While working at the rec center, I paid attention when the athletes came in and did their workout routines. I began to emulate them and eventually got up the nerve to begin talking to them by asking a question or two, hoping they didn’t think I was hitting on them. When I could, I’d give them a hand by spotting for them if they were lifting. I continued to watch their techniques, ask more questions and solicit tips on how to improve my form or what I should be working on.
Most of them loved to share their knowledge because they loved the attention. It was gratifying for them when I openly admired their physique and told them I strived to look just like them.
Except the very muscular, very hot Eurasian gay version. Though, I kept the gay part to myself.
While I was out and open, I didn’t flaunt or announce it. Or even wear any clothing that would “label” me as gay. However, if someone asked, I had nothing to hide and would never lie about it.
Luckily, no one asked and they all assumed I was straight. I figured if they knew otherwise, they might not be so willing to help. I could be wrong, and I hoped I was, but I wasn’t willing to risk it and lose a valuable source of information.
Only one guy who worked out obsessively was a total dick. My guess was, as huge as he was, he was juicing. While I wanted to bulk up quickly, I didn’t want to cheat to do it. I didn’t mind hard work and dedication. And I certainly didn’t want to end up looking or acting like a meat head the same as that asshole.
As soon as I had landed the job, I mentioned it to Tate one day during the class we shared. When he wasn’t busy doing whatever Tate did when we weren’t hanging out together, he’d show up either to help my work hours fly by or come work out with me.
Eventually we got into a routine of working out together, spotting each other and pushing each other harder. We turned our goals into challenges. We had mini-competitions between the two of us to keep it interesting and fun.
One day I dared Tate to take a spin class and we both almost died. Afterwards, I couldn’t feel my taint for over an hour. I swore I lost three gallons of sweat and walked bow-legged out the door.
Tate wanted to strangle me for even suggesting the spin class but didn’t have the energy to do so. For someone who rode his bike to campus most days, I would’ve thought spin class would’ve been easier for him. He thought the same.
We were both wrong.
We ended up hobbling out of the building and across the skywalk from the Power Center until we found a grassy patch under a tree where we both collapsed. We did not move for two hours.
Two damn hours.
The whole time we laid on our backs and talked about everything under the sun and also nothing. I’d never forget those two hours.
Because that was all it took for me to fall in love with Tate.
A love I couldn’t express to him since I didn’t want to freak him out or have him push me away. I ended up doing what was best for our friendship and kept it bottled up.
What we didn’t do was ever walk into that spin class again. We began running for our cardio instead. Both outside through the campus and along city streets or, when the weather was shitty and we couldn’t run outside, we did it together on the indoor track.
Like our friendship, our running fell into an easy rhythm. Our paces were similar. Our goals similar, too, since we wanted to balance cardio with building muscle.
Sometimes we slowed our pace and talked the whole route. Other times, we plugged in our earbuds and listened to the same song while hauling ass. If the song was particularly catching, Tate would race ahead, turn around to face me and run backwards, playing an air drum solo or singing horribly at the top of his lungs.
I waited for him to crash and burn every time he did it, but miraculously he managed to remain on his feet.
No matter what, he always made me smile or laugh, or almost piss my pants.
Tonight was no exception as we both worked our way around the party being held at a house in Carson on the other side of the Monongahela River. I had no idea who was throwing it or even whose house it was, but I was so damn tipsy, I didn’t care.
At least now that I had a job, I could pay for my own plastic cup instead of Tate covering it for me. After the fourth beer, I lost count of how many we’d thrown back. One thing was for sure, we had both drank our money’s worth tonight and the night wasn’t over yet. We couldn’t leave, even if we wanted to, until Tate’s roommate was ready to go since he drove. And the last time I saw Jack, he was climbing the stairs with some chick, both of them wearing smiles that made it clear what their intentions were.