“Ten, eleven, twelve…” and I place the barbell back on the floor, grab my bottle, slug a swig and proceed to hit another set of thrusters when he sits down on the bench beside me, reaches for two heavy dumbbells and pumps up his biceps. His two huge arms become engulfed in pulsating veins. He looks up at me and smiles.
What’s a man to do?
“One, two, three, four…” no need to stop what I am doing, so I thrust away pulling the bar up onto my shoulders and then above my head. “Ten, eleven, twelve…” and I drop the bar back to the floor before I take a seat. Sweat dripping from my face, I watch as his arm has almost grown double the size since he walked in. The man’s packing some serious arm beef. He knows I’m looking, I can feel he is aware, as if the air pressure has changed to some degree from comfort to confinement. “Hey?” I give the man my friendliest hey-there-fellow-gym-goer hello, and he responds with the more appropriate slight-smile-and-head-dip “how’s it hanging?”
Lonely in the gym.
When one focuses on changing ones physique the idea that it may become a lonely task is lost on the drive to become bigger or buffer or tighter. And to spite the admiration I may find in many men’s bodies, that is where it ends – at admiration. So imagine my surprise when the friendly hello turned into some clever banta followed by “Do you like the steam room?”
The straight prize?
At what point, as a homo, does a straight man get off thinking he is a prize for me? Would the true attraction not lie in the attraction two people share for each other? Attraction from one side is not merely attraction for another if in fact an act displaying that attraction follows… It’s plain old obsession. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to give a flip flopping straight man that kind of power boost. Ergo, go fuck yourself straight boy.
Much love to all my homo brothers!