The Love of My Life--for the month of June

There's this guy....

There's this guy at the gym. I heard his pint-sized, tight-bodied partner use his name once, but I can't recall it now. Although he has been a regular attendee to Bally's Total Fitness for several years, the condition of his titanic physique provides ample evidence that he has been lifting Buicks since he was able to walk. He is approximately 6' 4", naturally blonde, and conservatively tattooed with a tasteful band around one upper arm.

Since I'm near-sighted and exercise without corrective lenses, my Teutonic Übermensch bears a vague resemblance to porn performer Blade Thompson (see photo), except with better proportion and more definition. They share that corn-fed farm boy look that says, "Breed first. Ask questions later." Do they share equivalent endowment? He should be so lucky. I'll never know, so I'm free to imagine something huge, unstoppable, and terrifying...like Christmas. I picture something so enormous that it affects the tides. I visualize something grown thick and heavy with arousal, pounding audibly with his blood and shaking the earth with its tribal vibrations like a nineteen-year-old boy's Camaro.

From a distance, I would always watch for the blurry shapes and colors of his favorite workout uniform. More often than not, he preferred to lift dressed in a pair of tight blue jeans and what appeared to be the image of a red T-shirt spray-painted onto his magnificent torso. I assume that he didn't own five red T-shirts, so by the end of the week, he probably propped the filthy, tomato-red thing in the corner of his bedroom. The garment would sit there, warm and stinking like a used condom, satisfied to be stretched in the service of a superior specimen of the human male.

Last autumn, he went through a phase during which he updated his wardrobe and depilated his upper body. His neon green string tank top made quite an impression from 50 feet away; however, at that time a tank top was not the best choice, because it exposed the acne-ravaged skin on his back and triceps. But that's why God made dark. During this period I also noticed the dandruff he left behind in the wet, circular indentation his head made into the vinyl-covered benches. That's why men made paper towels.

A new year brought a new look. Instead of willfully maintaining a hairstyle known as the "Michael Bolton Problem"-very long hair in the back, not enough hair on top-he cut it all off. My personal Zeus now keeps it trimmed to a militaristic fuzziness. He typically alternates between two new, less constrictive T-shirts. One week is spent in a hypnotically vibrant light purple (my personal favorite); the next week he lifts in gray with the word "Lifeguard" screen-printed on his back.

"Hey, buddy! In case you haven't noticed, I'm drowning over here! One-two-three! Last chance! Glub-glub-glub!" I can't wait for the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Bally's does have a pool....

Until recently I wasn't sure if he continued to keep his chest smooth. A few days ago we happened to go for water at the same time. He reached the fountain first. As he straightened he scratched his sternum, pulling his submissive T-shirt taut across one of his perfect pectorals and calling my attention to a delightfully firm nipple. In that spellbinding moment I saw nothing resembling the crisp, defiant curls of body hair disrupting the surface of the fabric. After my drink, I had to sit down.

My curiosity was satisfied on Saturday May 15. Something compelled me to wear my glasses during my workout; I guess I was tired of lusting for blurs. He pumped in a new peach-colored string tank top draped over a new growth of fur caressing his chest (now, is that fair?). Mild sunburn has helped to smooth out the complexion on his back. I summoned the courage to look at him directly, and to offer a breezy "Hi." He responded with a neutral grunt!

I'm in! Call me "Paris," Mr. Master Race, and proceed with the invasion!

Ranking (9.0-10): 9.3
(bonus points for blonde hair, shoulder width, and straight male cluelessness)

Dollar value of an intimate encounter ($200.00-$1,000.00): $800
(without a button-down shirt to cover his back, $300)

Dollar value of voice ($20.00 per hour spent reading to me): $60.00, assuming he can read.

Potential for domestic violence (0=make love, not war; 10=dial 911 now!): 8

Just so you know, this prose is only so much smoke and mirrors, a sensuous fantasy to conceal other genuine objects of my unrequited affection, and thus maintain some whisper of dignity.

For additional observations about life in Charlotte for single gay men, see the One-Man Show.

The Love of My Life--for the month of July

No Love of My Life for the Month of August

The Love of My Life--for the month of September

Lobby/Permanent Collection/Temporary Exhibit
The Tim Kramer Memorial Auditorium/Topiary Maze
Wellbutrin Cafe/Gift Shop
Audio Guide