Page 187 of The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles
Then there was the classroom.
Up front, on either side of the instructor’s bike were screens playing what looked like screensavers from the ’90s. Neon geometric shapes floated across the screen, changing colors at a rapid pace, causing any sober human to feel like they were tripping on acid.
Music blasted from every direction, and not basic music like Roy Orbison talking about a pretty woman walking down the street. This was Kidz Bop on growth hormone steroids. The beat was entirely too fast—apparently to help you ride faster—and the singers sounded more like robots resurrected from the graveyard of an abandonedStar Warsset than actual human beings.
Combine the music and screens with the black lights—yes, there were black lights—and you had sensory overload of epic proportions. Kind of like cosmic bowling, but on shrooms.
Delaney claimed to love the atmosphere. I, on the other hand, despised everything about spin class. I wanted to ditch the exercise, but after putting on my spandex workout pants the other day, I realized they weren’t lying, I needed to do something, so I was here, letting the bike seat eat away at my crotch in the worst way possible.
Ever had the sharp part of a pen cap try to jab its way through your slit? Yeah, me either until I came to this class.
What was it like for men to ride these torture devices? Were their balls shriveled up so far in their body it didn’t affect them anymore? That was my only guess how they exercised in the spin room.
“Let’s move! Up, down, up, down.”
In tandem, the whole class moved their butts with the music, alternating from hill to flat in seconds. I looked around while I barely pedaled and marveled at all the numb genitals.
Good for you, guys.
“Brunette in the back with the handkerchief in her hair who is pedaling like a grandma carrying her dog in a bike basket, pick it up, or I’m going to keep the entire class a half hour later. Move it.”
I looked around for the brunette who was ruining everything for us when Delaney smacked me in the arm from the side. “Hey, idiot, she’s talking to you. Move your effing legs. I have a date with Derk after this.”
“Is she talking to me?” I pointed at myself.
Over the speakers, the instructor’s voice boomed. “Yes, I’m talking to you. Now, get moving.”
Embarrassment seared through me.
I pedaled faster, ignoring Virginia’s protests. You know how people wear shirts that say, “Sweat is just fat crying”?
Well, in my case, sweat was my vagina crying out to all other vaginas for a lifeline, for help in any kind of capacity, even if it was a pussy tap from one lady to another.
“Well, she’s rude,” I hissed at Delaney.
We could barely hear each other over the music, but what I did hear fly out of Delaney’s mouth was, “Want that love chub forever?”
She knew how to hit me where it hurt. Therefore, I spent the last ten minutes of class pounding out my crotch until I didn’t think there was anything left. Every full rotation of the pedal was a knife up my core, slowly disintegrating any sexual organ I grew myself.
After the music stopped and Lance Armstrong took off her clip-on shoes, she smiled at everyone and told them to enjoy their day. From beneath the towel I dried my face with, I flipped her off. There was a special place in hell for people like her and Marta.
“You know, if you’re going to go to that class, you should really try to work out,” Delaney said, as we walked to the locker room.
“Excuse me for wanting to save the nerve endings in my crotch.”
“It doesn’t hurt that bad; you have to get used to it.”
“I don’t think I will ever get used to having a bike seat eat me out.” I spoke the words, as an elderly woman was heading to water aerobics.
Her look of disgust barely affected me. I was feeling too delirious from Satan’s spin class.
“Speak a little louder about your sexual acts with a bike next time, Rosie. I don’t think the kids in the play area heard you.”
I huffed and followed Delaney into the locker room.
Locker rooms were weird. There were some women in this world who had zero regard for keeping their bodies private, and it was always the women who had string beans as boobs hanging off their chests and grey bushes that would make the goliath, Marta, faint.
I was opening my locker when I leaned over to Delaney. “What’s with the old ladies in here not wearing clothes?”
