Two Weeks of Looks at the Gym and What Came After

I arrived in the United States with my family when I was sixteen, and quite a few years have passed since then. I was born in Colombia, though now New York feels more like my city than Cali does. I’m slim, calm, the kind of guy who talks little and watches a lot. And at the gym, above all, I watch.

I’ve been training at the same neighborhood gym since I turned twenty-four. It’s one of those no-frills places: old machines, music nobody chose, and long hours that make up for everything. I focus on legs and glutes, though I work my upper body too. I’m gay, and it’s not like I hide it either. What I do is train in peace, without overthinking anything.

Until Kwame arrived.

He showed up on a Tuesday in October. Dark-skinned, tall, with broad shoulders but not that exaggerated musculature some people work so hard to build. He had a good body, the kind that you can tell is natural. From the very first day I noticed him looking at me. Not discreetly, but with a direct, fixed stare, the kind that makes you look away and then look back to check whether they’re still staring. He was.

I was sending him signals too, of course. I’d move closer to the area where he trained, adjust the weight on a machine beside him, take water near him. Nothing explicit. But not neutral either.

Two weeks passed.

One afternoon, just as I was drying off the sweat before leaving, he came over and spoke to me in English. He had an accent I couldn’t identify right away, something African but softened. He asked if I came often, I said yes, he mentioned he had just moved to the neighborhood. We exchanged more words than I expected. He told me his name was Kwame, that he was thirty-two, that he was Ghanaian. We laughed about something I no longer remember. It was easy being with him.

From that day on, we always said hello. Sometimes we trained near each other. Sometimes he gave me posture tips, and I listened even though I didn’t need them. A couple of times, while I was squatting, I felt him staring at my ass without the slightest attempt to hide it. It was outlined in my shorts, and he didn’t mind that I noticed. On the contrary.

***

One Friday, when I finished my routine, he asked if he could have my contact. I gave him my Instagram account. That very night his request came in, I accepted it, and we started messaging.

At first it was casual: how the workout went, how the day was. But the conversations slowly started changing tone. He asked if I had a girlfriend. I told him no, that I liked men. There was no long pause or awkward reaction: he simply replied that up until then he had only been with women, but since seeing me at the gym he had been thinking about things he hadn’t thought about before.

I wasn’t expecting that.

He asked if I had already had experiences with men. I told him yes, that I had experience, that I knew how to suck a cock and that I knew how to take one. He answered with a short audio of a deep laugh, and a few seconds later sent me a photo without warning. It was his dick, thick, long, with prominent veins and the dark head peeking out from under the foreskin pulled back halfway. He was holding it in his hand and still had extra length to spare. I replied with a profile shot of myself, in briefs, ass pushed up toward the mirror. He wrote that since the first time he saw me training legs he had wanted to fuck me all the way and see my face.

I suggested he come to my apartment on a Saturday morning, when my neighbors are usually out.

***

I got up early. I showered calmly, cleaned myself out well with the douche, ate some fruit and had a coffee, and put on a pair of fabric pants that fit snugly on my hips, with no underwear underneath. I was nervous in a pleasant way, that mix of anticipation and adrenaline that makes everything feel more vivid. My cock got hard every time I thought about the photo he had sent me.

At eleven the doorbell rang.

I opened the door and there he was: taller than I remembered outside the gym, wearing a plain white T-shirt and a small backpack. He smelled like soap. He came in, looked around the apartment, and sat on the couch. We talked for almost half an hour about nothing in particular. He asked me about Colombia, I asked him about Ghana. I could have kept going like that for a while, but at one point he leaned toward me and put his hand on my thigh.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

And he smiled.

He started stroking my leg slowly, moving up toward my thigh and down toward my knee. Then he ran his hand over my ass with a soft, deliberate pressure, squeezing one cheek over my pants. I turned toward him and we kissed. He had thick lips and knew exactly how to use them. He pushed his tongue into my mouth without asking permission, and I let him. With his other hand he reached for my crotch and squeezed my hard cock over the fabric.

“You get hard fast,” he murmured against my mouth, in barely comprehensible Spanish.

I told him to come to the bedroom.

***

We closed the door. I took off my shirt and started pulling off my pants. He watched me without moving, arms crossed, calm. I liked that: that he wasn’t in a hurry. When the pants fell to the floor and I was naked, with my hard cock pointing up, he smiled to one side.

“Nothing underneath,” he said. “Good.”

I went to him and took off his shirt. He had a dark, firm chest, with a small scar near his collarbone. I licked his nipple and bit it slowly; he let out a breath through his nose. I undid his belt and lowered his pants. He was already semi-erect inside his underwear, and the bulge was considerable, curving to one side and outlining the shape of the head against the cotton. I put my hand over it and felt it grow beneath the fabric, throb against my palm with every breath he took.

I knelt and pulled down his underwear.

His cock sprang out heavy, hitting my chin before settling. It was exactly what the photo had promised and more. Thick, dark, with swollen veins running along the shaft and the head shining with a thick drop already beading at the tip. I took it in my hand and my fingers couldn’t quite close around it. I weighed it in my palm, feeling the dead weight of the dick there, and ran my tongue over the tip, collecting that first drop of salty precum. He let out a long exhale through his nose.

I opened my mouth and took the whole head in. Big, hot, with that clean taste of freshly showered skin and that denser undertone of an aroused man. I started sucking deeper, going down little by little, feeling my throat stretch to make room for it. I couldn’t take it all at once; the first attempts made me cough and my eyes filled with tears. He didn’t rush me. He held my hair with one hand and let me find my rhythm.

“Just like that, just like that,” he whispered. “Suck it good.”

I ran my tongue along the whole length, from the balls to the tip, then went down to suck his testicles. They were big and heavy, hanging low, and I tried to take them into my mouth one by one while looking up at him from below. I ran my tongue along the seam to the base of his cock and back up, soaking it in saliva. When I took him in again, he slid in deeper. The head touched my palate and then the back of my throat.

“God,” he said in English through clenched teeth.

He stroked my hair while I sucked him, and every so often he looked down to meet my eyes. I held the eye contact, my lips stretched around his dick, drool running down my chin and dripping onto my own balls. That was what he liked most, I noticed it from the very first moment: seeing my face while I was eating him. He started thrusting gently with his hips, fucking my mouth without roughness, until I felt his balls tighten against my chin. I had his whole cock inside me. He stayed like that for a second, touching my throat with the head, before slowly pulling out to let me breathe. A long thread of saliva hung between my lips and his glans.

After a while, he lifted me by the arms with a strength that surprised me, turned me around, and gently pushed me toward the bed. I lay face down and he spread my cheeks with his hands. I felt his tongue.

He started eating my ass with patience, without hurry, running his tongue flat from my perineum to the hole, over and over, until I was soaked through. Then he pressed the tip against my hole and started working it in, penetrating me with his tongue while he sucked around the rim. I couldn’t keep still anymore. I moaned into the pillow, with my hard cock pressed against the sheets, and without realizing it I pushed my ass toward his face. He held my hips with both hands to keep me still and kept licking me, spitting into my hole and then licking again.

“Stay still,” he said quietly, and kept going.

He slipped a finger in. It went in easily, slick with saliva. Then two. He worked them open with a scissoring motion, all while continuing to lick around me. By the time he added the third, my legs were shaking and I was begging him in Spanish to put it in me.

“Please,” I told him, “fuck me already.”

When he finally stopped, he took his backpack and pulled out a condom and some lube. I was expecting it. I got onto all fours on the bed, ass pushed up high and my face resting on my forearm. He got behind me. I heard the wrapper crinkle, the click of the tube, and then the wet sound of lubricant sliding between his fingers. He lubed up my hole well, pushing two fingers all the way in to spread it inside, and then coated his whole cock.

***

The first time I felt the head pressing against my entrance, I tensed up. It was more than I was used to. I felt it stretching me little by little, forcing the ring of muscle, and for a second I thought it wasn’t going to fit. He told me to breathe, to relax, that he was going slow.

And he did go slow. Very slow.

The head gave way with a dull tug and sank into me. A long moan escaped me, almost a whimper. He stayed still there, letting me adjust, while stroking my back. Then he started pushing the rest in, millimeter by millimeter. Every centimeter was a negotiation between pain and pleasure. I could feel the cock making its way through, pushing everything aside inside me, until his thighs were pressed against my ass and I knew he was all the way in.

“All the way in,” he murmured. “Nice and open.”

After a moment the pain began to fade, and in its place something else settled in: a deep, constant pressure that spread into my stomach and climbed up my spine. He started moving with more rhythm, pulling almost all the way out and then sinking back in at once, and I began pushing back to take him. The sound of his hips hitting my ass filled the room.

He whispered in my ear in English. I didn’t understand everything, but the tone was enough: fuck, so tight, take it all. He grabbed my hair with one hand and my shoulder with the other, and kept driving into me harder and harder.

We changed positions. I lay on my back and wrapped my legs around him, lifting them to his shoulders so he could penetrate me deeper. He slid back in with one thrust and this time there was no resistance. From there I could see him: the concentration on his face, the sweat running down his temple, the movement of his shoulders, the tendons in his neck when he pushed hard. He looked me in the eyes while he drove into me, never breaking his stare, and that turned me on too, maybe more than anything else. With one hand he squeezed my neck, not hard enough to actually choke me, just marking me. With the other he grabbed my cock and started jerking me off to the same rhythm as his thrusts.

“Look at me,” he said. “Don’t close your eyes.”

Then I got on top of him.

I straddled him and grabbed his cock at the base to position it. I lowered myself slowly until I had it all inside me. I let out my breath slowly. It felt full, dense, present, touching a spot deep inside me that made me shake. I started moving, up and down, and he put his hands on my hips to guide me, setting the rhythm. We looked at each other. We didn’t talk. I braced my hands on his chest and impaled myself on him, feeling how he opened me every time I came down. My own cock jerked against his abdomen with every bounce, leaving threads of precum on his dark skin.

We stayed like that for a good while, finding the rhythm between us, until he took control again: he held my hips and started thrusting from below, slamming into me hard, and I stayed still on top, taking it. Then he turned me, put me face down, and crushed me against the mattress with all the weight of his body. He spread my legs apart with his knees and buried himself in me again, pushing harder, his chest pressed to my back and his mouth against my neck. By then I wasn’t thinking about anything. I only heard the wet sound of our bodies, the slap of his balls against mine, and my own moans, which I wasn’t even trying to control anymore.

“I’m about to cum,” he said, voice tight. “I’m close.”

“Inside,” I told him. “Cum inside.”

He tensed, pushed two, three more times, all the way in, and on the last one he sank in completely and stayed there. I felt his cock throbbing inside me, each pulse spilling semen against the condom wall, and that deep warmth you can’t really put into words. He grunted against the back of my neck, teeth clenched. He kept moving for a few more seconds, slowly milking himself inside me, until he stopped completely. I came underneath him, against the sheets, without even touching myself, just from the pressure of having him all the way inside.

He stayed still on top of me, his cock still hard and buried. Both of us breathing hard. When he finally pulled out, slowly, I felt the emptiness all at once and a warm trickle run down my thigh. He took off the condom, knotted and full, and set it aside.

***

Afterward he showered in my bathroom. I stayed on the bed staring at the ceiling for a few minutes, not moving, my ass throbbing and my legs still open. I heard the water running, I heard when it shut off, I heard him getting dressed.

He came out of the bathroom drying his neck with the towel, with the same calm he had arrived with.

“You okay?” he asked me.

“Very good,” I told him.

He smiled. He put on his shoes, picked up his backpack, and I walked him to the door. We gave each other a quick kiss before he left. I locked the door and went to shower.

The hot water on my back, my body still sensitive, my ass still open, the apartment silent. I thought it had been worth every week of looks at the gym, every ambiguous message, every signal thrown into the air without knowing whether it would land anywhere.

It had landed.

Kwame and I saw each other a few more times after that Saturday. It was never anything more than that: uncomplicated hookups, no expectations, no drama. But that first time will always have a special place. It was the first time with someone like that, and it made a difference I hadn’t anticipated.

If you liked the story, I have other stories to tell.