This is a series of stories that are a sort of sequel to two text-adventure games. Each installment is a complete story on its own, but for a full understanding, the reader may want to start with Chapter 1.
This installment is again a fairly vanilla bridge between meatier stories. It sets up several upcoming chapters, so it should be worth the short read.
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On Sunday, I woke up... sore.
I groaned as I sat up in my bed. I was used to the very occasional painful waking hangover, but I was definitely not used to my body waking up feeling, um, over-used. It had been a very energetic sexual escapade yesterday, but I was used to those. What I was not used to was feeling it the next day. I flopped back in the bed and reflected that my lifestyle had changed. It had become more, ugh, adult.
I was spending much more time driving around, sitting in offices, eating with clients in restaurants, and buying shit for my new house. The only exercise I was getting was sex, and while that was... awesome, it wasn't nearly enough, and even sex was no substitute for the gym. I needed to get back into fighting trim. Or, fucking trim. Whatever floats your boat.
In short, I need to find a gym or a personal trainer. But where? I had really let this agenda item slide since moving to town and now I was regretting that. That regret, however, was no help in finding a solution. I sure as hell wasn't joining a Planet Fitness or any other corporate gym. Not my style.
I crawled out of bed and tried some limbering up exercises, and a few half-hearted pushups. But when I'm working out, just as when I am having sex, or engaging in other strenuous activity, I do my best with someone else exhorting me to do better. In San Francisco, I had a gym with a great staff who loved yelling at me (Two of the female trainers had loved doing more than yell to motivate me, but that was another story). While I was staying in the company condo upon my first arrival, I had mostly kept up a basic schedule, but I'd been slacking off even before I lost access to the equipment there. No, I needed a personal trainer. I was sure there were plenty in town, but where to begin? I was definitely not down with a long series of try-outs to find one I liked.
I lay back in bed with a groan, and my mind drifted instead to my backyard escapade with my neighbor Blanche. She had said something about The Rumor Mill. I still couldn't wrap my mind around how she could have heard about me (and my cock), but it did remind me that word of mouth was always the best referral.
That Thursday, when I went in for my haircut at Yvonne's (where the owner and all the customers thought I was gay) I resolved to put my network of local contact to some use. As I sat in the chair, the only man in a room full of women, I listened until someone mentioned some physical complaint. For the first time that any of them remembered, I actually broke into the conversation uninvited.
"Goodness," I grumbled, "This Sunday I woke up and was sore all over. I could barely move."
"Listen to him complain," chuckled Petra, who at 55 probably woke up every day at least sore and stiff.
"No, I mean it," I protested. "My lifestyle has changed. I'm spending all my time at my desk. I need to get back into shape, and I need someone to whip me into doing it!"
There was various talk of corporate gyms and aerobics workout studios, but I shot those down.
Daria, the youngest woman in the room, only 15 years older than me, exclaimed, "Oh, I know! How about Miss Culver? Courtney Culver? She's a private trainer, and her place is right near here."
"Courtney Culver?" sneered Wanda, another regular, cattily. "I tried her water aerobics class at the Y. I'm not sure that her main selling points are what our friend here is in the market for."
"Oh come on, Wanda!" put in another woman whose name I did not know yet. "I remember that she ran you out of that class because you couldn't keep up with her pace! It sounds like she's exactly what he needs."
The women went on about options for the rest of the time I was there, mostly as if I wasn't there. But for all the ideas they had, this Courtney sounded the most interesting. They all thought I was gay, and that made her LESS appealing? I guessed that meant she was pretty. Well, if I was going to get yelled at for my own good, I'd prefer that the yeller at least be easy on the eyes.
I looked her up on Yelp, and though the reviews were fairly sparse, they intrigued me. Everyone either hated her because she was too mean, or didn't mind that she was so mean, because she got them results. I booked an appointment online.
Courtney's personal training studio was in the far back of a little light industrial/distribution complex that was fairly near the downtown of the suburb where I lived. It is the kind of business location that you would never in million years know was there without being told about it. Heck, I had driven past this entire development more than half the days that I lived here and until that first visit, I had been completely unaware that the place even existed. Rent must have been cheap.
Very cheap. The studio was against the very back wall separating the complex from the residential areas around it. The driveway and parking spaces back there had not been resurfaced in I had no idea how long, meaning I parked on something more akin to asphalt gravel than pavement. Each unit had a garage/loading door and a gray metal utility door. No windows. No large signage. Definitely not retail-friendly. Her studio was flanked on either side by an auto detailing shop that I resolved to ask about, and a tool and die firm that took up three units in a row.
I made sure I had the correct unit, then pushed on the door. It was locked. I noticed a buzzer and pressed it. There was a very brief pause, then the door lock clicked open and I entered. Inside was actually quite nice. Instead of bare concrete, the floor was covered in a thick, black, rubberized tile that almost felt like walking on a wrestling mat. One wall was all mirrors, and there was a quite extensive selection of varied exercise equipment, from several weight machines and racks of free weights, down to ropes, balls, and other smaller pieces of equipment, most of which I was at least familiar with. The lighting was bright but warm and flattering, and there was energetic music playing, just loud enough to still make conversation possible.
I took all this in later, as my first impression was limited to Courtney. One long look at her and I knew that unless she was an axe murderer or some kind of Flat Earther, here was my personal trainer for the foreseeable future. If there were one word to describe her wardrobe, it was apparently lycra. And why would anyone with as exquisitely chiseled a figure as she had, wear anything else? She wore a long-sleeved, electric blue leotard with a modestly scooped neckline over icy blue leggings that cut off at the ankles of her bare feet. The outfit may have covered her entire body, but it did little to conceal it.