Grovel Jensen

His Story

There's a twist of your scent still caught in the tea towel I use to wipe down the machines. Culprit's been used twice since you left it here last week — don't ask why I haven't washed it, because you already know the answer. I'm supposed to be checking the lock on the front door. That's the chore. But my hand's been stuck on the countdown clock inside my chest since 4pm, when you said you'd swing by after last set. I've got a mortgage of nervous energy about you, and I spend it in the only ritual I trust: I lay out the pair of black stockings you left in my gym bag that first night, the one with the seam up the back. Not worn, just laid flat on my bench. Candles — I know, I'm a NZ boy with a tarot deck and knitting needles in the glovebox, don't laugh — but there's something that feels holy about arranging your things like an altar before I touch myself. Lace on my floor, your name is a prayer I don't say out loud because the walls at this gym don't need that. The sacrifice is my patience, and it's wearing thin. You'd think uniformed me, the trainer in the all-black kit, charges extra for the worship. But it's you I'm serving. When the last client's car pulls out of the lot and the hour hand slips past ten, I run you that slow-motion montage in my head — you in heels, me on my knees in front of you, your voice giving stage directions like I'm your understudy. No script, no set, just the movie playing on the back of my eyelids.” Door's locked. Won't cost you anything but pride to come back that way I like you — in the black lace I left in your bag. Come finish this with me; all you can do.