I wonder if there's space to queer the nomenclature in fitness.

Host: The evening settled over the city gym, where the sound of metal met the thud of sneakers and the rhythm of breath. Outside, neon lights flickered, reflecting off rain-slicked pavement, while inside, the air pulsed with music, effort, and the sharp scent of sweat and rubber mats.

Near the back, by a row of mirrors, Jack stood beside a rack of dumbbells, his muscles taut, his shirt damp, his face serious — the expression of a man who measured life by repetition. Across from him, Jeeny, in a loose tank top and worn sneakers, adjusted her stance for a goblet squat, a grin flickering on her lips.

Jeeny: “You ever hear what Bowen Yang said? ‘I wonder if there’s space to queer the nomenclature in fitness. Maybe we call a goblet squat a Dannii Minogue instead? Just an idea.’”

Jack: snorts, wiping sweat from his forehead “That sounds like something someone says when they’ve never done leg day.”

Jeeny: laughs “You’d be surprised. He probably has better form than half the guys in here.”

Jack: “You really want to turn squats into a cabaret?”

Jeeny: “Why not? This place could use a little sparkle. Everyone’s too busy looking like they’re auditioning for a protein commercial.”

Host: The gym lights buzzed, a low fluorescent hum echoing through the room. A trainer’s voice barked somewhere in the background — counting, commanding — a chorus of control.

Jack: “You know, fitness isn’t about sparkle. It’s about discipline. It’s about control — of body, of breath, of weakness.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Control has become worship here. The mirrors, the symmetry, the language — all of it’s about dominance. Maybe Bowen’s right. Maybe it’s time to queer it up — to make space for joy, for play.”

Jack: grabs a dumbbell, rolls his shoulders “Play doesn’t build strength.”

Jeeny: leans on the rack, smirking “Doesn’t it? What about dance? Or joy? Or confidence? That’s strength too — the kind that doesn’t flex.”

Host: The music changed, shifting from heavy electronic beats to something lighter, funky, with a pulse that invited movement instead of command. Jeeny began to sway slightly, her hips moving with rhythm, her laugh soft but contagious.

Jeeny: “Think about it. Every gym term is militarized — ‘push,’ ‘crush,’ ‘kill,’ ‘beast mode.’ What if instead of killing it, we celebrated it? What if your post-workout high wasn’t about conquest, but communion?”

Jack: “Communion?” raises an eyebrow “Last time I checked, we weren’t in church.”

Jeeny: “Oh, but we are. Look around — the altar of machines, the faithful lifting in silence, the priestly trainers preaching form and salvation through hypertrophy.”

Jack: chuckles despite himself “You’re impossible.”

Jeeny: “No — I’m just saying the ritual could use more soul. Less punishment, more expression. Imagine if someone said, ‘Okay class, let’s do three sets of Dannii Minogues!’ You’d laugh — and you’d move differently. Joy changes posture.”

Host: Jack set the dumbbell down, the sound hitting the floor like punctuation. He looked at her, his grey eyes catching the reflected light from the mirrors.

Jack: “So what — you want to turn the gym into a drag show?”

Jeeny: “Why not? Drag’s about transformation — the same thing you chase here. Except drag doesn’t pretend it’s about suffering. It’s about becoming.”

Jack: “You’re comparing wigs to weights.”

Jeeny: “I’m comparing intention to intention. You build muscle to change your form. Drag builds performance to change the form of identity. Both are sculpting the self.”

Host: The air grew still, except for the faint hum of the ellipticals. Outside, rain streaked the windows, distorting the city lights into melting halos.

Jack: quietly “You talk like identity is elastic.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? You change your body every time you lift. You break it down so it grows back differently. Identity’s no different — break, rebuild, redefine.”

Jack: leans against the mirror “And where does queerness fit into that?”

Jeeny: “Everywhere. Queerness is the refusal to perform what’s expected — in love, in body, in expression. Even here, in this temple of ‘straight’ lines and gendered grunts, there’s room for it. Bowen’s joke isn’t just humor — it’s rebellion.”

Jack: smirks “So a Dannii Minogue squat is a protest now?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s saying: my movement, my rules. My body, my language. Maybe the queerest thing you can do here isn’t to flaunt — it’s to breathe freely.”

Host: A moment of silence, filled only by the drip of water from the roof and the beat of the song fading into something slower. Jeeny picked up a weight, held it to her chest, and squatted, her motion deliberate, her form steady.

Jeeny: smiling “See? A Dannii Minogue — powerful, poised, unapologetic.”

Jack: watches, amused “You’re ridiculous.”

Jeeny: “You mean radiant.”

Host: Jack laughed, genuinely — a rare sound, like glass breaking into sunlight. He picked up a weight, mirroring her movement, the two of them squatting in sync, side by side in the reflected light.

Jack: “Fine. One set of Dannii Minogues. For research.”

Jeeny: grinning “Atta boy. Now feel the beat, not the burn.”

Host: The mirrors caught their reflection, not as perfection, but as presence — two bodies moving not to conquer, but to connect. The music softened, the gym noises dimmed, until it was just the sound of breath, shared effort, and soft laughter.

Jack: after a moment, quietly “You know… maybe there’s something to it. This — whatever you call it — queering fitness. Maybe it’s not about strength anymore. Maybe it’s about reclaiming it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Reclaiming the narrative of what power looks like. Who gets to define it. Who gets to move in it without shame.”

Jack: nodding slowly “I spent years trying to build armor. Maybe what I needed was rhythm.”

Jeeny: “Armor cracks. Rhythm moves.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets glistening, the air fresh, the neon reflections soft and alive. Jack and Jeeny stood by the mirror, their breath slowing, the silence between them warm — the kind that comes after revelation, not exhaustion.

Jeeny: smiling faintly “So? You gonna teach your clients the Dannii Minogue tomorrow?”

Jack: half-grinning “Only if you show them the choreography.”

Jeeny: “Deal.”

Host: The lights dimmed, the last song faded, and the gym emptied, leaving only the echo of their laughter and the whisper of freedom still hanging in the air.

They stepped outside into the wet night, the city lights glimmering, the world reborn in reflected color.

And as they walked, side by side, the stars reappeared between the clouds, faint but real — a reminder that even in the structures we build, there’s always room to bend, to shine, and to queer the shape of strength itself.