“He left when I was young.” Should I tell him how he had beat up Mom one night when he came home drunk? Or about how he had kicked me in the stomach when I came out of my bedroom, crying and begging for him to stop? 

I can still smell the whiskey on his breath and see the droopy eyes, the skin under them puffy and red. He’d adjust his stupid fedora, say something inaudible, spit flying from his mouth, and then kick me right in the gut.

“He’s a bad guy. I haven’t heard from him in a few years. He used to hurt my Mom and me. It’s good that he’s gone.” 

“Oh, man. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay. I mean—you know what I mean.” I force a smile, and I risk a quick glance at his beautiful pecs. That certainly helps. “Anyway, we got a job to do, right? How can I help?”

He scratches his flat stomach. “I’m focusing on legs and core. A strong core supports everything else. Strong legs will give me the stance I need to prevent Tanner from taking me down. But I need a partner for the core work.” He lays down on the mat. “Will you hold my legs down? And count for me? It’s like a crunch but with a twist. I need to do two-hundred, no excuses.”

My hands grip his ankles. He wears gray shorts and nothing else, and they’re a bit revealing. I focus on the number of crunches to try and not get physically excited.

It doesn’t help. 

He breathes hard, and the muscles in his core twitch with every rep. 

Why do I have to feel this way?

It kind of sucks, actually. Why can’t I just be a normal dude who helps out a buddy? Why can’t I be more disappointed that I bailed on Camila? Instead, I’m staring at Mateo’s beautiful, shirtless body while I hold onto his ankles. 

“How many so far?” he asks, breathing hard. 

“One-seventy,” I tell him. “Almost there. C’mon!”

“Thanks.” He grunts through the final thirty, and even his groans start to excite me. I close my eyes and count the grunts he makes—it’s torture to look at him and torture not to look at him. 

“Two-hundred!” I shout. He collapses on the floor, and I let go of his ankles to stretch out my shirt more. I can feel my physical excitement below, and my face feels like it’s on fire.

Mateo wipes himself down with a towel. Then he turns to me and asks, “How much do you weigh?”

“One-ten,” I reply. “I’m trying to gain, but no matter how much I eat, I can’t seem to gain a pound.”

“I’ve got some shake recipes that will help with that. Remind me to give them to you. Anyway, one-ten is perfect. Will you sit on my shoulders?” he asks.

“Um, what?” I choke. Mateo wipes his face with the towel, and that gives me a chance to adjust myself. I’m still semi-excited. There’s no way I can sit on his shoulders like this.

“For squats. I use the bar all the time. The bar is so balanced. A person on your shoulders challenges your balance. It’s better for training.” He smiles, flashing beautifully white teeth. How can I say no to that? “I promise I won’t drop you.”

“How many squats?”

“Until my legs give out. I’m shooting for at least one-hundred.”

“Let’s get some water first,” I suggest. Anything to give me a minute to, uh, relax.

“Yeah. Good idea.” He walks to the corner of the basement, where there’s a mini-fridge. He takes out a pitcher of water and pours some into two glasses from a shelf above it.

I drink mine faster than he does, which is surprising considering I’m not the one doing the physical work.

“Ready?” he asks.

Very casually, I rub my hands down my pants. I breathe a sigh of relief, as any noticeable excitement has retreated. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

He bends down on his knees, and motions for me. I straddle his head. Please, God. If you exist, please do not let me get a boner. I beg you.

He grips my legs and stands. “You feel heavier than one-ten,” he says with a laugh.

It’s probably the fact that I have a ton of butterflies in my stomach right now.

He squats, and my crotch rubs against the back of his head. My heart leaps into my throat. Oh my God—it’s wonderful and terrible all at once.

“Will you count for me?”

“One,” I start, my voice high and crackly. Anything to try and distract me. I close my eyes, and he continues. “Two.”

I keep counting, but my penis digs into his head. Excitement stirs in me, and I can’t help stiffen. I cough, and I picture whatever I can that would be a gross turn-off. The first thing that comes to mind is my naked grandmother. Ugh, nasty! Imagine those wrinkly, saggy boobs beating against a flabby, old belly. Maybe the belly button is hairy and full of lint. Long, gray hairs grow from her nipples. I gag at my own thoughts, but they do the trick. My physical excitement relaxes. Thank God. I don’t want to scare Mateo.

“Fourteen,” I count, my groin still banging against the back of his head. No, naked grandma may not be enough. I picture naked grandma dancing. She swings her arms, and her flabby boobs flop up and down.

“Twenty-five,” I say. Mateo grunts, and squeezes my legs harder. I’m getting excited again. I bite my tongue. I picture naked dancing grandma, and this time she calls for her counterpart—nude, dancing grandpa. He plays with her hairy nipples, and she smacks him on his butt wrinkles that look like lumpy pillows. He twirls naked grandma, and his butt wrinkles dance to the music.

I am going to make myself sick. But at least I do not have an erection.

“Sixty,” I say, and Mateo grunts louder. I can’t picture any more naked grandparents. I open my eyes and look down. Mateo’s one-hundred percent focused on getting stronger. I’m struggling for balance, my hands reaching low for his shoulders and arms. I open up my hands slightly, spreading my fingertips across his smooth but hard muscles. 

“Ninety-five. C’mon! Almost there!”

Mateo breaks one-hundred, and he does eight more. Then he falls down to his knees. 

“Get off me!” He laughs.

I roll forward, and Mateo stretches out, his face and stomach on the mat. 

“You lied to me,” he says. “You must be eight-hundred pounds.” He giggles, and it’s contagious.

I roll over to one side so I can see him better. His legs and arms stretch out fully, and he turns his head toward me. “Thanks for that. That’s exactly what I needed.”

“No prob.” It was my most uncomfortable but wonderful pleasure. 

I want to touch him again. My hand rests just inches from his. Can I risk it? Just a touch, to see how he reacts?

I move a little closer.