Disclaimer: Mentions and depictions of cheating in this one.
I've never been invested in exploring social life at the gym. I go, I exercise, I mind my own business. It didn't take long for the parade of beautiful curves in the locker room nude to become background noise I filtered while stripping out of my own sweaty clothes.
There was something about her, however, that captured me since the moment our eyes met. Love at first sight, really, without realizing it. After all, how could one realize that love has been found in the powerlifting class?
She was not a gym bombshell, an athleisure model. Her beauty was partly in her relatability: in a world of difference, she was like me. A good wife, a good mom, a good citizen fighting to gather enough minutes for herself, not for others. There were wrinkles around her eyes, whites in her hair, a healthy dose of sag in her boobs. Legs to die for, I learned by locker room day two. I wanted to see them tremble.
The first few weeks, we lived as if the other did not exist. We did not talk, we exchanged no glances: I was an admirer who did not even admire from afar. But there is no deadline that goes unmet, and it soon became clear that we were the ones lifting weights at 6 in the morning, the ones doing yoga late on weekend mornings.
I was the one who broke the ice by handing her dumbbells the day she was late to class. She reciprocated by complimenting my choice of leggings the next day. We slowly began to exchange pleasantries, smile through masked workouts, wave locker room goodbyes. Despite the rings on our fingers, we never talked about our husbands or our family duties. This was our time for ourselves.
Still, I was caught off guard the day she stepped out of the dressing room in the most seductive lingerie set I had ever encountered. The delicate lace flowed over her breasts, creating a playful fringe that barely covered her nipples in an otherwise see-through bra. Her thong left little to the imagination, the strap hugging the hipbone I now knew I wanted to bite. I must have been unable to conceal my reaction, but she did not seem to mind. This lace had probably been purchased for a man that did not care, and it had finally found its rightful audience. It was my honor to take it all in: I saw it, I took in the outline it created against her flesh. I did a shit job at work that day.
After that brief encounter, I found myself packing my best underwear into my gym bag, wondering if she, too, stared when I bent over. I started wearing dresses and heels to work more often after she complimented me on a form-fitting dress, her voice in the perfect pitch of complicity. When I felt daring, I took my time applying lipstick in front of the mirror, wearing only my underwear. In hindsight, it all feels a bit silly. A locker room flirt, really? But she was there for me, always staring, and I was there staring right back.
I first masturbated to the idea of her after we coincided in the showers. I heard her grunts under the stream of water after a particularly challenging workout; I wanted to be the one massaging her trapeze, soothing the pain with gentle kisses on her tense muscles. When I couldn't sleep that night, I faced away from my husband. I slipped my vibrator quietly over my clit, biting my lip when I came thinking of her between my legs.
I arranged my sleep schedule so diligently to be on time for our daily date that I had forgotten that the gym was open in the evenings. After a particularly grueling week at work and at home, though, it was all I wanted. I cancelled my Friday night plans with family to take some time to myself. It might be a little sad, perhaps, but the only place I knew I could go to escape my life of duty was the gym, and my core could use a good workout.
It turns out she had had the same idea.
