I don’t go to a gay gym. I mean, gyms tend to be ‘gay’, but I don’t go to one that specifically caters for men who like Christina a little bit too much. No, they are called ‘Chariots’. Or ‘Virgin Active’. I get confused.

So anyway, when there is a hot boy in the gym I try not to look too much, because chances are they will be straight and might kill me with a free-weight.

Anyway, there was a hot boy in there the other day. I first spotted him as I was on the cycling machine thing, and he was on the running machine thing, and he had great legs and a perfectly sculpted bottom. And arms. I am an arms man. He had arms. I like arms. His were good. Did I mention he had good arms?

He had good arms.

Anyway, I stole a couple of glances as I was trying to pull too heavy a weight on the lats training thing. And I noticed we caught each others’ glance a couple of times.

I went to do some back stretches (laying on my front) in order to hide the growing erection emerging in my baggy sweat-pants (jogging bottoms, I think we call them over here).

An hour later, cut to the changing rooms. I have just finished my steam and shower and am fishing clothes out of my locker, when he walks in and opens the door to his compartment (giggles) which is only a couple down from mine. He looks at me again. And then very carefully starts taking things out of his locker. Coat. Book bag. Jeans. Gym bag. Prowler bag.

Prowler bag?

He holds this infront of me just long enough for it to be obvious that he is DEMONSTRATING his homosexuality. He then wanders off into the showers and gives me a cheeky wink.

I hope he is there again next week.

Arms.