Page 15 of Gym Bros
“Who’d I hook up with that week?” Priya asks.
I say in admiration, “You two are fucking legends.”
They both give me a look like“We know.”
Ryanat least pretends to share my excitement about my very first private client. I mean, Ryan’s not exactly excitable, and neither am I, but he pays attention when I go over my plan forSaber’shamstring.
My biggest concern while I wait for six o’clock to roll around is what I look like. To be fair, that’s usually my primary concern. My looks are my livelihood. This has been true since I was five and raking in cash for my parents. Marcus calls it rare, but I understand why people stare. It’s not because I’m oh so beautiful. It’s because people can’t tell what the fuck I am. And yeah, I’mpretty.
I look a lot like a girl. I get it. I have a strongish jawline and an Adam’s apple, but I also have full pouty lips, large eyes, and feminine features. I’m slim, with long muscles that don’t bulk up, and the suggestion of a waist and hips. My voice isn’t super deep. I have longish hair, and I take excellent care of my skin. I identify as male, but I’m not afraid to embrace my feminine side. I’m as comfortable in panties as I am in briefs. I often wear make-up when I go out. Sometimes I sway when I walk, sometimes I don’t.
I confuse extremely gay men like Isaac. Even Ryan, who identifies as bi, had trouble not staring when we first met, and he never hesitates to offer his services when I ask him to put sunscreen on my back. It drives his boyfriend Malcolm nuts, but I’m pretty sure I’m just foreplay for the two of them.
Nope. No self-esteem issues whatsoever.
Not this guy.
“I think your client’s here,” Ryan says, glancing past me to the front desk.
I hesitate to look, nerves kicking up. Who do I think I am acting like I can help an actual athlete?
“Why do you look like that?” Ryan asks, brow furrowed.
“I shouldn’t have agreed to this, should I?”
“To teaching some guy yoga? Why not?”
“Is he scary looking?”
Ryan checks again, eyes assessing. “I mean…he’s a big guy.”
“His dad is, too.” I was expecting that. “What else?”
“Buzzed hair. Tattoos. Scared yet?”
“Is he limping?”
“He’s standing.” Then he laughs. “You’re not gonna look? I promise you’re not gonna want to date him.”
For whatever reason, that helps. If I did want to date Marcus’s son, that would be—I don’t even know. Wrong. Gross? Fucked up?
“I’m just teaching him yoga,” I say, repeating the simple words, reminding myself of the concept. I’m not a physical therapist. I’m a part-time yoga teacher. He’s a mostly grown man who needs to learn to respect his limits, and this is something I know enough about.
I turn around just as the receptionist points at me. The giant man turns my way.
There’s no question he’s Marcus’s son. They’re not carbon copies, but same face shape, same eyes, same coloring. Admittedly, when I picture a generic twenty-year old man, I’m not very generous. I picture gangly with some lingering baby fat, acne, bad eyebrows, and mouth-breathing. Apparently, in my head, twenty might as well be fifteen.
But this man’s father used to be a model, so I shouldn’t be surprised he’s the opposite of my preconceived notions.
“Wish me luck,” I say to Ryan.
“You’ll be fine.”
I walk without swaying across the gym, keeping a blank expression on my face like when I model menswear. I want to touch my hair, but don’t. I also want to put my hands in my pockets, but I don’t do that either.
He’s studying me with that familiar confused look on his face like he’s wondering which genitals I have.
The closer I get, the more he fidgets. He scratches his ear, looks at the door, shifts his weight, and tugs at the hem of his tank. I hold out my hand. “Calyx.”
