I got addicted to the attention after getting fit, and yesterday I crossed a line with a guy who was shopping with his girlfriend

I've been going hard at the gym for about years now.

Started for health, stayed for the glow-up. My ass and legs are legitimately my best features now—squats, hip thrusts, the whole routine. Tight leggings, shorts, whatever, it all looks insane. At first it was just nice feeling strong and confident. But then I noticed the stares. The double-takes. The guys who suddenly "need" to walk past me five times. And yeah… I started liking it. A lot.Especially when they're with their girlfriends or wives. There's something about knowing he's looking while she's right there. The risk, the forbidden vibe, the little ego boost that he's mentally comparing. I know it's shitty. I know. But it gives me this rush I can't explain.

Yesterday was the worst/best one yet. I was at this athletic wear store trying on new leggings. I had on this pair, compressive, basically painted on. My ass looked ridiculous (in the best way). I step out of the fitting room to check the mirror in the main area, and there's this couple maybe mid-20s. Cute girl, she's in the fitting room going through a pile of sports bras and tops. Boyfriend is just standing there holding her bag, looking bored.

I catch him glancing. Not subtle. His eyes drop straight to my lower half, then snap back up like he got caught. I could've just walked away. Should've. Instead I turn toward him, arch my back a tiny bit (you know the pose), and go, super casual and sweet:

"Hey, sorry to bother you, but what do you think? Do these look okay on me? I'm not sure about the fit in the back."

His face went red. He stammered something like "uh… yeah they look… really good." Couldn't stop staring. I smiled, did a slow little turn—making sure he got the full 360 view of how the fabric hugged every curve, especially the way it lifted and separated my ass just right. The seam down the back was practically screaming for attention. His eyes were glued; I could see his throat bob as he swallowed hard.

"Really good," he repeated. "Like… dangerously good."

I stepped closer—close enough that he could probably smell my vanilla body spray mixed with the faint post-gym sweat from earlier. His girlfriend was still in the fitting room; I could hear hangers clinking, her humming to herself. Plenty of time.

I tilted my head, bit my lip just a little, and whispered, "You think your girl would mind if I asked for a second opinion? Or… maybe you just want a closer look?"

He froze for a second, then glanced toward the fitting room door—quick, guilty—before his eyes snapped back to me. His hand twitched like he was fighting not to reach out. Instead he shoved it in his pocket… and pulled out his phone.

"Here," he muttered, voice barely above a breath. He tapped the screen a few times, opened his contacts, and held it out. "Put your number in. Or—fuck it—give me yours. I'll text you later. Just… don't tell anyone."

I took the phone, typed my real phone number added a little 🍑 emoji next to my name, and handed it back. I gave him one last smirk, arched my back again just because I could, and said softly, "Don't keep me waiting too long. I wear these out a lot."

Thanks for reading if you made it this far.