"You know, maybe, Jake -- it is that point in your life where you need to start exercising more," my wife, Debbie, said, before she patted my "tummy."
I'm not quite sure why women think they are the only ones who care about their appearance or their weight, but they seem passive-aggressively oblivious to the body image issues of the modern male. I sighed.
We had no sex that night, or any night for the two weeks that had preceded it. A part of me didn't really mind -- making love to Debbie had become chore-like in the last few years.
She was right, even if it stung. I had lost my confidence as I soared above my ideal weight. In college I had been cut, which along with my cute face and big dick had won me endless success with a string of bimbos. The women themselves weren't as important as the effortless victories they represented -- an affirmation of my sex appeal and machismo.
Her comment tore at me while I was at the office, and so after work the next day I registered at the local fitness club. Even upon entering just to register, I remembered why I loathed gyms lately -- every man in there seemed to be a pile of muscles without a trace of fat or weakness. What had merely horrified me in the past intrigued me now -- could I become like them? An Adonis who felt confident and sexy, who got what he wanted with effortless ease?
I smiled as a trainer named John approached me. He was to show me around. He was a mountain of a man -- surely 6'5'' at the very least, with shoulders that stood out from his strong back. I idly wondered how big his cock was, but then I cut the thought out of my mind as I always did with homoerotic wonderings.
"You'll be in good hands here, Mr. Turner," John said, obviously excited about showing off the gym to a new client. "There is no one- and I promise you this -- NO ONE who cannot get fit if he or she puts the time and effort into it. You just have to want it."
I told him I would start the next day, and I was happily on my way (in my own mind at least) to reclaiming the glory days of my youth.
But then it hurt. It hurt a lot. The next few days at the gym were grueling- John was a cold hearted task master, and in my mind I was convinced he liked to see me suffer. Or I was just old and whiny -- I couldn't tell.
When Friday came, John gave me the hardest session of the whole week. I told him my arms were gone halfway through it, but he kept pushing me through. As I left for home, I thought to myself, "Things will only get easier from here. You've mastered yourself, and that is the greatest accomplishment of all."
Over the weekend, I started to miss John. I missed a man. It was a new sensation to me -- and I think I knew in my heart that I was sexually attracted to my massive gym coach. As I was lying in bed my hand slipped down into my boxers and I grabbed my already throbbing cock. I loved the feeling of my hand wrapped around my thick shaft...and in my mind I imagined it was John. As I stroked it, I imagined him moaning, imagined his eyes rolling back in his head. He was at a loss for words because of the pleasure, and so was I. I imagined my free hand rubbing his huge pecs and slipping down his unbelievably hard abs. God, he was sexy. Women never made me as ferociously hard as the mental image of the sexy blonde male trainer did.
