I have a thing for older men but they’re usually regular-joe, ordinary-guy types. Suburban guy-next-door. That’s why I was surprised by my fascination that the new guy at the gym held on me. Tall, strapping, silver-haired muscle daddy. Maybe it was his friendly, handsome-bordering-on-cute face. Maybe it was the way he showed an interest in me, chatting with me between sets, offering me training advice. I was 25 and in good shape but I wanted to put on some muscle before summer, so gladly accepted any tips.
After he spotted me for a set, I leaned up and kneaded out the soreness, a good kind of soreness in my muscle. I made a joke about not being able to afford his hourly rate as a trainer. He gripped my shoulders and gave a quick massage. “That’s all right, big guy, maybe we can work out something else instead.”
And right then and there, I popped a bone in my workout shorts. Muscle Daddy saw and laughed. “I thought you’d be hung,” he whispered, “but Christ. You’re a goddamn mule down there, son.”
Muscle Daddy and I never learned each others’ names but we got along real well from then on out.