Thursday, March 23, 2017

A Hookup with the Surly, Crazy-Eyed Guy with the Mortadella+


Philadelphia, March 2013

I'm at the gym at my job in a small private college near Philadelphia, having a bad day  (actually, most days in Philadelphia are bad).  And now the guy on the butterfly press is just sitting there, playing with his cell phone.

You're supposed to rest about a minute between sets, but not on the machine.  Get up and walk around, or better yet, go do a set for another muscle group.

But the undergrads at the campus gym often just sit there for 5 minutes, rendering their weight training useless and jamming up everybody else's work out.

It's annoying.  Besides, I like to do my sets in a specific order, alternating upper and lower body, and working down from the big to the small muscle groups, so I can't just walk away.  I always walk up, motion for them to unplug their earphones, and ask "Can I squeeze in between your sets?"

They always get up and let me "play through."

But today when I ask, the guy on the butterfly press glares at me, eyes wide, teeth set.  "I have two sets left," he growls, ready for a fight, daring me to make a move against him.

Nobody ever has had that reaction before!  This guy must be crazy!

I should probably retreat, but I'm annoyed by the territoriality.  "Well, how about if I squeeze between the sets, while you're resting?"

He grumbles...but says ok.  He jumps up and stands there glaring at me while I move the weight to double what he was doing.  And keeps glaring during my set.

You're supposed to walk around, or at least look away.

So after my set, instead of walking around, I stand there, getting in his face.

He's an older student, senior or grad: mid-20s, tall and thin, tattooed, shaggy black hair, short beard, deep-set eyes.  Crazy eyes.  Wearing a black t-shirt and silken gym shorts that show no basket.

Suddenly I find him very attractive.  

He's not at all my usual type.  Maybe it's his surliness  -- you're into guys who aren't into you.  Or maybe it's because I'm approached by twinks all the time.  Finding one who doesn't cruise me, who displays no interest, is refreshing.

Or maybe it's just the challenge.

He says "It's all yours," jumps up, and moves to the preacher press.  I finish my next set and move to the calf press next to him.  I put on four 50-pound weights.  He pretends not to see me.

"Hey!"

He takes off his earphones and glares.

"If you want the full benefit, you should take it slower, and go down lower.  Let me show you."

He glares at me.  "Just my luck.  I finally get up the nerve to go to the gym, and some muscle-bound Bob Paris wannabe tells me I'm doing it wrong."

Hostility, and a veiled compliment? And he knows Bob Paris, the gay bodybuilder -- must be gay himself.

He doesn't object as I walk over, put my hands on the bar to show him, and "accidentally" touch his hands.

"I can see you have a lot of potential -- your biceps are already firm and tight, and you have a nice chst. You just need a little instruction to get things going."

He glares.  "I'm doing just fine, thanks.  I don't need any $100 dollar an hour personal trainer pestering me."

I touch his shoulder.  "I'll give you some tips for free.  A public service so you don't hurt yourself.  You can buy me a coke afterwards."

He flashes his crazy eyes but says "Ok."

I show him how to use some of the machines and free weights, touching him several times in the process.  He continues to glare with his crazy eyes.  This guy is crazy.

Then we shower -- he's on the other side of the locker room, so I don't see anything -- and walk down the street to a burger place.

"Ok, if you're serious about weight training, you need to lead a healthy lifestyle.  That means no drinking, no drugs, and a low-fat, low-sugar diet."

He smiles for the first time.  "I don't use drugs, and I was planning to order the turkey burger anyway."

His name is Aaron.  He graduated five years ago, but he can use the gym on his alumni card.  His degree was in music -- he wanted to become a singer, and still performs at open mike nights -- but his real jobs are in the campus cafeteria and a pizza place downtown.  His schedule doesn't leave a lot of time for socializing, so he doesn't meet many guys.

We go back to the tiny apartment he shares with two straight guys and a large dog.  He leads me immediately into the bedroom, and stands there, glaring with his crazy eyes, waiting for me to make the first move.

I run my hand over his smooth, tight chest and down to his crotch.  He's still glaring.

Well, he didn't say no...

I unzip him and go down on him.

Whoa, a gigantic Mortadella+!

 Soon we're on his single, unmade bed, naked, kissing.  He pushes into interfemoral position to finish, then goes down on me.

Afterwards he rushes into the bathroom to wash off, and then returns to me in bed.  We cuddle.  Suddenly he gets aroused again.  But he's still glaring.

I have to say something.  "You know, you're very hot, but there might be something about your demeanor that's off-putting to guys.  You should expect the best in people, not the worst -- you shouldn't go into an encounter looking all defensive, this glaring..."

He glares.  "What are you talking about?  This is the way I look when I'm attracted to a guy."

See also: Yuri and the Unhung Hippie; My Textbook Rep is a Porn Star.

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