Let’s get one thing straight: I’m not here to generalize about men as a whole, but sometimes the phrase “Ugh…men” feels all too accurate. If you’ve ever found yourself dealing with attention you didn’t ask for—unwanted gestures that hover somewhere between flattery and discomfort—then you’ll know exactly what I mean. Working at a gym has provided me with more than my fair share of these experiences, and I think it’s about time I vented a little.
It all started with a 28-year-old man who made it his mission to kneel at the front desk every time I worked. At first, I thought it was just an odd attempt at humor, but it didn’t take long for this routine to become a permanent fixture in my shifts. He never had much to say—he just kneeled there, staring, as if waiting for me to initiate something. It wasn’t long before my coworkers started noticing too. They’d gently ask him to make room for other patrons, but that never seemed to be the end of it. Whenever he was asked to leave the desk area, he’d take up residence in the parking lot, pacing around in the dark or sitting in his car for hours.
One day, he decided to up the ante and brought me a meal. He handed me the container with a smile and explained, in painstaking detail, how he had driven 45 minutes out of town just to find black salt and other organic, heirloom ingredients. It was thoughtful, sure, but also deeply unsettling considering we barely knew each other (at least from my perspective).
Then, there was this 86-year-old man who seemed harmless at first. He’d come in, strike up a conversation, and chat like most regulars do. But one day, without warning, he dropped a bomb. “I’ve already bought the tickets,” he said, grinning. “We’re going to Las Vegas.”
It took me a second to realize what he was saying. “We?”
“Yeah,” he continued matter-of-factly, “I’ve booked the hotel and everything. We’ll fly out together. It’s all set.”
I politely declined, hoping that would be the end of it. Spoiler: it wasn’t. Every single day after that, he would bring it up again, as though I was just playing hard to get. The Vegas invites became a routine, like part of his workout plan. And as if the constant invitations weren’t enough, he started slipping me $50 gift cards and $100 bills. “This is for looking pretty and working hard,” he’d say, handing over the money with a wink.
Then came the financial offers. It started small, but before long, he was telling me, “I’ve got $6,000 in disposable income every month—let me take care of you. Anything you need—your college tuition, bills, anything—I’ve got you covered.” To say I wasn’t tempted would be a lie. I was working three jobs at the time, barely scraping by, and that money could have taken a huge load off my shoulders. But I knew better than to accept. With that kind of financial support came strings—ones I wasn’t willing to get tangled in. I didn’t want to owe anyone, especially not him.
His persistence didn’t go unnoticed by others, either. His friend—a fellow senior gym regular—often had to intervene. I’d seen him place two hands on the man’s shoulders, gently guiding him away from the front desk while saying, “It’s time to stop asking her to go to Vegas. You’re too old for that.” But, without fail, the next day would bring another offer.
To complicate matters even further, his wife—an incredibly kind woman who also came to the gym—was blissfully unaware of all this. She’d bring me homemade dishes and protein shakes, telling me, “He says you’re like a granddaughter to him.” I’m not sure how she’d react if she knew that her husband was offering to fund my entire life.
Next, there was the 30-year-old man whose goal wasn’t trips or gifts—it was “saving” me from what he assumed was a life of hard labor. One day, while leaning over the desk, he told me, “Let me wife you up. You don’t have to work so hard.”
I was caught off guard but kept my response simple. “I’m happy with my job.”
He didn’t seem to hear me. “Let me wife you up. We can live lavish.”
He proceeded to describe his vision of our life involving endless vacations, luxury yacht trips, and a work-free existence—all of which occurred on his “whopping” $4,000/month income, which coincidentally was the same as mine at that time. Despite my insistence that I was content with my job, he kept asking if I was really happy as if he was waiting for me to finally break down and admit that yes, I did need saving.
Considering he barely knew me, he could have easily been a trafficker, preying on what he thought was my vulnerability. That thought alone was enough to keep me on high alert whenever he was around.
Then came the man who introduced me to one of the most bizarre health practices I’ve ever heard of: urine therapy. This particular gym attendee first approached me with a comment that threw me off guard: “You ever thought about why you have those breakouts?” he asked, pointing to my skin. I was taken aback by his forwardness, and before I could respond, he continued. “Have you heard about urine therapy?”
I hadn’t, so I asked, “What’s that?”
He proceeded to explain that he drank his own urine as a part of his health routine. He didn’t stop there. He proudly listed the many other ways in which he utilized his own urine: as eye drops, shampoo, lotion, toothpaste, and more. His tone was so casual, as if these practices were completely normal. “It tastes just like coconut water,” he added, “mostly because I eat a healthy raw vegan diet.”
I was flabbergasted. Not only was this conversation bizarre beyond belief, but to think someone had actually tried to set the two of us up at one point? I was genuinely offended that anyone would dare think I’d tolerate this level of madness.
As if the gym experiences weren’t enough, my living situation brought its own series of frustrations. I’ll admit, the Airbnb listing looked perfect. The photos showed a clean, modern room in a well-maintained home, and the reviews were all glowing. Based on that, I booked the place for three months, paying just over $2,000 for the first month, planning to stay long-term.
What I walked into was a nightmare. The room was nothing like the photos. The bedsheets were covered in human and dog hair. Dust bunnies rolled around the floor, and thick layers of dust coated every surface, making the entire room feel gritty and dirty. The bathroom was somehow even worse—limescale caked the sink and shower, and there were visible urine stains on the floor. The mirror had dried spit splattered on it, and the entire bathroom smelled like neglect.
The kitchen? An absolute disaster. There were old food splatters on the stove and microwave, and the refrigerator was horrifying. Food had been left inside the ice and water dispenser, and the shelves were coated in sticky, crusty spills. But the most disgusting part was the refrigerator handle, which was covered in a sticky, white goo that made it impossible to touch without gagging. The kitchen floor was covered in grime, and walking barefoot in there made my skin crawl.
I contacted the “landlord” immediately—a 26-year-old who didn’t seem remotely fazed by the state of his place. When I told him what I had walked into, he brushed it off, telling me that I was “overreacting” and that he would clean everything by the time I got back from work.
When I returned, the place was barely cleaner. The same grime was still there, and the bathroom stains hadn’t been scrubbed away. The sticky fridge handle? Still disgusting. The only real change was that the dust-covered fan in my bedroom, which I had asked him to clean, was now completely gone. He had just removed it without a word. I was paying the extra cleaning fee for nothing.
“Why do you have three pairs of the exact same Crocs?” he asked. The fact that he had even noticed them told me he had been going through my belongings while I was gone. He started commenting on my wardrobe, too, calling it “super unusual,” which only confirmed my suspicion that he had rummaged through my things. Who knows what else he may have seen?
As if things couldn’t get worse, he commented on my Canon T6i camera, suggesting I could be his assistant photographer. “I do wedding photography,” he explained. “We could travel to places like New Mexico, Houston, Colorado, the world. You could help me with gigs.” Though I did have an interest in photography, I had absolutely no interest in spending any amount of time with this filth monster. No, thank you!
By this point, I knew I had to leave. But even after I had decided to leave, he wasn’t done with his bizarre behavior. Shortly after I had left, he had the nerve to call me and ask if I wanted to come over for Valentine’s Day and begged me not to leave a negative review on Airbnb. Foolishly, I agreed to spare him and even more regrettably, I didn’t demand a full refund, despite having every right to. I hadn’t slept for a single night at my booking, but I still let him keep the money for the first month. Looking back, it’s ridiculous that I didn’t stand up for myself. I had all the evidence, including photos of the disgusting conditions, but I chose to be accommodating and avoid conflict. I really should have demanded my money back and left him the scathing review he deserved for acting like I was the unreasonable one for being disgusted by his filth and invasion of privacy, but I was too focused on being polite. Nonetheless, I’m grateful I had enough dignity to not stay for any longer than I did.
There was the guy who printed an image of his house, wrote his address on it, and told me to come over anytime. Or the man who asked me what I was doing at a particular location, and when I told him I was taking a CPR class, he grinned and said, “I want you to put your lips on mine and do CPR on me.” My immediate reaction was to shriek, “Ew, disgusting! Please don’t ever say that again!” He just giggled as if my disgust was some sort of a joke to him. And then there was the gym patron that would always ask for a dap up. If you’re not familiar with it, a dap up is like a casual handshake with the vibe of a fist bump. But this guy would switch it up at the last second and use his middle finger to “finger” the inside of my palm. It only took me a few unfortunate instances before I made it abundantly clear that I would never dap him up again. From that point on, I stuck to fist bumps and closed-hand greetings that left no room for those kinds of violations.
Point being, these incidents were just the tip of the iceberg, happening far too frequently for my comfort. Was it my presentation? My demeanor? Something about me seemed to invite these wildly inappropriate approaches. Is it pretentious to feel insulted that they assumed I was in their league? Or wrong to be offended that they thought my standards would tolerate such behavior? Regardless, I knew one thing for sure: if they felt comfortable enough to act like this, something needed to change. Drastically.
