by Carl Weber
It never failed that whenever I ran into old classmates at the restaurant or something, they’d have this look on their face as if to say, “Girl, what happened to you?”
If any of them had been bold enough to ask out loud, my answer would have been simple: “Life happened.”
At five feet four inches, I now weighed almost 220 pounds. When I was in the department store trying on clothes a few months ago and had to go from buying size sixteens to my first size eighteen, I knew then that I had to make a change. I didn’t mind being curvy, but I knew I was becoming unhealthy. My doctor had even informed me that I was borderline diabetic, but I still hadn’t made time to change my habits. I’d been trying to work the gym into my schedule for the past six months, but it just never made it to the top of my priorities.
I’d decided that having a personal trainer might motivate me to work out more regularly, so here I was, going into LA Fitness for my first session.
I stepped up to the front desk, feeling a little nervous. “I have an appointment with Isaac Butler,” I said to the man behind the counter, who was buff as hell. Looking at my figure, you could tell that I practically lived in a restaurant, and looking at him, I guessed that he pretty much lived in the gym. Lord have mercy, I wouldn’t mind having someone like him working me out!
That’s when it hit me. What if he was Isaac? He would probably think I was some kind of pig. Now a woman, she’d be able to empathize. Almost every woman has dealt with the weight fluctuation issue at some point in her life, but a man like this with his bionic metabolism could never understand. Why hadn’t I hired a female trainer?
“Isaac is—” the man behind the counter started, but then a voice behind me finished.
“Right here.”
I turned around to face the beautiful man whose cut muscles were visible even through his spandex workout gear.
“Hey, don’t I know you?” he said, extending his hand to me. “I’m Isaac.”
I looked him in the face as I shook the hand of this strangely familiar man.
“You don’t have a better line than that, man?” joked the gentleman behind the counter before the phone rang and he took the call.
Isaac chuckled. “Oh, snap, that probably did sound like a line.” He smiled, and I promise you little sparkles and ding sounds shot from his mouth like on a cartoon. I’d never seen such a perfect smile in all my days. Actually I had, and that’s when it dawned on me where he might have known me from.
“The restaurant,” I said, snapping my finger.
“Long’s,” he replied.
“Yep,” I confirmed. I looked down and realized that I was still shaking this man’s hand. I quickly pulled it away. I didn’t want him to think I was trying to flirt or be touching all on him or anything.
“See, it wasn’t a line,” he said. “I knew I knew you from somewhere. I never forget a face.”
“I’m not good at remembering faces, but I never forget a good tipper.” I winked, trying not to focus too much on that beautiful smile of his.
Like me, he looked to be in his twenties. If I recalled correctly, he usually wore glasses, but today he didn’t have any on. That smile of his stole the shine from all of his other features anyway.
“You’re Jamela, right?” he said.
“Right.”
“I know that not only because I have an appointment with a Jamela scheduled for now, but I remember it from seeing your nametag at the restaurant.” He stared at me for a moment. I looked downward, feeling slightly awkward. “Oh, I’m sorry, I was just realizing that this was the first time I’d seen you with your hair down. It’s beautiful. Glad to know that you’re not one of those women who’s afraid to sweat her hair out.” He smiled, then as quickly as the smile had appeared on his face, it disappeared. “Oh, umm, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant . . .” He scrambled around for words.
I put my hand up. “It’s okay. I knew what you meant.” I ran my hand down my hair. I was shocked that he’d paid close enough attention to me to know the way I normally wore my hair. I usually kept it pulled back in a bushy ponytail. The only reason it wasn’t pulled back today was because I couldn’t find a scrunchie within my messy room. I didn’t particularly like to walk around with a ponytail all the time. It’s just that I didn’t have time to fix myself up in the morning before I headed out to start my extremely busy day.
“So, what brings you here today?” he asked, changing the subject before things got any more awkward.
“Well, I need to get healthy. My dad had a stroke a few years ago, and I know I need to start taking care of myself so I can be there to take care of him,” I explained.
“I’m sorry to hear about your dad,” he said. “But sometimes it takes things like that to give us a wake-up call.”
I nodded, forcing myself not to get emotional. Even three years later, I still got teary-eyed whenever I thought about my dad.
Isaac must have sensed my emotions needed a pick-me-up, because he sounded extra cheerful when he clapped his hands together and anounced, “Well, shall we get started?” I appreciated that he was trying to keep thing upbeat for me. I was already nervous enough about working out in front of his fine self.
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” I said.
“Good. Then let’s get to work. Follow me.”
I can’t believe that all the times this guy came into the restaurant, and I never once noticed that ass before, I thought as I watched him walk in front of me. All of a sudden, I felt self-conscious about the fact that I hadn’t bothered to put on any makeup. I didn’t wear that much to begin with—usually just eyeliner, mascara, and a little lip gloss—but I would have felt more confident around this fine man if I had some on now.
He stopped in front of an area full of paddded flooring and turned around to look at me. If he’d caught me staring at his ass, he didn’t comment. As good-looking as he was, he was probably used to it from all of his female clients.
“Let’s start here with some stretches,” he said.
“Cool.” I looked around for a place to put my gym bag.
“Here I’ll take it for now,” he offered, extending his hand. “When I give you your five-minute water break, I’ll show you where the locker room is.”
I nodded and smiled even though inside I was thinking, A five-minute break? I signed up for a full hour. A sister is only going to get one break?
Not wanting to complain and whine when I hadn’t even done a leg lift yet, I just sat on the mat waiting for further instructions.
It just so happened that since I was sitting and he was standing, his package was right there in my face. Now, that might have been the biggest muscle of them all. Brother was packin’ for real, so much so that I had a quick mental fantasy of me unwrapping it. I felt a tingling between my legs and the little jerk of my thighs tightening in an effort to keep the juices from flowing. How in the hell was I going to be able to lose weight if I lost my mind daydreaming about the Black Captain America? And why did I have to take note of everything about this fine specimen of a man right now?
I wondered why I had never noticed him in such detail before. I supposed he had been nothing more than a backdrop in my busy day. My life moved so fast that most of it was a complete blur, but I could definitely see clearly now—and it went without saying that Isaac was very easy on the eyes.
“Before we get started, let me just say that I’m glad to be working with you. It’s truly an honor.”
“Same here,” I replied.
He squatted down. “Yeah, you say that now, but trust me, in an hour you’ll hate my guts.” He winked and then stood up before he proceeded to instruct me on stretching out. This stretch thing went on for about ten minutes, and by the time I was done, I honestly felt as though I didn’t need fifty more. That shit felt like a workout in itself. A chick was sweating like she’d already done an hour on the treadmill.
“Here you go.” He handed me a towel.
I took it and wip
ed the sweat off my forehead.
“Why don’t you go ahead and take a break before we really get started?” He stood to the side of the mat. “I’ll show you to the women’s locker room. Grab a drink and I’ll be outside of the locker room waiting on you. Sound like a plan?”
I could only nod. I needed to save every last freaking breath.
He extended his hand and assisted me up from the mat by pulling me up. I thought for certain with all this body-body it would have taken him two hands and someone to spot him, but he pulled me up with one hand like I was a rag doll. Very impressive. I was impressed with myself as well for not taking a moment to visualize him lifting me up in the air with that one hand while I rode him.
I brushed my bottom off as I strolled behind him to the locker room. I noticed how most of the other women in the gym were a size two or four. What the hell were they doing here? If they lost another ounce they’d be invisible! And I didn’t want to hear any of the BS about maintaining. Once I attended the gym long enough where I had lost some weight, I was going to suggest a new gym rule: thick girls only . . . and fine-ass men!
As I entered the locker room, one of those skinny girls stopped to talk to Isaac. He’d probably forget all about me even being in the locker room and run off to chat it up with her, I thought. This was why I never came out and did anything. This was why I stayed in my own element, oblivious to all that was going on around me. L.A. and Hollywood were where the beautiful people lived . . . the thin, beautiful people.
I looked at myself from the side as I stood in front of the long mirror in the locker room. Ugh. I felt like the damn duck who’d seen his reflection for the very first time and discovered that he was nowhere near a beautiful swan. New rule number two: no fucking mirrors!
Now feeling like the big ol’ cow Glendora made it sound like I was, I tried to suck in my stomach. That didn’t make much difference. There wasn’t that much sucking in the world. I thought about how my stepmother was turning into an old hag by the day, even though she was fighting it tooth and nail. But there was still one thing she had over me: her figure. How did I let my sorry-butt stepmother end up looking better than me? At least she didn’t look better than me in the face though. Ugh, did I just justify what skinny people think is a compliment to big girls? “You have a cute face though.”
But in Glendora’s case, I did look better than her. In her effort to fight Father Time, she looked like she’d gone under the knife. Her facial skin looked tighter and kind of strange if you asked me. Talk about cosmetic surgery gone wrong. She definitely thought more highly of herself than she ought to, so I don’t even know what made her want to get plastic surgery. It surely wasn’t to look good for her husband.
Ever since my father’s stroke, she barely spent time with him, because she was too busy spending his money. Being that she was a CNA when they met, one would think she’d be taking great care of him, but when he came home, she wouldn’t even help him feed himself.
Glendora’s tired ass didn’t care if my dad lay in his own shitty diaper all day. One time not long after his stroke, I had come home from school and found him in a soiled bed. From that day on, I took over. I’ll never forget the stench that assaulted my nose when I walked through his bedroom door. I knew right away that Glendora was waiting for me to come home to change him. God only knows how long he’d been lying in his own mess. I just knew that it would never happen again. Not under my watch.
Over the years, I had basically just let Glendora be Glendora, not calling her on her mess. Still, seeing the way she treated my father, or wasn’t treating him, pissed me off to no end. One day I confronted her about the lack of care he was receiving. It was supposed to be a hint for her to act like a wife and take care of her husband; instead, it resulted in her agreeing to allow me to hire two nurses. Well, at least something good had come from the conversation.
I tried to get some help from the government to pay for his home healthcare, but because of his businesses, he didn’t qualify for anything. When I told Glendora how much we would have to pay for the help, she did two things. First she flipped out about the cost, and then she tried to distance herself from any responsibility. Selfish as she was, her biggest concern was that if something happened to Daddy or to the restaurants, the healthcare workers would come after her for their money. “I don’t want them bitches coming after me for payments for them wiping your father’s ass,” she had told me.
So, to my surprise, she came up with the idea of giving me limited power of attorney over some of Daddy’s affairs. She got a lawyer to draw up paperwork that basically gave me the right to make decisions concerning his healthcare, including the hiring and payment of health workers. She said it was only temporary, until everything was in order, but I knew there was no chance in hell she was going to ever choose to take over the responsibility once she’d thrown it on me. As long as she continued to have money to live her fabulous lifestyle, she couldn’t care less what was happening to Daddy.
So, Glendora continued prancing around like everything was kosher. She continued attending all types of fancy charity events. What’s that saying about charity starts at home? Ha! She missed that memo. She had the entire community thinking that she was the caring wife when underneath it all she was pure evil.
Another skinny chick brushed past me as I stared at my reflection in the mirror, pulling me away from the thoughts of my wicked stepmother. I remembered fine-ass Isaac was waiting for my outside the locker room, so I grabbed a drink from the fountain, stashed my bag in a locker, and went back out to meet him.
“Did you get all squared away?” he asked.
“I sure did,” I told him.
“Good. Now we can really get it in.”
Isaac worked me into a sweat on everything from the elliptical to weights. I wound up bicycling almost ten minutes near the end of the hour workout. I know that might not sound like a lot, but the bike didn’t have no damn seat for me to sit on. Last but not least, we finished the same way we had started. I was on the mat doing a cool down.
“You did good today,” Isaac said as he sat in front of me, pulling my arms to help me stretch. He was looking me dead in my eyes.
It took everything in me not to blush when I said the words, “Thank you.” Him holding my hands and pulling me toward him as he stretched me out made me feel a certain kind of way. I know he was just doing his job, but tell my feelings that.
As much as I was enjoying the way he looked into my eyes, I was sure without a doubt that this was one-sided. He’d probably already made plans to meet up with the Little Miss Size Two that he was talking to when I went into the locker room. I bet when he looked at her he thought of sex; when he looked at me, he probably thought of fried chicken, collard greens, and candied yams.
“We’re all done,” Isaac said, getting up and then helping me into a standing position as well. “I hope I didn’t scare you off.”
“Not at all,” I told him. “I committed to the gym special of three months, three times a week for thirty dollars a week, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” he said proudly. “Dedication.”
On that note we said our good-byes and I headed back to the women’s locker room. I showered, the entire time thinking about the way Isaac touched me—holding my hands when we were stretching, resting his hands on my waist to help me twist, or touching areas of my body to show where I should be “feeling the burn.” Before I knew it, I was touching myself, imagining that it was Isaac’s hand between my legs and not my own. I trembled as the juices flowed down my leg and into the shower drain. This was the first time I’d ever cum where and when I wanted to—where I wasn’t ashamed that it felt good to do it. I felt so good after this physical release that I refused to let my mind go to that shameful place it usually traveled to whenever I thought of sex. I quickly got dressed and headed out of the gym, wanting to hold on to the good feelings for as long as I could.
Sitting in my
car outside of the gym, I felt fresh and renewed. As I started the ignition, I heard a faint beep. It was the notification that I’d just received a text. I unzipped my gym bag and pulled out my phone to read the message: I usually don’t mix business with pleasure, but since I eat at your restaurant anyway, I was just wondering if you would join me.
Initially I was a little confused. I didn’t recognize the number. That’s when I got a second text message: BTW, this is Isaac.
I thought I was going to die. Had this man just really asked me out, or was someone playing a cruel joke on me? For a minute I wondered how he’d gotten my number, but duh! I had to give all that information when I signed up for the trainer, in case he needed to get in touch with me. Well, thank the Lord he’d decided to reach out and touch me.
I was excited for about all of one minute as I considered whether to text him back. As I sat in my car and watched all the fit, pretty girls coming out of the gym after their workouts, I started doubting myself. What if Isaac was just trying to be nice to a new client? Or what if he was only looking for free meals at the restaurant? I’d heard somewhere, or maybe read it on the internet, that male personal trainers are only one step removed from gigolos. They sleep with half of their clients, so even if he was really hitting on me, maybe it was just to add another notch to his dumbells. I wasn’t that type of girl. And even if I was, I had nothing left to give. It had been hard enough squeezing him in for business; pleasure was out of the question.
With that final thought, I began my reply to his text: Thank you but I don’t think
The rapping on the window not only halted my fingers from declining Isaac’s invitation, but it had scared the shit out of me. With my heart pounding, I looked up to see Isaac’s face at my window.
“Sorry,” I could hear him say through the glass, raising his hands up in defense.
I leveled my breathing, then rolled down the window.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologized again. “It’s just that the more I thought about it, the more I regretted sending you that text.”