Praise be to all-night gymnasiums. Not because I need to lose a few pounds after splurging on a Thanksgiving feast (triplets); my kind do not benefit from regular exercise. Nature has seen fit to arm us with strength and speed far in excess of even your most advanced specimens. And we don’t really gain weight in the normal sense. It would take a steady diet of fatty blood and fortified milkshakes to even begin to add even a pound of excess weight. Fat doesn’t accumulate under undead flesh.

My love of twenty-four hour gymnasiums is based on the many desirable things they offer: the convenience, the sport, the anonymity … and the drains.

Exercise facilities are awash with men who favor performance-enhancing drugs and thus are filled with the aggressive confidence and testosterone-driven needs that make them pushovers for a woman of my, shall we say, attributes. Especially when those attributes are barely contained in revealing exercise clothing that are spandex tight in all the right places and sheer enough to draw second or usually third looks.

A few well-timed “can you spot me, boys” — even though I could handily bend the barbells like a twig — and they are practically fighting amongst themselves for the honor of accompanying me home. Even though their usually shriveled genitalia and crippling narcissistic overcompensation equate to uninspired performances in the bedroom (sometimes even the undead can’t raise the dead), their veins are so large and thick and easy to find. Like snakes crawling along their forearms and curling around their biceps and calves — pulsating road maps to my favorite diner. The thought of nipping into one of those ropy little tubes while the he-man sobs in terror makes me positively giddy.

Another benefit to health clubs: no pesky cameras in the places that matter, like the locker rooms or the sauna. No cameras means no inconvenient video evidence. And with so few people exercising during the witching hour, one has almost free run of the facilities. The women’s locker room is almost too easy, and I do love the challenge of a weight lifter. Imagine the short-lived delight of some vascular hulk when he finds little old me showering the men’s locker room and feigning coquettish surprise. It could be hours before the staff finds him. The poor dear must have fallen, torn his throat open on the faucet and all his blood washed down the drain.

Saunas are even better. I love the heat, like a snake, and they are co-ed. A slipping towel and a few passionate looks, and some glorious little nurse from the night shift can be persuaded into languid experimentation … followed by rapid exsanguinations. Tragic. She must have been overcome by the heat, taken a nasty fall onto the hot rocks, gashed her head open and then bled out alone in the steam.

In this day and age, and with the resources I have available, I use faux identities to obtain memberships at all-night health clubs in cities across the country and visit them regularly. Health is its own reward, of course, and eating right just seems to go hand in hand with exercise. Or exercisers.

And spandex is such a turn on. Like a sexy sausage casing. I do miss those big fluffy leg warmers from the 80s though. So absorbent and so perfect for cleaning up messes in the locker room. Or the sauna. Time to go get physical.

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