I went to a tanning salon tonight. And not because I'm a vain Guido. It was because I'm way too white and a slight image boost will motivate me to get into shape by summer. There's kind of a sick desperation in being "the guy" at the tanning salon.

I jumped out of the car at the shopping center and the second I walked in I realized my fly was down. This drastically intensified the stress I was already feeling from being Tanning Salon Guy. Especially since there were about 5 college-age girls standing at the counter. They all turned around to look at me as I walked in.

I checked in and had to wait for a few minutes amid a stack of overpriced lotions. Tanning salons feel kind of like the beach. It's warm, humid, and smells like burnt skin and lotion. All the clientele are cute girls practically in their pjs. While I'm waiting I'm trying to imagine which of my co-waiters have the little playboy bunny sticker on their navels and butts. Then I wonder who will get to see the design it makes next month.

Once a room opens I'm escorted in. There's always a slight tension when you have consider you'll soon be nude or semi-nude and laying on a surface that dozens of people a day lay. And sweat. And fart. This place is upscale so pretty clean. But the smell of burnt skin and lotion continues to linger. You're not really in a room as much as you're in a cubicle with high walls. You could easily stand on the chair and peak over the wall into the next tanning cubile if you so desired. I recommend not doing this.

I make the decision to go full nude. Fuck it. Get my money's worth but don't trust the radiation so I put the courtesy towel that's resting on the chair over my man-junk, put on the tiny sunglasses and let it rip. Only 8 minutes because I'm a tanning rookie. You're allowed to go for up to 20 minutes as you become seasoned and leathery.


Kelly Clarkson blares from a speaker located at the head of the bed. It's easy to get meditative and reflective once you're cooking. I think it's the warm heat in place where there usually isn't warm heat. Within a few minutes, sweat literally pools at the small of your back. I never realized my ass was capable of sweating that much. Because of the high-walled cubicle situation, it's easy to hear things and get freaked out at the thought of someone coming in on you. Especially if you saw I Know What You Did Last Summer and remember the scene where that girl gets locked in the tanning bed and is cooked alive.

Eight minutes goes by quickly. Time to get up and with your junk-protector-courtesy-towel mop up your sweaty pool. Say a prayer for the girl who has to come in and clean your ass cheek imprints from the glass, and get dressed.

Overall, not a bad experience. But it's not something I would openly brag about in public.

Oh, wait.


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