by Babe Walker
Tighten your core and kegel muscles, holding this position for 30 seconds while Tony drills you from behind.
Lower yourself, and repeat for two more sets, extending to 60 seconds, then 90 seconds. Repeat all three sets twice.
Kickboxing Boner Squats
Stand over Tony with your feet shoulder-width apart. Tighten your core.
Squat all the way down onto Tony’s dick, keeping your feet firmly grounded with your weight in your heels.
As you lift back up, karate kick your right leg out to the side, keeping your core engaged.
Return to starting position, repeat with the left leg.
Do 3 sets of 20 reps.
The Abdomen Skeet Blast
Tony sits on an exercise ball.
Mount him, facing each other.
Engage your core and rock back and forth for 50 reps.
Repeat 5 times.
The Wet Willy
Tony stands in a dry sauna with both legs firmly planted on the ground and his arms at his sides.
Climb onto Tony, wrapping both legs around his waist, and fuck him for as long as you can before sliding off.
Anal
Anal sex, 20 minutes.
Stretching
10 minutes of stretching, no penetration.
After the first Tony Method workout, I was so exhausted I could barely stand up, let alone lift my post-workout smoothie to my lips. Phase I was the hardest phase of The Tony Method. My body had to get used to doing lots of strenuous physical activity, and up until that point in my life, the most physical I’d ever been was my daily, seven-minute treadmill walks, thirty-minute sauna naps, and the four miles total that I ran when I lived in New York. I also had to overcome my fear of sweating in front of another human being, which was at first terrifying then liberating. That was the great thing about The Tony Method. It showed you how strong you really could be.
Tony and I continued our workouts, substituting lunge fucks and my personal favorite, the bridge position, on days when I needed to feel that extra burn. He was the best. And it wasn’t about the sex—yes, Tony had a great dick, GREAT dick, but he also pushed me to work really hard and wouldn’t let me give up when I was tired, which was always. One time he actually came into my room and pulled me out of bed to go work out after I’d tried to text him and cancel all our sessions for the week. I’m pretty sure in most cultures that would be considered rape, but I let it slide. That’s just the kind of guy Tony was—really attentive to my needs and fitness goals. For example:
FROM Babe Walker
TO Anthony Chasen
DATE Wed, May 4, 2010 at 11:39pm
SUBJECT Legs
My thighs are getting way too muscly. WTF.
FROM Anthony Chasen
TO Babe Walker
DATE Wed, May 4, 2010 at 11:45pm
SUBJECT Re: Legs
Babe,
Don’t worry. We’ll start incorporating more muscle lengthening exercises and cut down on squats in Phase II.
FROM Babe Walker
TO Anthony Chasen
DATE Wed, May 4, 2010 at 11:47pm
SUBJECT Re: re: Legs
Okay. I would totally not be worrying but I was measuring my thighs and calves earlier, and the ratios were off by approx 0.42 inches. Not okay. Like, please no more squats. I’m not a bodybuilder Tony. Also, I’m looking in the mirror, and I’m thinking that when I turn to the side, I want my torso width to be exactly 2x my arm width. Doable?
FROM Anthony Chasen
TO Babe Walker
DATE Wed, May 4, 2010 at 11:50pm
SUBJECT Re: re: re: Legs
Yes. We’re switching gears entirely in Phase II. Phase I was all about building up your muscles and getting your body used to rigorous aerobic activity. Phase II is all about lengthening your proportions with Pilates and ballet inspired movement. Trust in the method, Babe. You’ll see results.
FROM Babe Walker
TO Anthony Chasen
DATE Wed, May 4, 2010 at 11:51pm
SUBJECT Re: re: re: re: Legs
It’s hard for me to trust the method when I look in the mirror and see The Hulk staring back at me. It’s hard for me to trust you.
FROM Anthony Chasen
TO Babe Walker
DATE Wed, May 4, 2010 at 11:55pm
SUBJECT Re: re: re: re: re: Legs
Have faith, Babe. You better get some sleep. We’re on at 7am tomorrow.
The next day we got into Phase II of The Tony Method, and Tony was totally right—we switched gears entirely. Gone were the boner squats. Phase II was all about barre stretching, barre fucking, and Pilates exercises. All the strength-building work we’d done came in really handy when I had to keep my core tight while Tony plowed me on the Pilates reformer. Side note: The reformer is the best invention ever, after the blender. Who knew it was possible to lengthen my leg muscles and have incredible sex at the same time?! I was well on my way to the body of my dreams, and feeling really confident about myself. All my measurements were falling into place. My hip bones were protruding at just the right longitude past my abs, which were less six-packy and more one smooth packy. They were, like, really toned. And Tony was right, my legs lost that bulky muscle I’d been worried about. Before I knew it, it was time for Phase III, where Tony had promised I would achieve maximum results. I was so excited the night before our first Phase III workout that I could barely sleep.
FROM Babe Walker
TO Anthony Chasen
DATE Wed, Jun 15, 2010 at 3:15am
SUBJECT Phase III
PHASE III TONY!!!! I AM BABE WALKER: INVINCIBLE.
Tony and I were on minute six of our warm-up (holding various stretches for thirty minutes in relevé while getting pounded) when suddenly, some random stranger of a man burst into my home gym, followed by Mabinty.
“I couldn’t stop him, Babe. He gon and bust in the fron door, screemin like a banshee, sayin he mister Tony’s husband.”
“What the fuck is going on here, Tony?!” screamed the stranger man.
Both Tony and I were too surprised to try and cover ourselves up, so there I was, standing in nothing but a sports bra and sneakers, with my leg raised at the barre, with Tony behind me and still inside of me. Super-awkward. For everyone else but Tony and me, that is. We were working out.
“Um, can’t you see we’re in the middle of a warm-up here?” I asked. “Kindly escort yourself out of the gym. I don’t like exercising in front of strangers.”
“I’m not going to escort myself anywhere!” the hysterical man screamed. “What do you mean by a warm-up? A warm-up to what? You guys are fucking! Tony, what the hell is going on?”
“Exactly. It’s The Tony Method. Hello!!” I said. I looked at Tony for support, but he was clearly scared speechless.
“Look, dude,” I continued, “there’s nothing sketchy going on here. This is a completely professional relationship, and I resent you operating under the assumption that it is anything but. I have literally worked my ass off and I’m in Phase III now, so please let me continue my workout! Plus, we’re wearing two condoms, so it doesn’t even technically count as sex.”
“Tony is di real ting,” Mabinty chimed in. “Mi know dat for di fact. Mi been tryin’ di moves wid mi man. Look at mi arms. Like Gwyneth.”
Throughout all this, Tony was still standing behind me, inside me, dumbfounded.
“Thanks, Mabinty.” I smiled.
Apparently Tony was as gay as the day is long, and he’d forgotten to explain his famous workout method to his husband, Sean. He’d caught Tony after stumbling across a batch of e-mails from his clients, and decided to investigate further. I guess Sean had stopped by Genevieve’s house first, because when I checked
my phone later that morning, I had a missed call and an urgent voice mail from Gen warning me about the situation. Needless to say, Tony’s husband’s discovery brought his career as a personal trainer to an abrupt halt. I never got to experience Phase III because Tony had to leave. Immediately. He was busted and there was nothing I could do about it. Last I heard he was working at the Yogurtland at Universal Citywalk. Tony, if you’re reading this and you’re divorced by now, e-mail me, k?
I miss you, unless you miss me, in which case I’m over you and into me being me.
Even though my training had come to a screeching halt due to Tony’s infidelities, my body was in a really good place, and my beauty appointments were going well (no chemical burns). But while everything seemed to be going swimmingly, beneath the surface, my heart was in the depths of despair. I missed Robert. I couldn’t stop thinking about him—his eyes, his laugh, his smile, his perfect penis. I knew I’d messed everything up by acting like a psychopath and there was no way I could get him back, because of the restraining order. Living in London and my Tai Tai’s death and my homecoming were all great distractions, but once the dust settled, reality seeped in and I started feeling kind of miserable and alone.
My depression came to a head one afternoon while I was lying out by my pool with Roman and Genevieve. We were drinking vodka lemonades, sunning, and discussing the pros and cons of anal sex when “Islands in the Stream” by Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers came on the outdoor surround sound speaker system and I lost it. I tried to tell them to turn off the song, but my cry-perventilating was making it hard to get any words out.
“You . . . Guys. I can’t . . . with this . . . song. Robert . . . I . . . Please . . . Please . . . please . . . OFF!!!!”
“Oh my God, Babe. Reel it in. I’ll put on some JLo or something,” said Roman, getting up to go change the playlist to something more gay/Spanish.
“I cannot believe that you’re still hung up on a sports agent,” said Genevieve, walking over to the pool bar, pouring me a glass of straight vodka, and grabbing me a tissue. “Here. You need to get over it. I’ll let you sleep with my brother if you think that’ll help you move on.”
“I fucked your brother over Christmas break two years ago, so thanks but no thanks,” I sobbed. “And I don’t want to have sex. I want to make love. With Robert. He was my everything and now it’s over. My life sucks.”
Roman sat back down and started spraying his ridiculously sculpted chest with tanning oil. “Gen’s right, Babe. The only way you’re going to get over Roberto is to find someone new.”
“How the fuck am I ever going to meet someone new in LA?” I asked. “Guys here are either heinous on the inside and beautiful on the outside, or heinous on the outside and beautiful on the inside. There’s no hope for me.”
“Maybe the man of your dreams is waiting for you to find him on OkCupid,” said Roman.
“Is that some kind of sick joke?” I responded, unamused.
“I mean, I can’t say I’ve never fucked around with guys that I’ve met online. But I also can’t say that it’s necessarily my thing. And I also can’t say that I won’t do it again. Tomorrow night,” said Roman.
“Yeah, Babe, you should totally go on a dating website,” agreed Gen.
“That is disgusting!”
“Um, no it’s not,” argued Gen. “It’s a great self-esteem pick-me-up. Whenever I feel depressed, I do a trial week on Match.com. I post like two pictures, then a million guys message me, and it makes me feel so much better.”
“Whatever. Gross, Gen.”
“It’s totally not. Do you think you’re actually gonna meet someone in person? At a bar? That’s primitive.”
“No, you’re primitive.”
“You’re primitive.”
“You are literally so primitive.”
“Fuck off, Babe! You and Robert broke up, like, over a year ago, and I’m done listening to you bitch about missing him. I’m trying to help, but clearly you don’t want any of my advice because you’d rather be a psycho for the rest of your life. God! I’m out of here,” she yelled, packing up her things. “I need to pick up an eight ball for . . . a friend. Roman, do you want a ride to somewhere in the direction of Encino?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” said Roman.
“Good. I’ll be in the car.” Gen turned and stormed off up to the house.
“Ugh, sorry, Babe. She’s so moody these days. It’s the cocaine talking. Anyways, you should think about online dating. It’s only gross if you make it gross.”
“Bye, traitor.”
“Don’t be mad. Come out tonight! Have a drink. I’ll be at the club around eleven. Loves you, even when you’re sad and lonely.”
Thirty minutes later, I’d polished off the rest of the pitcher of vodka lemonade and was feeling sad, tan, and drunk. I stumbled up to the house and into my room, put “Islands in the Stream” on repeat, and threw myself on my bed, weeping. At some point during the eleventh time through the song, I did something really stupid. I pulled out my “Robert + Babe = 4 Ever Box of Memories” from under my bed and started looking through it.
If you are a girl, and you’ve had a significant relationship with someone, chances are you’ve saved all the pictures/letters/supercute little notes from that relationship in a box that is somewhere in your room or apartment or mansion. Smart people discard this box after a relationship is over. Dumb people hold on to this box and torture themselves by looking through it every once in a while when they are drunk and slightly sun poisoned. This is always a huge mistake.
Tears were streaming down my face as I rummaged through photos of Robert and me from happier times, mixed CDs, matchboxes from dinners we’d had together, ticket stubs from movies we’d seen, old photo booth strips, a swimsuit calendar I’d made for him for Valentine’s Day. It was too much for me. All the memories of our relationship flooded my brain and I couldn’t take it. A postcard Robert had sent me from Florida with a kitten sunbathing on it that read, “Miss you! Whisker you were here!” was the last straw. I ran into my closet and collapsed, sobbing into a nest of clothes.
I don’t know exactly what happened next, but before I knew it, I was wearing a tube top and reeking of some awful scent from the Victoria’s Secret “loose slut” collection. I walked over to the mirror and saw that my hair was in . . . braided pigtails. I looked down at my hands and decided I was over my mint green polish and was craving a French tip scenario for my nails. What the fuck was happening to me? Then I realized that there was only one person I knew who thrived on drama and bad taste: Babette. It was uncharacteristic of her to appear like this, but my trip down memory lane must have triggered her. I was still so hung up on Robert that she’d decided to make a surprise guest appearance for old times’ sake.
Babette immediately sat down in front of my MacBook Air and started filling out a profile for an Internet dating website.
Name: Babette
Relationships: Tons. I am a lover and a fighter! JK, I’m just looking for The One.
Have Kids: Not yet!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Want Kids: Duh.
Ethnicity: What does “ethnicity” even mean? I love Indian food!
Body Type: Not fat.
Height: Let’s just say I don’t date guys under 6’4”. Sorry! Don’t hate me! LOL.
Religion: Christian/Atheist/Democrat. I’m not religious, just spiritual.
Smoke: Only when I drink. Get over it.
Drink: Only when I smoke.
I’m most passionate about: I am so sick of rumors that my favorite actors are gay. Let it go, people. Tom Cruise, John Travolta, and Will Smith have WIVES and KIDS. OPEN YOUR EYES YOU FUCKING MORONS!!
Three things I’m thankful for: Jamba Juice, miniskirts, animals
When are you happiest?: When I’m head over heels for a guy! Come over!
What is your motto?: Live, laugh, love, and never use a condom.
What is the most important quality you are looking for in another
person?: My heart’s been broken and I want to find someone who can help me pick up the pieces and put my soul back together. My dream man is tall, has brown eyes/brown hair, and is my ex-boyfriend Robert. Robert, if you’re on here, message me!!!!!!!!!! If you’re not Robert, but you think you have what it takes to make me fall in love, don’t be scared, message me!!!!!!!!!!
Within minutes of creating a profile (and uploading multiple photos of her posing in a bikini), Babette was delighted to see that she had messages from several interested suitors. She took particular interest in a guy named Robby, aka “TaeKwonDoRob,” and after they’d sent a few messages back and forth, she’d arranged for them to meet at California Pizza Kitchen in the Hollywood and Highland mall at 10:30 P.M. Robby seemed to be really excited.
Robby 9:30PM:
Hey beautiful. Can’t w8 to c ur sexy bod in person. C u @ CPK in an hour.
Babette 9:49PM:
U got it. XOXO!
Babette 10:00PM:
I may be a little late to keep you on your toes. Hehehe :)
Babette 10:15PM:
But I’m worth the wait LOL.
Babette 10:20PM:
U there? I hate it when guys don’t respond to my texts.
Babette 10:21PM:
It’s my #1 pet peeve.
Babette 10:25PM:
????????????????????????
Robby 10:26PM:
Sorry hon. parking now! See you soon. I’m wearing a red hat. ;)
In preparation for her date with Robby, Babette decided to throw on a denim miniskirt and pink tube top with matching pink Candie’s heels and a pink Chanel 2.5 bag.
Babette met Robby in front of CPK at 11:00 P.M. From the looks of it, he could have been anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five. He was also about six-four, wearing pointy-toed loafers, True Religion jeans, and an Affliction T-shirt. Robby also must have been at least three hundred pounds of pure muscle. Like, his biceps were bigger than his face, which was actually kind of handsome.
Babette loves roided-out muscular guys, so, naturally, she thought Robby was the cutest. She started the date off with a bang, greeting him by pinching his nipple, and telling him how glad she was to finally be dating an older man who could provide for her financially. Robby was a little taken aback but did a good job of hiding it while Babette ordered two Long Island iced teas and three pizzas, because she wanted the white pizza with shrimp and the BBQ chicken pizza but wanted just a taste of the sausage pizza. She also ordered two appetizers, which she didn’t touch. Babette took one bite of each pizza, and drank both Long Island iced teas, while explaining to Robby that her last serious boyfriend never let her be herself and stressing that she was “so glad to have found a father figure and a boyfriend in one.”
