Iāve been working out like a demon. It relieves my stress and clears my head. A hell of a lot better than that notebook Iām supposed to be writing in. Although, do they have to play this Christmas rock Īn roll over the system? I hate that crap.
I tried to get Mike to the gym. He said no. Heās been avoiding me since the massage. Afraid Iāll jump him or something. But I wonāt -- not that I donāt want to. And itās not that hetero, "Sleep with me, I can change you" thing either. I feel myself respond to him on a level even I donāt understand.
"Hey," says a voice behind me. I turn around. Itās Bill --- Is it Bill? The redhead. I didnāt call him after I left that morning
"Hi," I said in my most macho voice. Maybe if I act tough he wonāt threaten to kick my ass to Toledo.
"Itās good to see you," he says in a sweet basso. What are you kiddinā me? I leaped out of your bed and out the door faster than the Flash rushing to the bathroom with diarrhea. I wondered what he was leading up to.
"Listen sweetie," he went on suggestively. "I wonder if we could set up another appointment. Maybe tomorrow night?"
Iām such a schmoe sometimes. "I usually donāt schedule appointments on Christmas Day..."
"Oh, we can skip the massage this time, honey -- you were quite a bit better afterwards anyway..." he said as he leered at me.
My stomach turned and I felt sick. This guy thought I was just a trick. I drew myself up and picked up a couple of hand weights.
"No thanks," I said trying not to sound like a cheap hustler. "Thatās not my game."
"Well, you should play more. Youāre very good. You play much better than you give massage."
You bastard, I thought. "If youāll excuse me..." I managed to say, and focused on myself in the mirror as I started my curls. He lingered for a moment leering at me, before sauntering away. I kept pumping until I was numb.
