Okay, I admit it, I'm vain. I'm proud of my body, maintain it the way one would a vintage Harley, which I happen to own so therefore should know. I'm handsome by fate, in great shape by design. The gym is my sanctuary. It is where I seek perfection. A lot to ask for but greed is no crime, and pursuing anything less than the best, nothing but laziness.
I don't go to the gym to socialize like many of the flabby morons about me. Nor do I spend half my time flexing before mirrors peacock style. If there have been any new developments to my physique, I prefer to discover them in the privacy of my home. I simply walk in, do what needs to be done, then head out. Not even leotard clad she-devils distract me.
My work-out schedule is strict and unwavering. If I started up anything with a woman I met at the gym, avoiding her would be difficult. She could track me down consistently, screening calls or ignoring my buzzer would not suffice as blow off methods. Changing gyms would be an option I'd be reluctant to take, for I have a lifetime membership. Contrary to what you may have assumed by now, I am capable of loyalty.
Up until June, the girl and the month, I was able to comply to my rule without much difficulty. I moved about as if wearing blinders, paying nothing and no one any mind, regardless of how erotically they worked the Stairmaster. Then she introduced herself, brazenly appearing by my side as if conjured by a genie. She had a slight overbite that I found quite alluring; breasts perky as a puppy just removed from its cage in the pet store; a taut belly possessing a button I immediately longed to invade with my tongue. I briefly considered shunning her obvious lascivious intentions, but if there are men who can resist the temptation of a nubile girl in her upper teens, I believe I have made it clear by now that I am not one of them.
Over dinner I learned that June had recently completed her first year of college. I correctly guessed her age to be nineteen. She guessed my age to be eight years younger than I actually am. I told her she was right on the nose. Despite her initial zealousness, something about June's flirtation seemed strained, as if seducing me was a chore. I babbled on about my fictional career as a model until the truth finally came out.
June’s high school sweetheart had broken things off with her. His callous reason? Becoming a college student had failed to convince June that it was time to shed her virginity. She did not regret her decision, and I concurred. The guy was a political science majoring, J.F.K wannabe named Roderick. Certainly she could do better.
That is what just what she had decided to do. She didn't want future relationships with more suitable partners to be jeopardized by maintenance of her virgin status. Not to mention that she was awfully curious. So June spent the months following her break-up in search of the perfect candidate for maker of a lifelong memory. Not somebody blessed with the dumb luck of fortuitous timing, but a studiously considered, well chosen man. Other than one of her professors who turned out to be happily married, her pickings seemed slim. Unwilling to settle, after all she did only get one shot at this, she figured she had no choice but to wait it out. She joined a gym to work off some of the frustration. There she spied me. Three weeks later she worked up enough courage to make her move.
I should have known better. It takes no brain surgeon to realize that when a virgin says no strings attached, you don't take her at her word. Even Roderick was probably bright enough to know that if he had been granted permission to deflower June, he would have been promising to be in it for the long haul. There are too many beautiful young girls around with no strings whatsoever. Roderick had wisely gone off in search of them. When my turn came along, all I had to say was thanks, but no thanks. Instead I made a woman out of a girl, a mess of my life, and a major inconvenience to my work-out schedule.
It didn't take long for June to decide it was love. What else can regular sex with one partner be to a nineteen year old girl? Weights, sauna, shower, June, shower. Three times a week. By the time I decided to break the pattern, it was of course far too late.
I hate to see a woman cry. It was time for well intentioned lies and gentle truths. I told June that I was separated from my previously unmentioned wife, but she was moving back in and we would be giving our marriage another chance. I said she would find some guy her own age who would be better for her, who would make her happy. I told June I would never forget her, and I meant it.
She spent the next few weeks trying desperately to reclaim what we'd had, for the bonds of my pretend marriage were secondary to the pangs of her first major heartbreak. I was treated to a torrent of tears, hysterics, and name calling, until finally, a quiet, steady, manageable hatred for me settled in. What she lost had been voluntarily surrendered, but nevertheless, people usually feel a measure of regret when their life is unalterably changed, even when the change is for the better. I was to be forever cast in the role of slayer of innocence in the story of her life.
I too was changed by the experience, for I had been taught a valuable lesson. Never take away what you can't pay back. That's what I learned from June.
TALE CONTINUED
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