7. PAUL

Sharing a one-bedroom apartment in London? I don’t know if you would call Jack rich, but clearly, he was very, very far from poor. He could have afforded to rent us two apartments, I guessed, but was he such a guy’s guy that he did not even imagine the possibility of any awkwardness? It wouldn’t even have occurred to him, no doubt, that there could be any awkwardness, any kind of tension.

Maybe this was, to him, a post-divorce version of a spring break trip – or perhaps I was overthinking this, and guys’ guys didn’t overthink anything at all! Maybe we really were two new buds sharing an apartment on a foreign work trip. Which I guess was …precisely what we were.

The prospect of spending extended time in such proximity with him left me nervous but excited too. What would it be like being close to Jack for so long? His commanding figure, tall and imposing, masculine, muscular, his confidence yet up against his ease and likability: how would it feel rubbing up close to him day after day?

Of course, I was attracted to Jack. The idea of sharing such close quarters with someone from work was daunting to start with, but with my tall, sexy boss, who seemed like a really nice guy?

But also I began to wonder, would we step on each other’s toes, figuratively or even literally, two grown men sharing an apartment? Would our professional dynamic blur or be affected?

We were still boss and employee, no matter what a nice guy Jack might be.

***

I was not exactly a gym bunny, but I decided to head over to the place where I go, near my apartment, to work off some steam. Besides, they say it’s good to do a workout before you take a long flight.

The main workout room was bustling. A renewed sense of energy surged into me, thanks to the rhythm of the weights and machines and thumping dance music. The air was ripe with the scent of sweat, but it was also charged with the determination of the gymgoers’ exertion.

Passing through the long corridors of equipment, I made my way to the locker room at the far end to get changed. Once inside, I got my gym gear out of my sports bag and laid it on the benches. I quickly stripped off my street clothes and changed into my shorts and tank top, then slipped on my track shoes.

Emerging from the locker room, I went over to the rowing machine. I settled into the seat, my hands gripping the handles and starting to pull back. I had earbuds and listened to a podcast, the perfect way to distract you from the inherent boredom of rowing. With each stroke, I felt the burn of the exertion shooting through my legs and arms, quickly hitting the rhythm I needed to get a sweat going.

After thirty minutes of cardio, I wiped down the rower and went over to the pull-down machine. I looked at each of the twenty-pound weights. How many could I realistically add – and move? I came to the gym when I could, but my body stayed so boyish, even now that I was almost thirty. My belly didn’t have a scrap of fat, which was good, I supposed, but I could stay in the weights section for a whole week and not add an inch to my chest.

At one point, I thought of my body compared to Jack’s; he was so tall and broad, and I was much smaller and slimmer. I wondered what he did to keep himself looking so fit and strong. I bet he was the king of the pull-down machine, whereas I, after three pretty light sets, felt like my ribs were breaking.

Next up was squats, getting my thighs and butt going. With each move, the power of my muscles seemed to surge through me, pushing up from the bottom of my body, and that made me feel strong.

I moved my body up and down, squatting low, my butt almost touching the ground as I moved up and down. As I immersed myself in those, the world around me faded, replaced by the focus of the exercise.

The music pulsed through me, a rhythm building as I pushed my butt up and down with the weight of the barbell across my back. I worked up quite a sweat until I was ready to hit the showers.

As I stepped back into the locker room, I saw a bunch of other guys in their twenties and thirties, either toweling off or getting ready to head inside to their workouts.

Surrounded by all this male energy, I pulled off my shoes and then stripped out of my sweat-soaked shorts and vest. The air hit my naked body. There was a weird liberation standing there, completely nude.

I noticed one guy and then another let their eyes run over my body. One was a tall, handsome black guy, and another had a silver-fox daddy quality, although he was probably barely forty. Their eyes seemed hungry as they looked at me.

I admit it was thrilling. I could feel the hunger of others’ stares on me, their eyes tracing the contours of my body, my slim waist, my hard, wiry form.

A moment of temptation lingered in the air. But then the guys looked away. They continued changing. I felt a bit embarrassed, having fantasized something that wasn’t really there. So I tore myself away from the moment. I hastily dressed, gathered my belongings, and left. I had to get into the office, to Jack, and to go with him to London.