Accidental Tourist

So I'm at the hotel gym, just minding my own business, attempting to do 15 consecutive minutes on the sadomasochistic, "Back To The 90s" StairMaster. Lance Armstrong is on a bike, to my left. Anderson Cooper is in Cairo, to my center. People fucking in the pool, to my right. Wait a minute, what the--!?!

I dab my eyes with a dangerously-bleached hotel towel, thinking I'm having some sort of hallucinatory attack before the onset of cardiac arrest. I look again. Sure enough, through the attractive picture window I see palm trees, the glistening water of the hotel pool, and two people going at it like monkees near the "No Diving" sign.

I stare in fascination, suddenly unbothered by the beeping command of Herr Stair Meister to keep my heart rate above 80. Jeez, it's still daylight! People are still walking around! And yet, there they are, Mr. Bald dude and Ms. Big Boobed, rubbing uglies near the shallow end without a care in the world. Baldy pushes Booby back against the metal step ladder, presumably for better leverage, and continues the show. Booby's sucking Baldy's mouth as if he's an oxygen tank and she's in the last stages of emphysema. Uh-oh, I see a couple approach--support hose and bermuda shorts--must be an old couple on their way to the 5:00 PM senior dinner discount. Baldy and Booby stop gyrating for a minute and let them pass. Booby even waves! I nearly fall off the machine trying to catch a glimpse of their faces but the window's too low. I silently curse Westin's architectural design team. Baldy and Booby wait a minute, chatting and laughing as if they've just finished a round of golf. Then they start up again.

Was I turned on? Am I on my way to becoming my friendly neighborhood Peeping Tomara? Not sure. But according to my Workout Summary on the Pain Monster, I did 67 minutes and my heart rate never dropped below 76.

Maybe I'll ask my gym if they can show the Spice Channel.