Page 23 of Gym Bros
Wanting to move on, I ask, “What kind of class are you teaching?”
“Pilates.”
“Like with the machines?”
“Reformers,” he corrects me. “But yes.”
“Can I watch?” I’ve got nothing better to do. “I’m hoping to try that too, once I know my leg can handle it.”
He studies me another long moment, like I’ve got some hidden motivation. “I’m not sure how the ladies would feel with you in there watching them work out.”
“Oh. I wasn’t saying I?—”
He cuts me off. “No, I understand what you were saying, but why don’t you look it up on YouTube instead?”
Chastened, and feeling like a total pervert, I nod. I need to get out of here. “All right, well, good night. See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow,” he says, sounding as non-plussed as I feel.
I move past him, as tense as I was when I got here. So much for breathing. I feel like a fucking idiot. Uncouth, lacking class. An oaf with a dumb name.Andrude.
As I’m leaving the gym, I’m only fifty-fifty about whether Iwillcome back. It’s not like I’m furious with him or like I want to fight him or anything. I just feel—small. Ridiculous. Put in my place.
If I thought I wouldn’t hurt myself, I’d jog back to my apartment rather than take my car. Going for a drive doesn’t have the same effect as sweating out all my thoughts and feelings—waiting for numbness to set in. If I had a motorcycle—maybe.
But my parents wouldn’t get me one of those, no matter how much I begged. I like my Porsche, but I don’t love it the same way I’d love a Ducati 916.
Once I’m home, I head straight for my couch. I should hit the treadmill since I didn’t get any kind of workout tonight, but the Flames game just started, and to be honest, I’m feeling a little sorry for myself. I’m halfway tempted to text Evan, but after he deep-throated me into a jaw-dropping orgasm, I don’t want him to think I expect that every time.
It would be nice tonight, though. And that’s exactly why Idon’ttext him.
I order takeout before opening Instagram. My account is pretty pathetic. I was working on growing it before my injury, but these last few weeks, I’ve been neglecting it, and I feel my lack of new followers like a hook to the ribs that I should have seen coming.
Trying not to dwell on it, I bite the bullet I’ve been avoiding and search Calyx. He’s literally the first thing that pops up when I type out the first four letters of his fake name. Once I open his account, I see why. He’s got almost three hundred thousand followers.Damn. How the hell?
But I quickly realize how the hell. A combination of reels and carousels of photos tell the story of his success on this platform. He posts every day, or almost.
I’d question if he used a smoothing or beauty filter if I hadn’t met him in person.
All his reels are him modeling something—filmed by someone else. From a purely aesthetic standpoint, he’s physically perfect. Unusual for a man, but flawless all the same. In one reel he’s in a speedo, in the next, a chiffon blouse, the next a suit. He’ll pose like a woman, he’ll walk like a man. He’ll rub his chest and drop his waistband, and then he’ll show a series of runway walks, some masculine, some feminine.
I’m utterly confused and totally arrested by it. I haven’t even reached the end of his feed by the time my food arrives, and I’m no less interested in continuing to watch it than I was when I started scrolling.
I barely notice the score of the baseball game, but the Flames are winning, and that’s all that matters. As I’m opening my taco box, I glance at the TV screen to find the camera on the owner’s box.
All men in there. Allgaymen. The camera lingers on the owner of the team for half a second and then pans to the truly famous parson in the box—the pop star Gideon York. Kansas City gets Taylor Swift at their games, but LA gets the male equivalent.
My gaze flits to York’s husband. The huge dude with the man bun and tattoos—full sleeves that prove he knows exactly who he is. He’d have to in order to get cohesive ink like that. Admittedly, I don’t know much about the couple except what I’ve heard the announcers talk about during baseball games, which isn’t much. For example, I know they were dating and then they were married. What I see is a couple of dudes who couldn’t look less alike if they tried. Gideon York is edgy, yeah, so I guess that makes sense, but he’s also a pretty boy with some definite feminine energy that doesn’t overwhelm the fact that he’s obviously a man. He’s less confusing than Calyx, though.
The shot returns to the baseball diamond, and I look back down at my phone. I wonder how old these videos are. If Calyx hasn’t been modeling since before summer, they have to be from before that. I’m jealous of the amount of content. I would need someone following me around twenty-four seven to get this amount of footage.
Calyx’s photos are a mix of modeling shots and vistas from places he’s been. He’s got the occasional photo that looks like he took himself. There are a couple of women who pop up from time to time, both individually and separately. I assumed he was gay, just based on—well—the whole package, but there are a few shots that have me questioning that, too. I could picture him with a girl. Kind of. In his candid shots, he’s got a more masculine bearing, but it’s subtle. I can understand why Evan would question it.
I shake my head, realizing I need to be doing something else other than internet creeping on my yoga teacher, but I can’t help it. He’s fascinating.
I don’t know what’s worse though—losing myself in his IG feed or worrying about whether I’ll ever get back to the level of fighting I was at before I hurt myself.
Finally, I toss my phone aside and put all my attention on the game and my tacos. And then I start getting horny again. God, my life is pathetic.
