Elfin Magic I've overcome a major hurdle this morning at the gym. After sort-a kind-a taking the week off last week (I went to the gym, but because I was alone, couldn't find the motivation to lift a weight), when I returned to the gym this morning, I found myself lifting 20 to 30 pounds more than before. 20 to 30 pounds more to feel the burn. To feel the power. It's like a drug; I need a little bit more to achieve the same sensation. Yes, I must admit, my muscles are bulging. Bulging, as they never have before. Even the crotch-ity old men who can't seem to take their eyes off my pumping, flexing, throbbing muscles are noticing. Elfin man didn't take his eyes off my crotch once while I worked my inner thigh. Child Molester Guy thinks I can't see his eyes wander from behind his rose-tinted glasses. But I know he's looking as I contract and expand my glutes. And when I raise my legs in the air to crunch my abdominals, the clanging of dropping weights echo through the gym. I've always been attractive to middle-aged trolls who tend to stick their tongue out at me when their wives are not paying attention. "Mama," I once asked at a football game, "what's it mean when someone sticks their tongue out at you?" "It means, 'kiss me quick, but don't slobber.'" I don't think I accurately articulated just how these men were directing their tongues at me. She probably thought I was talking about Carolyn, my friend at school, who was sending me love notes in the U.S. Mail. It probably never occurred I was talking about Family Man just two rows behind me. Stalker Guy frightened me with his gestures. I first spotted him in the bookstore at the mall when I was 14. Actually, he spotted me. He combined his gestures with speech. "Hi, how are you?" he said. And then he stuck his tongue out. I freaked, put down my Field and Stream magazine with a Playgirl stuck inside, and ran directly to the mall restroom where I locked myself in a stall. I was 14. How was I to know that I had landed right in Stalker Guy's playground? Only minutes later, I saw his velcro-tabbed shoes and polyester pants appear outside the stall. Had it been a horror movie the audience would have been shouting, "Don't look up! Don't look up!" But I did. I'm a blond. I followed his polyester pants up through the crack in the door, where my eyes met a single, lone eyeball, pawing at the door to get in. The restroom door squeaked opened and a family walked in (the male side). Stalker Guy jumped back. I jumped up, threw open the door, and ran. I ran to G.I. Joes where I hid in a rack of hip waders. But that was not the end of Stalker Guy. For the next several weeks, every time I went to the mall, Stalker Guy found me. One Saturday I was lounging on a sofa at Sears waiting for my Mom to order window dressings. She was making all the wrong decisions and I was not about to have a part of it. "Are you as comfortable as you look?" The voice, I knew it instantly. I bolted from the sofa, discovering Mom had moved on. She wasn't where she said she'd be, and it was an hour before we'd meet at our 'if we get separated' spot. For an hour I was on the run. A taste of Beef Stick in Hickory Farms, a sugar sampling at Mrs. See's Candies, a sashay through Women's Lingerie in Mervyns. For an hour, I successfully dodged Stalker Guy. And when I met up with Mom, I turned, looked Stalker Guy in the eye, and returned his tongue favor as I walked away. Stalker Guy was the first of many as I moved through adolescence into young adulthood. My senior year of college I made the mistake of walking through the north side of Chicago wearing overalls, a red and white gingham plaid button-down shirt and my red Converse high tops. As I window shopped, I'd leer over my shoulder only to find a gaggle of men shuffling to bury their nose in storefronts and merchandise. I know I was the prize piece of merchandise they were after. Their wives pleasantly pleased they volunteered to run errands, these trolls were salivating over a buff boy shaping into raw masculinity, barely older than their teenage daughters. "You have a nice penis," said Army Dude as I walked down Clark Street. I didn't look at him. I could tell he was looking at me with wanton eyes. "I saw it. In the gym. It was the nicest in the showers." I moved closer to him, hoping it would push him into a parking meter. I still hadn't acknowledged him, although I could tell he wore an Army t-shirt. Mothers pushed their babies in strollers. "I'd really like to suck it." School children hopped off the bus. "I've got a big dick, too." I crossed the street, and left Army Dude. "I swallow," he yelled as a last-chance effort. Now, as I curl my bulging biceps in front of the mirror, 20 pounds more than I did last week, I sense the trolls milling about. Milling about like hungry chickens. They check out the view before they commit to a piece of equipment. Elfin man doesn't even know how to use half the equipment in the gym, but he'll go through the motions if he can sneak a glance of me. They don't think I'm watching. But I am. I have been all my life. It's my secret. Elfin Magic lure used for prize-winning trolling, I am. I'll be at the gym all week. Feel free to come and watch my craning quads as perspiration seeps from my pores. The crotch-ity old trolls do.