Hidden Gym Fantasies

Do you go to the gym hoping to see a guy put on a jockstrap or take a shower? Do you indulge in 30, 40 or 40 minutes of exercises to rub shoulders with Mr. Muscles… and dream of some hot encounter? No need to answer these two questions, I already know the answer. Same for me.

Every morning, around 7 or 7:30, I go to the gym at the St. Lawrence Community Recreation Centre in downtown Toronto. It’s barely one block from my apartment. The gym is not very busy at such and early time. One Black guy runs on the treadmill and then does weight lifting. He’s already at work when I arrive, probably the first one to enter when the gym opens at 6:30. We never see him on Saturday and Sunday.

Two women, mid-30 and mid-60, also use the treadmill before spending some time on a stationary bike. One regular White guy goes to the gym for about half an hour, using at least four or five equipments, and following the instruction on a sign posted on each wall: Please wipe down equipment after each use. As for me, I do 30 seated leg press at a bench machine that I set at 30 pounds, then a 30-minute routine on a stationary bike set at level 15.

I assume that I’m the only gay person in that community gym early in the morning. I’m also the only one who brings a book. I like to read while I peddle for half an hour, pen in hand, because I’m a book critic and I underline certain words, expressions, figures of style, noting the page number at the end of the novel or collection of short stories for reference during my book review for Toronto’s French-language paper L’Express.

Recently, my reading was pleasantly disrupted by the arrival of two bears, each sporting a superb big butt. It was a pure delight to watch them bend over and imagine the divine spanking I could deliver. To be honest, I dreamt of tongue-fucking them. Once, when there was no one else around, I casually let my hand brush against the younger bear’s ass. The reaction was direct and unabashed, not to mention homophobic. I lied and said that I just wanted to feel his muscles, without any sexual intent.

The new kid on the block, so to speak, looks like an East Indian guy approximately 25 years-old. I only see him from a distance because he’s into weight lifting at one end of the gym and my stationary bike is at the other end. I sometime can watch him more closely when he runs on the treadmill, mid-way along the wall. He wears loose jogging pants and no jockstrap because I can see that his cock is bouncing up and down. Fuck, dark meat would be a tasty snack! We both seem to use the gym roughly at the same time.

I don’t want to scare him away, like I did with the two bears; so, I fantasize and imagine that he is bisexual and single. Maybe his name is Muhammad, Hassan or Amir, but I baptize him Zahir, which means “helper, supporter”. Since the St. Lawrence Community Recreation Centre does not have a locker room (just a cloakroom in the hallway), and since there is not a shower area except near the swimming pool on the ground level. I have no chance to see guys wandering around in their jockstraps or naked under a stream of water. I can just fantasize. I imagine that Zahir is Muslim and therefore circumcised for cultural reasons. His cock is slender and the mushroom is purple. His body has a strong musky scent, the kind of intoxicating smell that gets me hard. His ass crack is hairy and his anus is a yummy chocolate rosebud. At night, I dream about cuddling his brownie body and start jerking off.

Weeks follow each other but are not the same. Last Monday, Zahir did a series of stretches very close to where I was cycling. I was able to observe him from behind only and his little ass filled me with excitement. Back home I wrote a note saying that I would love to feel his muscles, to give him a massage. The next day, I didn’t dare deliver this note. I just blinked an eye when I saw him entering the gym. I had no idea that my wink had an effect on him.

* * *

All the time Zahir exercises, he is thinking how it would be hot to rub against Paul. When he gets home, he imagines hugging him, getting hard and having mutual masturbation.

Paul continues to blink at Zahir who remains stoic. Paul wants so much to kiss him, but does not dare to do so in fear of being rejected. He writes another note, much longer than the first one:

“Dear gym buddy;

I constantly dream of you. I baptized you Zahir because I image you as a helper, a supporter. I find you so handsome. I hope that you are not against man-to-man attraction. I’m 100% gay. Maybe you are bisexual, but hopefully not 100% straight.

Going to the gym is the highlight of my day. Your presence warms my heart. I will not hide the fact that your stretching exercises excite me, especially when you do them near my stationary bicycle station. I dream of hugging you warmly, of feeling your manhood invade me.

Warm kiss from Paul.”

No need to say that Paul does not hand this love letter to Zahir. He prefers to live in a world of fantasy rather than in a situation of possible rejection because of his advanced age, 76 years old. Meanwhile, Zahir also writes a letter, a short note in fact:

عزيزي صديق الصالة الرياضية (Dear gym buddy)

“The first day I saw you at the St. Lawrence Community Centre, I knew I was attracted to men, to older guys, to a daddy figure. I find you so mature, so good looking. At night, I imagine us hugging, caressing, kissing, enjoying man-to-man pleasures. I hope that I am not too direct. Warm kiss from Zahir.”This note remains on Zahir’s pillow. The two gym buddies never get to share their strong mutual attraction. One day, the handsome gym buddy does not show up at the St. Lawrence Community Centre. His absence goes on for a week before Paul inquires at the front desk about the East Indian guy that has stopped exercising. He is told that Zahir has moved from Toronto. Paul walks back home with tears in his eyes.