A Wii Orgasm
When we first moved to Paris, my boyfriend and I crashed briefly at his parent’s place. It was a full house since his sister Carole was also there saving a few last coins on rent before moving to my old stomping ground, Los Angeles.
A native of perennially fabulous 80 degree weather, I’m understandably not much of an indoor workout person. For me, the best burn is begotten under the sun in salty sea air with mother nature under my Adidas. I’ve even been known to rock my yoga mat in the great outdoors. When I moved to Rome in 2005, it was an easy transition. There was oodles of Mediterranean sunshine, giant parks and seven hills to run up and down, each carved with glut-burning staircases that put the famous duo I used to trudge in Santa Monica to shame.
And then there was Paris, where the sun shines once a leap year and the only serious ass-hauling stairs to be had in all that gray flatland are clogged in the polluted arteries of Montmartre. No thanks. Luckily we lived by the woods, so if I shut my eyes to the tree cover, pissing rain, chain-smoking French youths exhaling poison into my lungs, and the landmines of dog shit, it was just like a summery run down Zuma Beach. Not.
Needless to say under these circumstances that the yoga came indoors. I was holding a tree pose one day when Carole bounced into the house hugging a big cardboard box to her chest.
“I bought a Wii Fit!”
“You bought a we what?”
“A Wii Fit,” she beamed, dancing off to set it up.
The only thing I knew about Wii was that it was some sort of video game thingy, and I hate video games because alongside Republicans, McDonald’s and reality TV, the onus for the dumbing down and fattening up of America lays squarely on their shoulders. But Carole is French. Certainly no dummy or fatty here. I followed her to her room, curious what my chic, future sister-in-law was getting up to with her new toy.
She unpacked it, hooked it up to the TV, threw on her sweats, and got down to business. She pressed a few buttons on a sleek, vibratoreque control and began sifting through a virtual gallery of exercise options before finally choosing to lunge, lift and squat on top of what looked like a miniature plastic helipad. All of this was beaconed by an animated workout buddy, an unfortunate looking bobble-head who encouraged her moves and logged her calorie burn.
Aside from the practical calorie-counting, this isolated, interactive workout was just too weird for me to dig.
“You know Carole, we should go run or bike in the woods together,” I said.
“With the hookers? No thanks.” Indeed, the woods in Paris are notorious for their tranny prostitutes. But I’ve never been one to let a little fellatio in the forest get in the way of a good burn.
“C”mon,” I persisted. ” It’s not like they’re everywhere.”
“No,” she huffed and puffed from atop the helipad. “I don’t want people watching me while I work out.”
I was a bit more empathetic of this, seeing as I have a set on my chest that’s probably visible from the NASA Space Station when I run. But even pervy gawkers, like woodland hookers, aren’t enough of a threat to keep me indoors.
I left Carole to it. Once she got to to L.A. I was sure she would realize the many splendors of a workout under the sun.
In the mean time she became a pretty hardcore Wii-Fitter, shutting her door most nights after work only to emerge looking and feeling like a million bucks. Even if she was sore from over-doing it or had pulled a muscle, she was resilient with that Wii. Maybe she was onto something, I thought during many a solo marathon through hookers, dog droppings and deviants in the woods. Perhaps there were special charms to the indoor Wii Fit that I needed to experience for myself.
After reading “Amanda Flowers Claims Wii Fit Injury Made Her a Sex Addict“ on the Huffington Post today, now I’m absolutely sure of it.
“After falling from her Wii Fit board, Flowers reports that even minor vibrations–such as from a food processor, she says–turns her on. She was told by a doctor that she had suffered a damaged nerve that has provoked “persistent sexual arousal syndrome.”
The secrecy, the afterglow, the not wanting anyone to watch – who knew! Discreet, those French. Another reason why they always do it better.
If only Carole had told me of the Wii Fit’s orgasmic powers before I moved back to sunny, stair-terraced Rome last month. I was all ready to go for a run in the park this morning until I came across this deliciously carnal nugget. Now I’ll be running to go scoop up a Wii Fit so I can race right back home and throw myself from it down the stairs.
I don’t ever plan on breaking a sweat – at least not outdoors – again.