Gym Lad

It was with some trepidation that I approached the place. A casual observer, on seeing me tentatively push through the doors, might have thought that I had no business there, or that I wasn't a customer, and may have instead assumed that I was going there merely to repair a vending machine or a cash register. Still, needs must, and I had to start somewhere. I had settled on this particular establishment for the sole reason that a friend of mine had recommended it.

I'd had enough of curling with bags of sugar stuffed in a shopping bag, of press ups on a threadbare carpet inhaling dust as my hoover was broken, of halfhearted jogging around the block and everything else that I had been doing in increasingly fruitless attempts to 'improve' my physique. I was fed up to the back teeth with being the last of my posse to get picked up on nights on the town, if I even got picked up at all, and even then it was invariably by women who were carrying a few too many pounds of cholesterol and saw something in me that they desired in themselves - skinniness. One of them had even asserted to me that skinny guys were supposed to be attracted to fat girls under the principle of opposites attracting.

Pfft. Not this guy, I told the pushy overweight slapper in a text message after kicking her out of bed the next morning. I hadn't been out with a proper fit bird since I was fifteen, and it hadn't taken long for that one to kick me into touch when some guy far more 'buff' than I showed an interest in her budding curves.

No, something had to change. I didn't want to be the last resort of slovenly skanks feeling amorous after a few too many glasses of vodka and clingingly desperate after meatier guys had laughingly turned them down by telling them to 'get real'. It was time to change, time to haul myself up the romantic food chain. Life as a bottom dwelling flatfish had become far too depressing.

The sugar bags sure as hell weren't working. All they had given me were some little knots where other guys had bulging biceps, and a hint that there was something waiting to be discovered where triceps usually lived. My flat chest hadn't moulded and hardened the way the magazines promised it would, and all the protein crap that I had bought and consumed was as much use as a fur coat in a bikini contest. It went in the top, then got flushed straight back out the bottom - well, not the bottom, but I'm sure you get my drift - within 20 minutes. Coffee did the same to me, funnily enough. Nope, sugar didn't cut the mustard at all, so it was time to seek professional advice. And besides, I'd collected enough sugar to keep me in sweetened coffees for three hundred years. At least. Unless I ended up marrying a fat bird, of course, in which case my sucrose mountain might last no longer than a couple of weeks......

I pushed in through the double doors to the gym. A brawny guy at the desk looked up from his men's health magazine with a questioning look, probably assuming that I was lost and had just stuck my head around the door to ask for directions to the nearest video gaming arcade or comic book store.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm looking to join. Do you do a trial period or something like that?" I asked.

"Ten bucks an hour, twenty for the evening or two grande for an annual pass." He shrugged.

Fucking hell, I wasn't going to be spending 200 hours at a gym - or one hundred nights - in a twelvemonth. It would be less hard work and a damn sight cheaper to rent a decent hooker once a month. Twice a month if I could find one from Poland, Hungary or Latvia. I slapped down a twenty.

"Help yourself. Changing room is through there." The man smiled as he took my money and pointed at the door. "Nice crowd in tonight. If you do something wrong then one of them will probably help you out."

Yeah right, after they've all stopped laughing, maybe. If I was lucky one of them might even dial 911 for me when one of the machines ate me.

I changed into my gym kit quickly, stuffed my bag into a locker, and with something in between nervousness and terror eased myself into the room as inconspicuously as I could, hoping that nobody would notice.

How was I to know that every time the gym door opened a dozen heads would instinctively pop up to check out the incoming competition? An image of meerkats popped into my head and I struggled to suppress a smirk. The last thing I needed was to burn up any good will the patrons might show toward a newcomer before I had even started by appearing to be laughing at them.

I scanned the room carefully, taking in the mixture of odd looking mechanical equipment and old fashioned wooden accessories scattered about. A couple of women pounded along on high tech digital treadmills listening to their ipods, two guys raced each other on rowing machines, making noises like old steam trains used to. A fat bird was abusing some weird contraption that simulated climbing stairs. By the look on her face she was about a third of the way up the Eiffel tower. No way was she making it to the top without the express elevator and I didn't much fancy her chances of making it back down again without the assistance of four strong paramedics, a stretcher and an ambulance with a reinforced suspension.

In a corner of this spacious room three guys stood around a fourth who lay flat out on a bench, an impossible weight on a bar resting right above his nose as he psyched himself up to make the huge disks of steel budge. One of the three onlookers positioned himself behind the bar, his crotch close to the weightlifters head. I wondered about body odour, and if the guy preparing to lift the massive weight was looking up the leg of the other guys shorts. Was it gym etiquette to go commando, I mused? Then I wondered if the weightlifters face would end up squashed as flat as his abdominal muscles if he dropped it.

A grunting noise caught my attention next as I carefully wound my way through the scattering of torture equipment in search of either a treadmill or a rowing machine to warm up on. My head turned to track the noise, and my eyes widened when I realised the bundle of perfectly formed muscle making that noise belonged to a rather fetching woman.

She was petite. No, that's not right. The last thing you'd call a compact arrangement of masterfully sculpted musculature is petite, Short, with due respect to shortarses who object to being thusly described, would be a more accurate description. Five foot and a couple of inches, I figured. Shoulder length blonde hair framing a youthful face that looked alluringly feminine, and that's where conventional beauty ended, for the rest of her physiology was a fascinating study in human anatomy.

Imagine a body with every last scrap if epidermis removed so that all the sinew and muscle was exposed like a diagram in a medical text book. Gross, huh? Now imagine that admittedly disturbing frame wrapped in a membrane of ultra thin fabric, like latex or Lycra perhaps, and then complete the picture by painting the Lycra a healthy golden brown colour. Sprinkle on some glistening beads of sweat, throw some skin tight shorts and a clingy sports top onto that sculpture and what you had was more or less physical perfection, if your aesthetic tastes leant that way.

I had just discovered that mine did indeed gravitate toward such a form. I suddenly, and rather ashamedly, understood where fat birds were coming from when they said that skinny guys were often attracted to more rounded ladies. And I also instinctively understood where they were going wrong. While their assumption had been that a skinny guy should lust after flabby fanny under the principle of opposites attracting, which was true enough in reverse for them perhaps, the mistake that they were making was in assuming that because all fat bitches want to be thinner, then all thin guys want to be fatter, right?

Wrong.

While with some slender guys that assumption might indeed apply, in my case the truth was that I did not want to be fat at all. I'd rather stay a skinny beanpole forever than evolve into a rotund flabby bastard with a pot belly, man boobs, a double chin and bingo wings. What I really wanted was what that grunting specimen of womanhood possessed. That was the kind of opposite that I was attracted to. Indeed, it was why I was here in the first place. If I wanted to get fat then surely I'd be stuffing my face in a cake shop instead of contemplating agonising masochism in a fucking gymnasium.

Toned, defined, sculpted, cut, chiselled, buff, ripped. I ran out of adjectives that described how physically impressive her body was. Hard was another. Which, if I wasn't careful, might also be applying to me in a rather embarrassing way. I managed to wrench my gaze away from the display of musculature that clenched and relaxed in a surprisingly erotic manner as she threw herself with concentrated aggression into the cable machine, her eyes clamped shut and beads of sweat trickling down the side of her face. It was almost crashing into the fat bird on the step machine that forced me to pay attention to what I was doing and cease my brazen ogling of this blonde, bronzed goddess working out oblivious to everybody around her, but I made sure that the rowing machine I eventually settled on had a fairly good view of this eye candy. I settled into the seat and began my own workout, one eye on the object of my newly discovered fetish, the other on not getting my feet mangled in the machinery I was inexpertly piloting.

Presently the young woman exhaled noisily and released the machine from the pounding that it had taken, leaning forward, inhaling lungfuls of air that made her chest expand and contract exagerratedly. I noticed that her breasts were nicely defined, though their natural swelling had been flattened near the top by the transformation of fatty deposits into hard packed muscle. As a guy of the geek generation who had been surfing internet porn before most people figure out which end of a mouse to hold I found the form of her chest both intriguing and alluring. They were nothing like the boobs that I had fondled on women that deigned to date me in the past, and nothing like the tits on the digital models and porn stars that I had, for want of a better term, grown up with. I'd masturbated to tiny titties on petite late teen models, to perfectly shaped boobs in revealing lingerie, to large pendulous breasts on MILF websites and to massive silicon augmented mammaries in porn magazines and dirty movies, but this was something entirely different. In a lifetime of titty ogling that had left me somewhat bored and jaded by the gamut of mammarial flesh available for casual perusal, these things were little short of fascinating.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of water, or perhaps some isotonic fluid, and tilted back her head as she raised it to her lips. Her mouth parted to reveal perfect teeth as she formed an o with her mouth that, for some reason known only to myself, brought the image of a blow job to my mind. I watched enraptured as she gulped down a quarter of the contents of the bottle, a dribble of fluid spilling down her chin that she swept away with the back of her hand. I don't need to spell out what that reminded me of.

She began to cast her gaze around the room and I shook my head and returned my attention to my rowing machine before she caught me staring at her. I concentrated on the digital readout between my feet that told me I had splashed my way a hundred virtual reality metres downstream while drinking in the blonde's body. A normal guy, undistracted, would have probably travelled half a mile in that time I reckoned. When I eventually reached the five hundred metre mark without taking my eyes off the dashboard, I allowed myself a moment to home back in on my heart's desire.

Her back was turned to me this time as she performed a set of bicep curls with dumbbells in the free weights corner. giving me a decent view of her bulging legs and a torso that tapered from a wide spaced set of shoulder blades to a waist that, it seemed, was even smaller than mine, and that's saying something. But that wasn't what had caught my attention. Where her waist ended was where my interest reignited because her ass was absolutely phenomenal.

There was no spare flesh on those cheeks, let me tell you. Asses come in many shapes and sizes, and while most guys consider the perfect ass to be full and rounded, my hands on experience of them found them to be generally flabby, dimpled and in some cases so big that getting at the pussy between them was an experience akin to potholing. This woman's ass was a tableau of layered muscle showing with such definition through her shorts that she may as well have not been wearing any. It was small, it was tight, and where her butt met her legs I could clearly see the bulge of her pubic mound.

Well, there was no way that I was getting off the rowing machine with the erection that I was sporting by this time. My eyes were locked on her small, tight backside as I slid back and fore on the rowing machine. My own movements struck me as disturbingly erotic, my sex crazed brain analoguing the rhythmic motion with nailing that hot bitch from behind, the seat of the rowing machine slamming into the stops on the forward pull in perfect time with the twitching of her butt cheeks as her ass clenched visibly with each lift of the dumbbell.

I closed my eyes and suddenly her shorts disappeared and it was my hips slamming back and fore between them, and that lewd image had to be forcibly banished from my mind lest my arousal make me a laughing stock to anybody that saw it and pointed it out. Then she spread her legs wider apart and bent over to touch her toes as she finished her exercise with some light stretching. For a moment her pubic mound was clearly defined as a perfect camel-toe and I felt myself gulp involuntarily. With my normal sexual conquests it would have taken two hands, five minutes of repositioning flabby butt cheeks and a flashlight to get a glimpse of anything even remotely similar.

I would kill for an ass like that.

More accurately, I would kill for an ass like that wriggling on my face, or sat on my lap riding up and down the entire length of my rigid hard-on. I paused my rowing for a moment, a glance away from the blonde's tight ass to the digital readout revealing that I had just slammed my way over a good mile while ogling her rear, probably overtaking the two guys that had been rowing hard in their virtual boat race upon my arrival and still were. Well, perhaps not if I'm totally honest....

She moved away, exchanging a few words with the bodybuilders who were adding more weights to the end of a bar with seemingly suicidal intent, then picked up her belongings and left through a door marked staff only. She must work here, I figured. Personal trainer, I guessed. I used up another hour on the machines, eschewing the free weights, then left myself.

All the next day I could not get her out of my head, and I blew another twenty bucks on an evening session at the gym only to leave sweaty and disappointed that she had not been there. Perhaps she only went on certain days, or maybe only at certain times. It couldn't be a weekly visit, not with a body like that to maintain, so I parted with another twenty the next night, wondering how long it would be before an annual subscription actually became economical. Or my aches became terminal.

I was sore in places that I didn't know existed. When I moved, even if only slightly, there were bolts of pain bombarding my brain from all over my body. Muscle fibres that had been ripped to shreds by my exertions were slowly regenerating and boy were they letting me know about it. Although visually the differences in my appearance were not yet evident, the agonies that I was suffering were convincing me that the 'no pain no gain' mantra was a total lie, at least in the short term. I had the pain all right, but the gains seemed to be a little longer in coming.

The woman was a no-show again on the third night and on the fourth day I could barely move so I skipped the gym and went to bed early licking my wounds, both those physical and of the heart. I was gaining in confidence at the gym, though. I had made a point of studying what the other patrons were doing and learned how to use the various machines, copying the techniques and the etiquettes associated with fitness training. On the third night I had even gotten a nod of recognition from one of the regulars, a nugget of friendly advice from the guy at the desk to not neglect my lower half and I was almost certain that one of the 'larger' women pounding away on a treadmill had been lasciviously eyeing me up in precisely the way that I had been ogling my new muse. The way the woman's head had jerked away when I had turned to face her while dismounting the bench press was a bit of a giveaway. Previously I'd have probably tried to hit on her, but now my head had been turned by a whole new type of physique, so much so that I was googling female bodybuilders on the internet.

Some of them looked dreadful, with raised veins lining every inch of their bodies and even their faces, with thighs that looked more like robotic appendages than legs. My blonde was, fortunately, not as obsessive about it as the professional 'show-girls' were and instead had taut but smooth skin over her muscles and was unblemished by such prominent and, to my mind, unsightly blood vessels. She was the Christina Loken of Terminators.

On the fifth night my aches were manageable, more of a discomfort than severe enough to turn me into an extra from a zombie flick, so I headed on out to the gym intending to give my arms and torso a rest and instead work on my legs as had been suggested to me. I pushed through the door and the guy at the desk looked up from his muscle mag and smiled at me.

"Evening buddy, thought we'd seen the last of you when you didn't turn up yesterday." He laughed. "A couple of us ran a sweep steak over when you'd be back."

"I'm still aching up top so I thought I'd take your advice and work on my legs for a while." I explained.

"Shit, and I had you pegged as a no-show til' next Monday." He said, shaking his head. "Now I wish I'd kept my stupid mouth shut."

I laughed and handed across a twenty. "I'm Chris," I said, offering him my hand. He crushed it in his meaty paw, adding another ache to my seemingly endless list.

"Rupert." He nodded. Not the sort of name I would gave assumed a bodybuilder to have. I bit my tongue.

"Hey, if I fuck off 'til Monday I'll split the pot with you."

"Nice idea dude, but there's CCTV all over the place and if the boss found out she'd hand me my own butt because she's in the sweep, too." Rupert opened a drawer of his desk and pulled out a wad of ten dollar bills tied up with a rubber band. "Do me a favour and give this to the black guy in the red shorts and black top. He won."

I nodded assent, took the money and got changed. I counted it in the changing room. Ninety bucks. I contemplated bailing out and coming out of this whole deal up on cash to the tune of thirty bucks, but then realised that getting chased down the street by a gang of enormous, muscle bound fitness maniacs might have significant negative repercussions on my own physical well being. For a measly thirty bucks it wasn't worth the hospital time. Instead I stuck with the original plan and entered the gym, scanning the room for a black guy in red shorts. I found him doing sit-ups on an angled wooden bench hooked onto a wall mounted rack.

"Man, good to see you back!" He grinned as I held out my hand to him, his winnings bunched up in my fist. He slid off the bench and rose to his full height as he accepted the money. Jesus, the guy was six and a half feet tall and nearly that broad across the shoulders. I felt like a stick standing in front of a tree.