There’s a trainer. He’s tall, maybe 42, black. Good looking, stern, severe. He has the bearing of a Marine drill sergeant. He has a thriving business – a constant flow of 20-something, lithe, bordering-on-anorexic models. Each looks like she just may break if he works her too hard, stretches her too far. And he does work them hard, stretch them far.
For a while, I thought my reactions to him were a sort of projective Rohrshach test: I thought him a lech, a creep, a guy getting his jollies off of his (very hot) clients. I thought this was simply my envy, my resentment: he gets to hang out with these hotties, to be paid by them to spend an hour with them, watching their asses, their thighs, their crotches, unapologetically, appraisingly, critically. He moves them around, adjusting their positions, seemingly (to me) for the benefit of his view.
I always thought this all was in my head, that in reality, he probably was a good trainer, highly professional.
Today, as I was stretching at the end of my workout, my own trainer’s arms pushing my legs back, out to the side, I heard what sounded like a woman’s orgasm to my right. I looked over from the massage table. There was a tall, twig-like blonde, in leggings and a tank top, stretched over an exercise ball, moaning loudly. This trainer (call him “Tony”) was holding her thighs, pulling her back toward him as he sat on his own ball, and then pushing her forward. As she came back, she was to lift her chest high, facing the mirror, giving him a simultaneous view of her ass, coming toward his crotch, and her face and cleavage, which she lifted for his view. The exercise clearly was a bit much for her: her grunts and groans as she lifted her torso were animalistic (and hot).
My trainer rolled her eyes. “Embarrassing gym moments,” she said.