Personal Train Yourself to Go Away

Submitted by Ellen:

John was a personal trainer who contacted me online.  He said some flattering things and compared me to some of the other girls on the site.  "It looks like you eat right.  Being a trainer, I mostly see people who do the opposite," etc.  He always found a way to use some of his personal trainer knowledge in every message that he sent me.  He came across as being very proud of his work.  Maybe a bit too proud.

In any event, he was a decent conversationalist, and he at first offered to make me dinner at his place.  I liked the idea, as a personal trainer probably knew some great recipes, but in the end, I thought it smarter to meet him for the first time somewhere out.

We made the arrangements, and I wore a nice blouse and dress pants.

When we first met, I went to hug him, but he extended a hand to me.  I shook it.

"Good," he said, "That's a nice, firm grip.  I can already tell that you're toned."

I thanked him, and we sat down.  "Quiz time," he said, holding up a menu, "What on here is the healthiest thing to order?"

I shrugged and said, "You're the personal trainer."

He said, "What do you think is the best thing to eat on this menu?"

"I don't know.  A salad, I guess."

"Right!" he said, "Which salad?"

I didn't really feel like playing that game anymore.  Did it matter what kind of salad was the healthiest?  If I wanted to order steak and potatoes, I was going to order steak and potatoes.

Most of his sentences began with, "As a personal trainer," or "As an accomplished personal trainer," or even, "As an experienced personal trainer," and so on.  He kept making assumptive statements about me, like, "I could guess from what you're wearing that you're firm in some places, but could probably use a little bit of help here and there.  As a personal trainer..."

To be fair to him, that wasn't all we talked about.  Still, it felt that way for most of the time.  He also seemed particularly fixated on my thighs.

"Thighs are a really good indicator of body fat," he said, "As a personal trainer, I've seen a lot of thighs, and I have to say..."

It all blended together until he said, "...and maybe you'll let me check your thighs out.  After dinner."

I grinned.  "I don't think so."

"Why not?" he asked.

"I just don't..."

"I'm a personal trainer.  I look at thighs all day long.  You think... oh my goodness..." and he started laughing.  Then, he said, "You think I meant it sexually?  Ha ha!  No.  I wouldn't flatter yourself that much.  I just want to check out your upper thighs for body fat.  I'm a personal trainer."

"No thank you."

"Seriously?  I normally charge people $100 for something like that.  I'll check them out and throw in a muscle caress for free."

"A muscle caress?"

He frowned.  "Again with the self-flattery.  I'm a personal trainer."

"Okay."

After that, I brought the dinner, and the date, to as speedy a close as possible.

As we left the restaurant, he asked, "Can I just even look at your thighs?  I won't touch them.  Promise."

I said, "That would require me pulling my pants down on a first date, and I don't really..."

"I'm a personal trainer!" he said, loudly, "I look at people's thighs for a living!  You think I want to fuck you because I want to see your thighs?"

I said, "No.  I think you're weird for not taking no for an answer the first five times."

He stepped away.  "Fine.  Refuse my free help.  I don't care."

That was enough to bring things to a fast, if awkward, close.