Tales From the Gym

by Roland Graeme

  Avery Jones, a transplanted Australian, had lived in the United States long enough to have lost much of his distinctive Down Under accent. He was, Guy knew, at least forty, but it was a fit, well-preserved, and extremely handsome forty. Although he’d retired from competitive bodybuilding a few years ago, he still worked out religiously, and it showed. If Avery ever decided to make a comeback and enter physique contests in the master’s division, he could still add trophies to his collection. Some of his old trophies, in fact, were displayed in his office, along with some framed photos and awards documenting his career.

  Avery pushed the papers he’d been looking at aside as Guy sat down opposite him. “Now, what can I do for you?” the gym owner asked, with a broad, disarming smile.

  “You’re positive I’m not interrupting you? Jeremy told me you were going through the books.”

  “Yes, but we’re in the black this month, so I’m in a good mood. Now, what’s on your mind, Guy?”

  “I need to renew my membership.”

  “Easily done. I can call up your information right here on the computer, and update it.”

  “But I was wondering if, instead of paying for the whole year at once, I could split it up into two or three separate installments.”

  Avery smiled at Guy in an intimate way as though the two of them were sharing a secret. “Let me guess. Money tight? Don’t be offended, Guy. I’d like to think we can speak frankly to one another. We’re friends. And I can remember what it was like to be your age, trying to balance work and training, and always seeming to be short of money. I’m sure we can work something out.” Avery leaned toward his computer’s monitor, and began typing away on the keyboard. “Let me call up your file…yeah, here we go. I’ve got an idea. How’d you like to pay for another year in quarterly installments, once every three months, instead of all in one lump sum up front?”

  Guy relaxed in his chair, feeling immeasurably relieved. “That’d be great. I’d take a lot of the pressure off me. It’s really generous of you.”

  “Actually, I’m afraid generosity has nothing to do with it. It’s just good business practice, in the long run. We don’t want to lose you as a member. Having the really heavy duty numbers like you around here is really a form of free advertising for the gym. It suggests that we’re doing something right, and it attracts new members. Either they hope that working out in close proximity to you guys is going to have some magical effect on their own training, or they just like to be able to admire you and brag to their friends that they belong to the same gym, or—” Avery hesitated, but then his smile broadened, turning more than a little sly and confidential. “Or they’re hoping they might have a chance of hitting on you.”

  Guy had to laugh. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.”

  “You must get more than your fair share of such unwanted attention.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. It isn’t always unwanted. And even when it is, it doesn’t bother me, or even distract me. When I’m here at the gym, I concentrate on my workouts.” Even as he spoke, though, Guy had to admit he was fibbing more than a bit. He wouldn’t have been human had he not been prone to bask in the admiring glances and cruising signals that other members of the gym routinely sent his way. Still, aside from his quickies with Reinaldo, Guy’s fling with Jeremy was the first time that he’d actually dared to get it on with another guy on the gym premises, and he now sternly told himself that he’d take care not to cross that line again.

  “And, on second thought, suppose I were to sweeten the deal,” Avery was saying., “and give you a ten percent discount off the total annual membership cost?”

  “You’re kidding. You’d do that for me?”

  “As I said, I want us to work out something that you can live with. I found out long ago that everything in life is subject to negotiation.”

  “I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you,” Guy felt obligated to protest, although he didn’t sound terribly convincing, even to his own ears.

  “You wouldn’t be. And I have to warn you, I do have an ulterior motive.”

  “Oh? What might that be?”

  “You don’t have an agent, do you?”

  “An agent? No. I hardly need one.”

  “I’ve seen you in some of the magazines, posing and demonstrating exercise routines and so forth. The usual kind of exposure that a bloke your age gets when he’s first starting out. I assume you get paid for that?”

  “I make a few extra bucks doing it, here and there. But I handle all of that sort of thing myself. Trying to find the work, and negotiating the contracts, and so forth.”

  “Good for you. But, if you ever decided to get serious about breaking into real modeling work, or even into acting, then a really good agent might be worth his fee, because of the amount of work and the kind of exposure, he could get you. It might be something for you to think about. But for right now,” Avery went on, briskly, “here’s my proposition. I have a friend who’s a professional photographer, and I’m commissioning him to take some pictures of some of the members of the gym, to use in advertising, and also to display on the walls here in the gym. I want huge blow-ups, poster sized, that I can frame and hang on the walls. I’d like you to be one of the men who’ll be represented. I’ll set up an appointment with my mate for the photo shoot—or rather the shoots, since I’d like him to take some of the pictures in his studio, and some right here, showing you using the facilities and the equipment. You’d have to sign a model’s release, of course, giving me permission to use the photos. But that wouldn’t cost you anything except your time and trouble, and I’ll make a point of asking my friend to make you a few prints that you can put in your portfolio, free of charge. And, of course, we’ll renew your membership under the terms we’ve already discussed.”

  “I’m kind of overwhelmed, Avery. I didn’t expect anything like this.”

  “As I say, it’s just good business sense. This way—to be blunt—I don’t have to pay some professional fitness model, and his agent, their no-doubt inflated fee.”

  “That does make sense. All right. I definitely want to do it.”

  “Great! I don’t think you’ll regret it. Plus, you’re going to be in good company.”

  “Oh? Who are the other guys you’ve signed up, for this?”

  “To be honest, the only other one I’ve approached so far, and who has agreed to do it, is this new boy from Czechoslovakia, Petr Adamec.”

  “That’s a coincidence. I just met him today. We worked out together, in fact.”

  “Did you? What do you think of him?”

  “He seems nice. And he’s got a great body,” Guy conceded, perhaps a bit grudgingly.

  “I think the two of you will make good poster boys for the gym, to start off with. And you’re such contrasting types. One blond and one dark. I’ll have all of the bases covered.”

  Guy was no fool. He took the time to read every word of the two contracts Avery now printed out and handed him. One was the renewal of his gym membership, under the terms he and Avery had just agreed upon. The other was Guy’s agreement to pose for the photos Avery wanted, and to give him permission to use them. Avery, to give him credit, didn’t rush him, but simply sat there, waiting patiently. Finally, Guy signed both documents on the dotted lines.

  “Brilliant,” Avery said, reverting to British slang. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Thanks again, Avery. I wish I could think of some way to repay you.”

  “Forget it, Guy. You just keep training hard, and make sure you look good in the photos. That’s all I ask.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  “We’ll talk some more, later.” Avery flashed that oddly conspiratorial smile again. “And maybe then, if we decide to get involved in any additional projects together, we might be able to come up with a suitable quid pro quo.”

  Guy was puzzled. “I’m sorry, Avery. It’s been a while since I studied Latin in high schoo
l, and I’m afraid I’m forgotten most of it. What does quid pro quo mean, exactly?”

  “Oh, it might be loosely translated, you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours. Or, even more loosely translated—you suck my dick, and I’ll suck yours. In our case, only figuratively speaking, of course.”

  “I see. Only figuratively speaking, of course.”

  Chapter Two

  An English Language Lesson

  On his way back to his modest studio apartment after his workout with Guy, Petr stopped, as he often did, at a newsstand in the neighborhood. He bought an assortment of newspapers and magazines. Perusing them, along with watching television, was a good way to improve his English, which he knew was reasonably fluent, but still far from perfect.

  At home, he made himself some coffee, then got comfortable on his unmade bed. He relaxed, coming down gradually from the high-intensity workout he’d just had with Guy Tremblay.

  He liked Guy. The American was very handsome. So many of the men here in Los Angeles were. Petr wondered if Guy could possibly be gay. Most gay men weren’t in Petr’s company for very long before they began dropping hints, varying from subtle to blatant. But Petr hadn’t been able to read Guy too well. He’d had the distinct impression that Guy was holding back, not allowing Petr to see all of his personality.

  Petr shrugged. Even if it turned out that he and Guy didn’t play on the same team—which was one of the American English slang expressions Petr had begun to pick up on and record in his notebook—Petr had at least found a training partner. That part of their relationship was off to a good start, and it promised to be extremely productive.

  He took the various publications he’d bought, spread them out on his bed, and leafed through them as he sipped his strong black coffee. With a felt-tip pen, he dutifully underlined or circled any words or phrases that were unfamiliar to him, or the meaning of which he wasn’t sure about, so he could look them up later.

  He suddenly realized, with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement, that among his purchases was a newspaper obviously intended for a gay male readership. The man at the newsstand hadn’t batted an eyelash when he’d sold it to him, though, and Petr told himself that in a city this size such a publication no doubt had a large and appreciative readership. But he still found himself blushing as he examined the articles and the advertisements. Americans certainly seemed to have a casual, open attitude about sex. That had been the case in Tampa, the city where Petr had lived when he’d first come to the United States, and it was even more so here in Los Angeles. In the classified section of this newspaper there were columns upon columns of listings for sex partners and “unlicensed masseurs.”

  Petr decided that a massage would be just the thing for him right now, to relieve the ache and strain in his neck and shoulder muscles after his workout with Guy. In all innocence, he inspected the ads more closely. In European cities, when he was traveling to compete, Petr had often hired a masseur to relax him after a particularly grueling workout.

  A bold-typed ad caught his eye. Full Body Massage, Inside and Out, No Holds Barred. 24 hrs day or night, your place or mine. Stop wasting your time and money on those who don’t care and who can’t give you the satisfaction you deserve. Call Tex instead! There was a phone number and an e-mail address.

  This sounded acceptable, if a bit odd. Whatever could inside and out mean? Petr added the phrase to his notebook. There was no mention of the price, but Petr decided he could afford to indulge himself. Impulsively, he found his cell phone and punched in the number.

  “Yeah?” a bored-sounding young male voice intoned at the other end of the connection.

  “Good evening. May I speak to a gentleman named Tex?”

  “There’s a guy named Tex here, but he’s no gentleman.”

  The voice had a twang to it, and the speaker tended to draw out his words.

  “Well, may I speak to Tex, please?”

  “I’m Tex. What can I do for you?”

  “I saw your advertisement in a newspaper and I would like to know if I could arrange for a massage. Would you possibly be available tonight?”

  “Jesus, man, are you a cop? You sure sound like one, with that phony foreign accent!”

  Petr stiffened. “That’s the way I always talk. I’m from Czechoslovakia.”

  “Oh. Really? You interested in an in-call, or an out?”

  “Could you come here? To my apartment?”

  “Sure, if you’re in the city. Where are you located, guy?”

  Petr gave his address, and asked how much the gentleman charged for his services.

  “That depends on how thorough a massage you want, mister.”

  “I see. Well, I would like everything. I would prefer it if you were very thorough, and took your time. I’m very stiff tonight. The money’s really no object so long as I’m well taken care of.”

  “Jesus! Now you’re talking my language, buddy. Listen. For fifty bucks, I’ll do anything you damn well want.”

  “Fifty bucks is fifty American dollars, is it not?”

  “Yeah. I don’t take subway tokens, buddy. Fifty dollars, cash.”

  “That seems like a reasonable fee.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  Petr got undressed while waiting, and he straightened the bed. Tex evidently didn’t live too far from his own neighborhood. A mere forty minutes elapsed before the doorbell rang. Petr slipped on his bathrobe, pressed the button on the intercom, verified that it was the masseur downstairs, and buzzed him in. He padded barefoot to the front door of his apartment to let Tex in.

  He was surprised by how young and good-looking the masseur turned out to be. Tex was red-haired. His lightly tanned skin was dusted with golden freckles here and there. Petr guessed he must sunburn easily. Tex was wearing white pants and T-shirt, both slightly too small for his sturdy body, and training shoes. He had a canvas bag filled with his equipment slung over his shoulder.

  Petr was accustomed to assessing other men’s bodies at first glance, even though their clothes. He could tell that Tex had a good gym body, firmly muscled, but without the fine balance between mass and definition that a competition-minded bodybuilder such as Petr sought.

  “Howdy,” Tex drawled.

  “You must be the masseur,” Petr said.

  “I ain’t the meter reader,” Tex said. “Are you the john?”

  “The man named John? No, my name is Petr.”

  “I mean, are you the dude who called for the massage?”

  “Oh, yes. I am.”

  Tex was looking Petr up and down, and making no effort to conceal his scrutiny. “Jesus, man. Are you telling me you have to pay for it?” Tex blurted out, without disguising his obvious skepticism.

  “Yes, of course,” Petr replied, blankly. “We made an arrangement over the telephone, didn’t we?”

  “We sure did, but I didn’t know it was going to be such an enjoyable one.”

  These Americans have such a strange way of talking, such a peculiar sense of humor, and they behave so strangely, at times, Petr thought.

  “Would you like something to drink, Tex?” he asked.

  “No thanks. So you’re a bohunk, huh?”

  “What is a bohunk?”

  “That’s what we call guys who come from your country. Czechoslovakia, didn’t you say?”

  “Yes. Where do you come from? I mean, have you always lived in Los Angeles?”

  “Hell, no. I hail from Galveston. I’m just pure white trash, myself. But a lot of guys seem to like that. I think it makes ‘em feel like they’re better’n me.”

  American slang is so interesting, Petr thought. He now had two new terms to jot down in his notebook. Bohunk and pure white trash. He would have to ask Guy to explain them to him.

  Tex was still checking him out. “Man! I thought I had a pretty decent body. But you’re built like a brick shithouse.”

  “Am I? What an extraordinary expression.” Ma
ke that three new terms, Petr thought. “Thank you.”

  “Where do you work out?”

  “At Big Bodz.”

  “Oh yeah, I’ve heard about that place. It’s kind of high class, isn’t it? Too expensive for me.”

  “Yes. It is very nice. Not cheap. But it’s worth it to me. And you? Where do you work out?”

  “At a place called The Iron Pit. It’s a dump, but it’s cheap. And of course I have my set of weights at home. Like you do.” Tex gestured toward the weight bench and free weights that took up much of the floor space in Petr’s apartment.

  Petr remembered that he would be paying Tex by the hour.

  “Shall we get started?” he asked his visitor, politely.

  “You bet.” Tex flashed Petr a broad, inviting grin.

  Petr’s bed was only a few steps from the door. He shrugged off his robe and stretched out on the bed face down. “Whenever you’re ready, you may begin,” he said, punctuating the invitation with a yawn as he got comfortable.

  Tex stood there, hesitating, not moving.

  “You want a massage?” he asked.

  “Of course. What else?”

  “I mean, you want a real massage?”

  Petr was baffled. “I am sorry. I don’t understand. What other kind of a massage is there?”

  “There’re usually other things on the agenda.”

  Petr was beginning to feel impatient, and annoyed. “The agenda? I didn’t call you to set up an agenda. I called you because I wanted a massage. Are you going to give me a massage, or aren’t you?”

  Tex seemed to shed some of his cockiness. “Of course, sir. Whatever you want. I must’ve misunderstood. But you’ll see. I’ll give you just what you want. I’m sure you’ll be satisfied. My customers are always satisfied.”

  “Are they? That is admirable, if it is true. Let us proceed, then.”

  Tex stripped off his T-shirt to display his muscular torso and deep, hairy chest. He preened and flexed. But his efforts were wasted, because Petr didn’t even turn his head to look at the proffered merchandise.