Sweat and Submission

The gym at 9 PM is a different animal than the gym at 6. The evening crowd has thinned to the diehards, the ones who don't care about prime time or the mirror space near the free weights. The air is thicker, warmer, carrying the accumulated heat of a thousand bodies and the sharp bite of industrial cleaner trying and failing to mask it. I like it better this way. Fewer eyes. Fewer people to notice when my attention lingers somewhere it shouldn't.

I'm halfway through my last set of cable rows when he walks in.

I've seen him before. Hard not to. He's the kind of man who takes up space without trying, not because he's enormous, but because he moves like he owns whatever room he enters. Six feet, maybe a little over. Lean muscle packed tight on a frame that's proportional everywhere it counts. Broad shoulders that taper to a waist you could almost circle with your hands. Dark hair cropped short on the sides, a little longer on top, damp with sweat even though he just got here. He's wearing a faded gray tank top that's seen better days, the armholes cut deep enough to show off the sweep of his lats and the definition in his shoulders. Black shorts. Old-school high-tops with the laces loose.

He nods at me when he passes. Just a nod. Nothing special. I nod back and focus on my form, pulling the handle to my sternum, squeezing, releasing slow.

I don't watch him walk to the squat rack. I don't watch him load the bar with two plates on each side, warm-up weight for a man his size. I don't watch the way his back muscles shift under that thin cotton when he reaches up to adjust the J-hooks.

I'm lying to myself. I know I'm lying to myself. I've been lying to myself for years about this particular weakness, and I'm not going to stop tonight.

His name is Marcus. I know because I heard someone call him that last week, a guy spotting him on bench who kept saying "come on, Marcus, one more" in that aggressive bro-coach voice. Marcus had laughed and pushed out two more reps anyway, and the sound of that laugh, low and easy and a little bit mean, had stayed with me longer than it should have. I'd finished my workout early that night. Left without stretching. Couldn't stand being in the same room with him and not being able to do anything about it.

Tonight I'm going to finish my workout. I'm going to stretch. I'm going to keep my eyes on my own business and get the hell out of here.

He racks the bar after his set and stands there for a second, hands on his hips, breathing hard. The tank top clings to his chest. There's a dark patch of sweat spreading from his sternum, and I can see the outline of his nipples through the fabric, small and hard from the AC. He grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it up to wipe his face, and I get a flash of stomach, defined abs, a trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband. Then he drops the shirt and it's over.

I'm staring. I know I'm staring. I look away so fast my neck pops.

When I glance back, he's looking at me.

Not in a weird way. Not like he caught me doing something. Just looking, the way you look at someone when you're both in the same space and there's no reason not to acknowledge it. He raises one eyebrow, just slightly. A question. Or maybe an invitation. Or maybe nothing at all.

I go back to my rows. My hands are sweating. I have to adjust my grip twice.

---

He finishes his squats and moves to the bench press. I finish my rows and move to the lat pulldown, which is conveniently, pathetically, positioned with a clear view of the bench. I tell myself it's because the cable station is there. I tell myself I'm not choosing machines based on sightlines. I'm a grown man. I have a job. I have a mortgage. I do not plan my gym routine around a stranger's ass in black shorts.

He loads the bar. Two plates, then a third. He lies back and grips the bar, and I watch his hands, big hands, knuckles white, and then he presses. The bar moves smooth and controlled, down to his chest, pause, up. His shoulders roll forward slightly at the top, and I can see the striations in his delts, the way the muscle fibers separate under the skin. He does eight reps. Racks the bar. Sits up and shakes out his arms.

He looks over at me again.

"You gonna do those all night or are you actually working?"

His voice carries across the gym. Low. Amused. He's not being an asshole, exactly. He's being something else. Something that makes my face heat up.

I realize I've been sitting at the lat pulldown for three minutes without pulling the bar down once.

"I'm resting," I say.

"Uh-huh." He stands up and walks over. Just like that. No hesitation. He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell him, sweat and deodorant and something underneath that's just skin, just man, just the particular scent of a body that's been working hard. It's not cologne. It's not soap. It's him. My stomach tightens.

"You're Eric, right?" he says.

I blink. "Yeah. How do you know that?"

"Front desk guy. I asked." He shrugs like it's nothing. Like asking about a stranger isn't a thing people do. "I'm Marcus."

"I know."

The words are out before I can stop them. His eyebrow goes up again, the same one from before, and his mouth curves into a smile that's half charming and half dangerous.

"You know."

"I heard someone call you that. Last week. Bench press."

"Ah." He nods slowly, still smiling. "So you've been watching me."

"I've been in the same room as you. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

He crosses his arms over his chest. The movement pulls his tank top tight across his shoulders, and I can see the veins in his forearms, thick and ropy, running from wrist to elbow. I look at his face instead. That's safer. His face is all sharp angles and easy confidence, jaw strong, nose maybe broken once, eyes dark and steady. He's looking at me like I'm a puzzle he's already halfway through solving.

"You always this defensive?" he asks.

"You always this nosy?"

He laughs. It's the same laugh from last week, low and warm and a little bit mean. It does something to my chest that I don't want to name.

"Fair enough," he says. "I'm just killing time between sets. You looked like you could use a spot."

"I'm doing lat pulldowns."

"Right. The thing you've been sitting at for five minutes without moving."

I open my mouth to argue, then close it. He's got me. He knows he's got me. The smile gets wider.

"Come on," he says. "Finish your set. I'll wait."

"Why would you wait?"

"Because I'm curious."

"About what?"

He tilts his head. "About why you keep looking at me like you're trying not to."

The floor drops out from under me. Or that's what it feels like. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, and I know my face is red, I can feel the heat crawling up my neck, and there's nothing I can do about it. He's just standing there, arms crossed, watching me fall apart, and he's not even being cruel about it. He's being interested. That's worse. Interest means he's paying attention. Interest means he sees something.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say.

"Okay."

"I'm not looking at you."

"Didn't say you were."

"You just said I was."

"I said you keep looking at me like you're trying not to. That's different." He uncrosses his arms and takes a step closer. I can smell him again, stronger now, and my body reacts before my brain can catch up. My pulse spikes. My mouth goes dry. I grip the bar of the lat pulldown like it's the only thing keeping me upright. "You don't have to tell me. I'm just saying I noticed."

"Noticed what?"

"That you're interesting."

He says it like it's a fact. Like he's commenting on the weather. And then he turns around and walks back to the bench, and I'm left sitting there with my heart trying to climb out of my chest and my hands shaking on the bar.

---

I do my set. I do three sets, actually, because I need the time to pull myself together. He finishes his bench press and moves to the dumbbell rack, and I watch him in the mirror, which is a coward's way of watching someone, but I'm a coward. I've always been a coward about this. I've spent my whole adult life being careful, being quiet, being the kind of gay man who doesn't make anyone uncomfortable, who doesn't stare, who doesn't want too obviously. I've had boyfriends. I've had sex. But I've never had this, the thing where someone sees through me, the thing where someone looks at me and just knows.

Marcus doesn't know. He can't know. He's just perceptive, and I'm just obvious.

He does a set of dumbbell curls, then another. His arms are ridiculous. Not in a bodybuilder way, not in a way that looks like a costume. Just lean and defined and strong, the kind of arms that could pin you down without trying. I think about that for half a second too long and have to look away.

When I finish my last set, I stand up and stretch. My shoulders are tight from the rows, and I roll them back, trying to loosen up. I'm planning my exit. I'm going to walk past him, nod, go to the locker room, take a shower, and leave. That's the plan. I'm good at plans. I'm good at leaving.

But he's already walking toward me.

"Done?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"Good. I need a spot."

"You just did bench."

"I'm doing incline now. Different movement."

"There are other people here."

"There are." He looks around the gym, which is nearly empty now, just a couple of guys on the treadmills and a woman doing lunges in the corner. "But I asked you."

"Why?"

"Because you're interesting."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it keeps being true."

He's standing close again. Closer than before. I can see the sweat drying on his collarbone, the way his pulse beats in his throat. He smells like effort and heat and something faintly sweet, and I want to lean into it. I want to press my face against his neck and breathe him in. I want to know if the rest of him smells like this, if his armpits are as potent as the rest of him, if he'd let me find out.

I don't do any of that. I stand there like a statue and say, "Fine. One set."

"Two."

"One."

"Two. I'll make it worth your while."

I don't know what that means. I don't ask. I follow him to the incline bench and stand behind his head while he lies back and grips the bar. He doesn't adjust the weight. He's going to press the same three plates on an incline, which is insane, and I'm going to have to watch his chest and shoulders work through it, and I'm going to have to pretend I'm not dying.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Ready."

He unracks the bar. I keep my hands hovering under it, not touching, just there. He presses once, twice, three times. His form is perfect. His breathing is controlled. On the fifth rep, his arms start to shake, just slightly, and I step closer, ready to help.

"Don't," he says. "I've got it."

He pushes out two more reps. His face is red, his jaw clenched, and I can see the strain in his neck, the tendons standing out. He racks the bar and sits up, breathing hard, and then he looks at me and grins.

"See?" he says. "Worth your while."

I don't know what to say. I don't know what he means. I don't know if he's flirting or if he's just like this with everyone, if he's just a guy who likes attention and knows how to get it. I don't know anything except that I'm hard, actually hard, in my gym shorts, and I need to get out of here before he notices.

"I have to go," I say.

"You just got here."

"I've been here for an hour."

"An hour and a half." He stands up and stretches his arms over his head, and his tank top rides up, and I see his stomach again, the cut of his abs, the dark hair below his navel. "Stay for a few more minutes. I'll walk you out."

"Why?"

"Because I want to keep talking to you."

"We're not talking. We're just standing here."

"That's a kind of talking."

I should say no. I should walk away. I should go home and jerk off and forget this ever happened. But I don't. I stand there like an idiot while he grabs his water bottle and wipes down the bench, and then he nods toward the locker room and says, "Come on."

I follow him.

---

The locker room is empty. Just rows of metal lockers and a long wooden bench and the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears. Marcus opens his locker and pulls out a towel, then sits down on the bench and starts unlacing his shoes. I stand by my own locker, three down from his, and try to look busy.

"You're not changing?" he asks.

"Not yet."

"You just gonna stand there?"

"I'm cooling down."

"Uh-huh." He pulls off his shoes and socks, then stands up and peels off his tank top. Just like that. No hesitation. No modesty. He's standing there in just his shorts, and I can see everything, the broad sweep of his chest, the definition in his obliques, the way his shoulders catch the fluorescent light. His skin is flushed from the workout, and there's sweat drying on his chest, and the smell of him fills the space between us, warm and musky and intimate.

I look away. I try to look away. But my eyes keep coming back, and he knows it. He has to know it. He's standing there with his hands on his hips, watching me watch him, and he's not saying anything. He's just letting me look.

"You work out here a lot?" he asks.

"Most nights."

"Same time?"

"Usually."

"Good."

"Why good?"

He shrugs. "Just good."

He grabs his towel and walks toward the showers. I watch him go, the way his back muscles move under his skin, the way his shorts hang low on his hips. He stops at the shower entrance and looks back at me.

"You coming?"

"What?"

"To shower. You're sweaty. You should shower."

"I know I should shower. I don't need you to tell me."

"Then why aren't you?"

"Because I'm waiting for you to leave."

He laughs. That same laugh, low and mean and warm. "You don't have to wait. It's a big shower."

"I'm not showering with you."

"I didn't say with me. I said it's a big shower. There's room for both of us."

"That's the same thing."

"Is it?"

He disappears into the shower room, and I hear the water turn on. I stand there for a long minute, trying to decide what to do. I could leave. I could grab my bag and walk out and never come back to this gym again. I could find a new gym, a new routine, a new life where I don't get hard in my shorts because a stranger looked at me.

But I don't leave. I take off my shirt and my shoes and I walk into the shower room, and I pick the stall two down from his, and I turn on the water and step under it.

The water is cold at first, then warm. I close my eyes and let it run over my face, and I try to think about nothing. I try to think about work. I try to think about the emails I need to send tomorrow. I try to think about anything except the fact that Marcus is two stalls down, naked, and I can smell his soap, something woodsy and clean, and I can hear him humming under his breath.

"Hey," he says.

"What?"

"You still alive over there?"

"I'm fine."

"You're quiet."

"I'm showering."

"People can shower and talk."

"Not me."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't know you."

"You know my name. You know I do incline bench with three plates. You know I like to talk to strangers at the gym. That's a lot, actually."

I open my eyes and stare at the tile wall. He's not wrong. I do know those things. I know more than I want to. I know the way he moves, the way he laughs, the way he looks at me like I'm something worth looking at. I know the smell of him, which is the worst part, the part I can't stop thinking about.

"Why are you talking to me?" I ask.

"Because I want to."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have."

The water turns off in his stall. I hear him grab his towel, and then his footsteps, and then he's standing at the entrance to my stall, towel around his waist, water still dripping down his chest.

"Come find me when you're done," he says.

"Why?"

"Because I want to keep talking to you."

He walks away. I stand under the water for another five minutes, trying to calm down, trying to think straight. It doesn't work. When I finally turn off the water and grab my towel, I'm still hard. I'm still shaking. I'm still thinking about the way he looked at me, the way he said my name, the way he smells.

I dry off. I get dressed. I walk out into the locker room, and he's sitting on the bench, fully dressed now, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when I come in.

"Took you long enough," he says.

"I wasn't hurrying."

"I noticed."

He stands up and grabs his bag. I grab mine. We walk out together, through the empty gym, past the front desk where the night guy is half asleep, out into the parking lot. The air is cool and sharp, and the sky is dark, and the streetlights make everything look yellow and strange.

"Where's your car?" he asks.

"Over there."

"Me too."

We walk to our cars, which are parked three spaces apart. I unlock mine and open the door, and he stands by his, watching me.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asks.

"I don't know."

"Come on. You said you're here most nights."

"I am."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow."

He gets in his car and starts the engine. I stand there like an idiot, holding my door open, watching him pull out of the lot. He rolls down his window and leans out.

"Hey, Eric?"

"Yeah?"

"You should stop trying so hard."

"Trying hard at what?"

"At whatever it is you're trying not to do."

He rolls up the window and drives away. I stand in the parking lot for a long time, long after his taillights disappear, trying to figure out what just happened. I don't know if he knows. I don't know if he suspects. I don't know if he's just a guy who likes to mess with people, or if he's something else, something I'm not ready for.

But I know I'll be back tomorrow. I know I'll be there at 9 PM, same as always, and I know I'll be looking for him. And I know, somewhere deep in my chest, that he'll be looking for me too.

That's the thing about being seen. Once someone sees you, you can't unsee yourself. You can't go back to being invisible. And I've been invisible for so long that I don't know how to be anything else.

I get in my car and drive home. I take a shower, a real one this time, hot and long. I jerk off thinking about his hands, his shoulders, the smell of his skin. I come harder than I have in months, and then I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and wonder what the hell I'm doing.

Tomorrow. Same time. Same place.

I'll be there.