tucked into my briefs felt. It wasn’t even bothersome; it was just there.
Surely it’s got to be worse than this, I thought. So I hopped onto the exercise bike in hopes of experiencing some ball-crushing discomfort. No dice. My prosthetic third leg and company stayed safely on the seat out of smooshing range, even when I pedaled furiously in an attempt to shift it into harm’s way.
Guys, I’m not moved by your penis plight. Granted, had I been wearing a pair of loose-fitting boxer shorts, I may have had some motion-control issues—it couldn’t be any fun to run or bike with a set of sweaty objects thwacking against your thigh. But dudes, take advantage of the fact that American Apparel has brought back the brief and as far as I can tell, you’ll be golden. I’ll never make fun of your tighty-whities again.
Nice cans! At least, that’s what I thought while checking myself out using the chest-spotlighting pec-deck apparatus. An immediate benefit of pouring a jiggly silicone pair of 44DDs into my Kmart sports bra is that I no longer have to worry about getting into trouble for leering at women in tight-fitting workout clothes—now I can just second-base myself. Admittedly, lots of spectators were watching me out of the corner of their eyes, I think because of the dubious combo of scraggly beard and slightly crooked fun bags. For an attentionmonger like myself, the horrified glances weren’t so bad, but it did occur to me that women at the gym—especially on certain bust-focused equipment—must feel pretty exposed. The treadmill was where trouble began. I immediately noticed the weight that the twins added to my usual stride. I tried convincing myself that they gave me a new momentum that, instead of hindering my marathon hopes, would actually help propel me forward. Truth is they are something of a hindrance, and it’s kind of tough to get a decent rhythm with them flopping every which way.
I experienced no chronic back problems or sore nipples; the problem that plagued me the most was the punching-bag effect that occurred when doing arm curls. Though this was catnip to my perpetually fifth-grade male mentality, had the boobs actually been attached to my chest, the overwhelming feeling would’ve likely been one of pain, not fascination.