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It was nice. Nice apartment, nice roomate/ guardian, nice little summer job for some extra pocket money, nice muscles, nice hair, nice- "Hey, I need to use that machine." teeth, nice skin- "Hey!", nice eyes, nice "Ugh!"... he's a distraction is what he is. I blink rapidly and rip my eyes off the absolute treat of a man on the rowing machine and apologetically raise them to the pinched face of Kiki Marshall from apartment 2316. I placate her with a little smile "Sorry about that, I'm finished now." and step back to give her some space "At least I know it's clean." her sneering words are permissive in a way that tells me I can't be blamed for my attracted nature, just as magnets can't be blamed for sticking to the fridge.
I sit back behind the little front desk come drink station, almost surprised that the cheap blue cleaning cloth in my hand wasn't threadbare from my absent minded scrubbing of the lat pull down and subsequently all the other machines that had a decent view of the 'Best emmenity in the building'. Charlotte Melville is so right. He's satisfying me with just unreciprocated oogling, can't imagine fucking him. Not on the clock anyway. Don't want to be cleaning my own bloody nose as well as the crotch slime that Kiki Marshall will inevitably leave on the machine I just cleaned - It's understandable really, a perfect view of Robert Laings sculpted back in that tight shirt would do that to anyone. Sweat dripping down his neck. God. Such an appetising man, the things I would do to him.... if only he'd look my way.
I stare on as he puts his mouth over the water fountain 3 feet away from me, filing away the image of him drinking from it greedily. His throat looking absolutely delectable. He shuts it off and looks at me, raising one eyebrow. I can't summon the restraint to feel guilty and instead show my teeth at him as politely as I can manage, he must be used to this kind of attention now, surely. He exhales in amusement and shakes his head at me. My cheeks flush at the small acknowledgement, for a moment we're both in on a little secret. I accept the grain of attention and sweeten it with a long hard look at his plump arse as he goes back to finish his routine.
Rowing? Check. Next is squats, then he'll move onto overhead presses, obviouly. After that he'll probably go onto the treadmill or he might switch it up and go on the cross trainer. My bet is treadmill because he used the cross trainer on sunday. I doubt I would ever be able to but I would love to run into him at the pool, He might distract me, possibly causing me to slip and crack my skull open on the tile, but it's worth the risk. Hey! I could develop some brain damage and become one of his patients. 'Yes, Doctor, I will come in for a check-up'. Or get such an extreme case of whatever falling gets you and have him teach me as a case study to his students for years to come. I might even die and give my body to science so he can disect my head, that could be my heaven, severed neck against a sterlie steel table; faced towards medical students who are trying to build up a gore tolerance. His beautiful warm fingers my only salvation as Dr Robert Laing makes precise incisions to my scalp before reaching for a bone saw and splitting my cranium.
After performing his main routine Laing begins his grand finale, stretching out sluttishly on a mat in plain view of my post. Cat to cow; his back arches up and down, if i was paying any less attention to his furrowed brow I would notice that all the women and most of the men currently in the gym were just as enraptured as I. Child's pose fizzes up his spine stripping all the tension from his taut muscles. My hands are here for you adonis, they itch to tenderize you, we don't need oil or lotion - i'll just salivate.
At that thought I wipe my mouth and busy myself with sudoku until the sky turns black, the clock reaches ten pm and I exit the glass door of the gym, pressing the call button for the elevator. I trudge into flat 2405. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, open plan living/dining/kitchen, right below Dr. Robert Laing. All paid for by Jeanie -my cousin- who's currently sits on the garish yellow love seat completely possessed by some crime thriller on the TV. "Hi, Jeanie", I let her know that i'm home and retreat to my bedroom. Jeanie was about ten years my senior and paid the rent with her earnings from her job as a museum archivist. We were only shared a few similarities: our height (she's half and inch shorter than me), fear of spiders and a need for alone time.
Most of the flat was decorated to Jeanie's taste. Abstract art framed on the bare concrete wall, lots of cool neutrals along with accents of mustard, navy and purple which doesn't really sound that good but actually looks ok. She knew where everything was, she likes to be organized because she has enough stress trying to track down missing things at work. I, on the other hand trust the things I need to come into my hands. Before I root through my messy desk I send a prayer too whoever's watching that I find what I need, everything eventually turns up anyway.