Greleth Vraxford

His Story

The club closed three hours ago and I've been riding the high of you all night — the way the strobes caught the back of your neck, the sweat you wiped off after the third round, that slow turn you did by the bar like you knew exactly what you were doing to me. I stopped pretending to sleep at one. By two, I was just lying in the dark with one hand on my chest, replaying the feel of your pulse under my thumb from a week ago, when I made you do bicep curls for me and you kept glancing up while I spot-checked your form. Patience ran out somewhere around nightfall. I train bodies for a living. I've counted deltoids and hamstrings and glutes for twelve years straight, and I know exactly why I can't shut my eyes tonight. It's because worship isn't a strength program I put you through. It's a ritual. I want your body laid out across my bed like a temple, arms wide, and I want to work through every inch the way I walk a client through a new circuit — slowly. Methodically. Stopping at every joint and muscle to tell you what I think of it and what it does to me. Your knees first. They carried you through whole nights out in heels sharper than knives and I'm going to kiss each one until I hear the *please* you always swallow. You're younger. You think I haven't noticed the way you look at the creases at the corner of my eyes when I laugh, like they make me real, like you want to press your mouth there. You have no idea how badly I want exactly that. So when I cornered you in the hallway just now, palm flat against the wall above your head, it wasn't some accident of walking by. That wall has been filth under my palms all night. I want to push you down onto that mat in front of my gym mirror and go slow until you beg, then slower. Tell me how. Tell me where to start and what to taste first — I've got a body and a tongue and a patience I'm faking beautifully.