I got there a little after six. Having joined this particular gym nearly a decade ago, I should be able to tell you its name. But to be honest, they’ve changed ownership so many times I can’t tell you what the name is anymore. Holiday Fitness or something like that. Every year the company name on my renewal is every bit as much a surprise as the price.
The place is large and generally crowded, even though each of the three floors is in some state of disrepair and constant redecoration. An excessively tattooed attendant buried her nose in a copy of The Great Gatsby. I pulled out my card to have her run it through the scanner, but she waved me in. In the locker room, I changed into my workout clothes.
Gym attire is one of those areas where the accountant part of me and the gay part of me have a major smack down. My gym is full of guys who seem to rush home, shower, shave, over-groom and then put on a workout set chosen by a stylist. The accountant in me wants to buck the trend and wear a dingy old T-shirt with the studio logo on it and a decade old pair of shorts with the name of my alma mater peeling off one leg. Unfortunately, the accountant always loses.
That day I wore a pair of flimsy, red running shorts -- I wasn’t there to run, but they were cut high enough to make my thighs look good, a clinging bicycle shirt -- though I didn’t own any kind of bicycle, no less the kind that would merit such a shirt, and an expensive, trendy pair of training shoes. The accountant half approved of the sneakers. They were expensive, but not as expensive as foot problems. Even with insurance, the co-pays add up quickly.
When I finished dressing, I resisted the temptation to check my hair in the mirror and headed up to look for Peter. He was about six foot three, had very pink skin and curly blond hair. Whenever I saw him naked at the gym, which I tried to avoid, he reminded me of a giant Peep, one of those candy Easter chicks.
It’s not that he wasn’t sexy. He just wasn’t sexy to me. Since his divorce there had been a stream of young men following a certain type: short, dark-haired, dark-skinned, and dark-eyed. He preferred them Hispanic, Mediterranean, or Middle-Eastern. The only reason he ever accepted an Internet date with me was that his therapist suggested he branch out. He gave it the one try and never tried again.
At any rate, given Peter’s height and fluffy, blond hair, he was never difficult to find in a crowd. But after doing a lap around the track on the second floor then heading up to the third floor, I didn’t see him anywhere. I got in line to wait for an elliptical. When I was three people away from getting a machine, my cell vibrated. Peter. I picked up.
“Where are you?” he asked without preamble.
“I’m at the gym. Where are you?”
“I’m at the gym,” he replied.
I looked around again and said, “Yeah, where?”
He paused. “Are you really at the gym? I thought for sure you’d flake.”
“You’re not here, are you?”
“I met someone.”
“You met someone?” I tried to keep my voice down, but it wasn’t working well. I got a funny look from the woman in front of me. A machine opened up, and we moved up in line. “Between the studio and the gym?”
“In the parking garage.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I saw him, our eyes locked, we spoke, one thing led to another, and now I’m following him home.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure he has one. He’s gorgeous, though. Short, dark, and hopefully hung like a Shetland Pony.” Peter never used the expression “hung like a horse.” He considered himself a size queen within reasonable limits.
“So, you’re not coming to the gym at all.”
“You’re not really there, are you? You’re on your way home to the Happy Hooker.”
“I have to go. There’s a machine available,” I said as I walked down to an elliptical.
“Have a nice… workout,” Peter said, in the lewdest way possible.
Chapter Five
As I worked out, I pondered the situation with Eddie. I should have gone straight home and thrown him out. I knew that. Puffing along on the elliptical, I thought up things to say when I did got around to giving him the boot. I could try, “You’re a really terrific guy, but being with you made me realize I should get back together with my ex.” But even the idea of saying something like that made me cringe.
Or, “The thing is Eddie...there’s just no spark.” That one wouldn’t work. After a guy’s given you two orgasms, it’s hard to convincingly say there’s no spark.
My favorite was, “You promised not to go all Glenn Close on me. I think it’s time for you to leave.” The problem was it sort of gave him permission to go “all Glenn Close” on me. And I didn’t want that.
I tried to reassure myself that in all likelihood we’d just had a miscommunication and if I politely asked him to leave, he would. Unfortunately, there was a real possibility I’d go home and say absolutely nothing. I’d feed him dinner, have sex with him and let him stay another night. Sometimes, I’m an incredible wimp.
A layer of sweat formed on my forehead, and I decided to stop worrying about Eddie and start worrying about my finances. It was just as distressing a situation, but there was math involved and that made
