The Fag Hag’s body, well known to many generations as an amusement park, has recently been transformed into a temple.
The gym – which was previously the place I used to go if I wanted a quiet place to sit and read Love It mag without judgement, and laugh at the Beth Dittos doing Boxercise, has become my home from home. Fag Hag Sister was first to notice.
‘Why have you suddenly turned into Jamie Lee Curtis in Perfect?’ she said accusingly, eyes narrowing like slits in a Polish cleaner’s top. ‘What, moi?’ I replied, frantically applying three layers of foundation before my workout.
‘You fancy your personal trainer don’t you!’ she cried. ‘Don’t be silly,’ I muttered, hoping she wouldn’t notice the fact that I’d put on Agent Provocateur Underwear for my weights session, smothered myself in cocoa butter and had given my bikini area such a skinning it was as bald as Prince Albert of Monaco.
Well, okay then, my trainer is hot. Fit as fuck actually. ‘You do realise he flirts with everyone – that’s his job!’ said my sister rolling her eyes. ‘Of course,’ I replied adjusting my see-thru thong. ‘But Fag Hag Sister don’t you see? I flirt with everybody too so we’re made for each other!’ And with that I was off to have my upper body worked on.
What do you think my darlings? Do I allow him access to the Fag Hag Roped Area or not? You decide…