The Young Man at the Gym Who Made Me Feel Alive Again

At eight in the morning, when the rest of the world is still clinging to the sheets like shipwreck survivors to a plank, I’ve already spent fifteen minutes sweating in the town’s municipal gym. It’s not that I’m a masochist—well, not entirely—it’s just that I’ve discovered getting up early has its advantages. For example, using the machines without queuing behind twenty-somethings with more muscle than brains.

Our town’s gym is exactly what you’d expect from a sports facility in a commuter town twenty minutes from Seville: functional, cheap, and ventilated like a cave. But it still has something modern gyms in the capital have lost: intimacy.

And the most… interesting advantage is called Bruno.

Bruno, with the gray-blue eyes, Bruno, with the shy smile, Bruno, with the body that looks as though Rodin sculpted it in his best years. At sixty-one I thought I’d seen it all, but this thirty-eight-year-old man is proving to me that life always keeps surprises in store for those who know how to look for them.

—Good morning, Charo —he greets me that Friday morning, as he has every morning for the past three weeks.

—Good morning, Bruno —I reply, pretending that adjusting the treadmill requires all my concentration.

What a waste, I think as he heads over to the weights. With that body he could be in a magazine, and here he is, sweating in this dive that smells of disinfectant.

I get on the treadmill and start my routine, but my eyes keep drifting to the mirrors. At first it’s to look at myself, because I admit I like what I see: the blunt cut frames my face well, and although my brown hair has gone more gray than anything else, it gives me a look that suits me. At sixty-one I still have a body that can compete with women twenty years younger, and these leggings prove the hours in the gym haven’t been wasted.

Not bad, Charo. Not bad for a divorced grandmother.

After that little moment of self-satisfaction, my eyes drift toward the real show: Bruno every time he lifts those weights, his muscles tightening under his sweaty T-shirt as if they were the eighth wonder of the world.

Oh, Charo, you’re acting like a fifteen-year-old. Though… what’s wrong with that? At my age I’ve earned the right to drool a little.

***

Over the following weeks, our conversations evolve from polite “good mornings” to longer chats about the weather, the gym, and, little by little, life.

—Do you come every morning? —he asks me one Tuesday, while I pretend to stretch next to the weights area.

He’s there, less than two meters away, in a soaked sleeveless shirt that clings to his torso like a second skin. And what a torso. The muscles in his arms stand out while he adjusts the dumbbells, and the black shorts leave absolutely nothing to the imagination… and I, who thought my imagination had already retired, discover it’s still working at full capacity.

—Faithfully —I answer, arching my back more than strictly necessary—. It’s my zen moment. Though I admit the scenery has improved a lot lately.

Bruno blushes like a teenager caught with a compromising magazine, but not before his eyes make an involuntary pass over my legs, spread in a V on the mat. The gray lycra pants I’m wearing leave nothing to the imagination, and I know it perfectly well. In fact, I put them on for exactly that reason this morning.

His eyes stop exactly where I expected. Only a second, maybe two, but enough for both of us to be aware of what just happened. Then he looks away abruptly, as if he’d touched something hot, and that adorable blush climbs up his neck to his ears.

Aha. Still got the arsenal working, Charo. And from the face he’s made, I’d say it’s working very well.

***

One Thursday morning, while I’m doing glute kickbacks—on all fours, lifting my straight leg back—I notice Bruno watching me through the mirror. Not blatantly, but with those furtive glances men think are imperceptible and women have detected since the Pleistocene.

I’ve positioned myself strategically with my back to him, pretending I need this corner for my routine. With each lift, the lycra tightens over my ass, and in the reflection I can clearly see Bruno’s head following the up-and-down movement of my leg.

Up… and his chin rises. Down… and it drops again. It’s as if he’s hypnotized by the sway of my backside, which, I must admit, still looks quite respectable after sixty-one years and two births.

I do the repetitions slower than usual, arching my back a little more. If he’s going to look, the least he can do is get a show worth watching.

***

It’s a quiet afternoon when everything changes. The gym is almost empty: only Bruno and I are there, plus Paco the manager, who’s snuck off to smoke his six o’clock cigarette. I decide it’s the perfect moment for some… advanced stretching in the adjoining room.

—Do you mind if I use the stretching room? —I ask him with my most innocent smile.

—Sure, I was going to do some yoga too —he answers, and by the way the muscles in his neck tense, I know he’s lying more than a politician during a campaign.

Once inside, I crack the door open. Not all the way, because I’m not that obvious, but enough to create that atmosphere of intimacy that makes conversations more… honest.

—You know? —I tell him as I sit on a mat—. I’ve been divorced for two years and I still haven’t gotten used to living alone.

Bruno freezes with one leg in the air, like a very muscular stork.

—Divorced? —he asks, and there’s something in his voice I can’t tell if it’s surprise or hope.

—After twenty-eight years of marriage, I discovered my ex had more of a social life than I did… except his included his twenty-five-year-old secretary.

—I’m very sorry —he says, and he sounds sincere.

—Sorry? Please! It was the best news of my life. I got rid of a man who snored like a boar and thought the clitoris was a Greek city.

Bruno chokes on his own saliva and I smile. There’s a sample of my arsenal for you, handsome.

—Do you think that at sixty-one a woman stops feeling? Stop desiring? —I get to my feet and walk over to him, where he’s seated on the floor—. Because I can assure you that’s not the case.

The tension in the room could be cut with a butter knife.

—Charo, I… —he whispers.

—You what? —I ask, sitting beside him, close enough for him to catch my perfume.

—I’ve been watching you —he confesses—. In the mirrors, when you talk to the others. It’s awful, I know, but I can’t help it.

—And what have you seen? —I ask, leaning toward him.

—An incredible woman. Funny, sexy, self-confident.

—Sexy? —I repeat, savoring the word—. Wow, it’s been a long time since anyone said that to me.

—Well, they should say it more often.

Suddenly we’re no longer sixty-one-year-old Charo and thirty-eight-year-old Bruno. We’re two people who want each other, and the age difference evaporates like sweat in this badly ventilated room.

Now or never, Charo. Kiss him, or spend the rest of your life wondering what would have happened.

I don’t give the other little voice, the one that’s been whispering insecurities to me for years, time to speak. I lean in and kiss him before either of us can change our minds.

It isn’t a timid kiss. It’s the kiss of a woman who knows what she wants and is already tired of waiting. His lips are surprisingly soft, with that slightly salty taste of exercise that should be unpleasant and instead feels incredibly arousing to me. Bruno responds instantly, his hands seeking my waist while mine tangle in his damp hair.

—Charo… —he whispers against my lips.

—Shhh. Less talk, more action.

I stand up and hold out my hand.

—Where are we going? —he asks.

—To the locker room. There we’ll have more… privacy.

***

In the locker room, which smells of damp and missed opportunities, I push Bruno against the metal lockers. Well, “push” is a generous way of putting it, considering that at five-foot-one I have to stand on tiptoe to reach his chest. I look like a squirrel trying to topple an oak. But he lets me guide him, and when his back hits the cold metal, he looks down at me from nearly two meters up with a smile that melts me from the inside.

His hands find the hem of my T-shirt and I don’t object. In fact, I help.

—Fuck, Charo —he murmurs, his voice rough—. I’ve spent weeks imagining this. You have no idea how badly I wanted to touch you.

—Just touch me? —I ask, sliding my hands under his damp shirt—. Because I had rather more ambitious plans.

His muscles tense under my fingers and he lets out a muffled groan.

—Every morning at the gym is torture —he confesses—. Watching you do those exercises, wearing that outfit… You have no idea how many times I’ve had to go to the showers to calm myself down.

—Cold showers? —I ask wickedly, pressing my body against his.

—Not always cold —he replies, laughing nervously—. Sometimes I had to… you know… relax in other ways.

The mental image of him under the water, eyes closed, thinking of me, is so arousing I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning.

Just when things are getting really interesting—his hands about to discover I’m not wearing a sports bra, mine already at the waistband of his shorts—a door slams open and echoes through the locker room like a gunshot.

—Hello! Is anyone here? —shouts a voice I recognize instantly.

Encarna. The cleaner. My heart stops dead in my chest.

—I hate cleaning around people! If anyone’s here, get out now! —she keeps yelling in that voice that could wake the dead.

Bruno and I pull apart as if someone had thrown ice-cold water over us. And, to make matters worse, my phone decides to join the party with the most inopportune ringtone in the universe.

—Fuck —I mutter, because now I have two emergencies to deal with.

I look at the screen while I hear Encarna’s footsteps approaching. It’s Marta, my eldest daughter.

—Give me a second —I whisper to Bruno, who’s paler than a sheet.

—Mom? —Marta’s voice sounds frantic—. Can you come? I need you to watch the kids. I had to take Hugo to the hospital.

My brain switches out of “seduction” mode and into “mother” mode. It’s an automatic, irreversible switch.

—What happened? Is he okay? —I ask, just as Encarna appears around the row of lockers.

Encarna is a woman my age, with eyes that miss nothing and a tongue sharper than a scalpel. She looks Bruno and me over with an expression that could freeze hell.

—But what the…? —she begins, but I cut her off, lifting a hand while I keep talking to Marta.

After five minutes I find out Hugo has broken his little finger playing soccer. Nothing serious, but Marta is in full maternal panic mode and needs someone to look after my grandchildren.

I hang up and face Encarna, who’s still staring at Bruno as if he were a criminal.

—All right, handsome —she says, hands on hips—. What are you doing in the ladies’ locker room?

—Encarna, calm down —I cut in before the poor guy can answer—. It was my fault.

—Your fault? Charo, but what are you… —Encarna looks back and forth between us and suddenly the lightbulb goes on—. Oh, holy Virgin! Are you telling me the two of you were…?

—I’d love to have troubles like that —I tell her, winking—. Look at him properly, Encarna. Wouldn’t you do the same?

Encarna sizes Bruno up from head to toe as if he were cattle at a fair.

—Well —she says at last—, the boy really isn’t bad at all. But for heaven’s sake, Charo, you nearly gave me a heart attack thinking someone had broken in to rob us.

—Rob what? —I laugh—. The wet towels and the pine air freshener?

Bruno, who until now has remained silent like a condemned man, finally finds his voice:

—Ma’am, I didn’t mean to…

—Ma’am? —Encarna interrupts—. Boy, I’m fifty-six, not eighty. Call me Encarna.

—Okay, Encarna —he says, visibly relieved—. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.

—Trouble? Sweetheart, at your age the trouble is not having someone like Charo getting you into trouble like this —she laughs, already putting away her cleaning supplies—. Well, I’ll leave you two to keep… exchanging phone numbers.

When Encarna leaves, Bruno and I are alone again, but the moment has been broken.

—I have to go —I tell him, feeling as though something is being torn from my chest—. Really, it’s a family emergency.

—I heard. Grandmother duties wait for no one.

—Bruno, I… —I begin, but he comes closer and kisses me softly.

—This isn’t over —he tells me, and there’s a promise in his voice that makes my knees tremble.

—Damn right it isn’t —I answer—. This is just… intermission.

***

The next day I show up at the gym at eight as always. Bruno is already there, waiting for me with a smile that could melt the Arctic ice.

—How’s the grandson?

—He’ll survive. He’s five years old; at that age they break a bone and the next day they’re climbing trees again.

—I’m glad —he says, and then he leans closer and adds in a low voice—: Do you have plans for tonight?

Now or never. Time to stop playing.

—Feel like dinner at my place? I cook pretty well and I’ve got a bottle of wine waiting for the perfect occasion.

—That sounds perfect. Nine o’clock?

—Nine o’clock. And Bruno… this time there’ll be no interruptions.

***

That night, while I prepare dinner—nothing complicated, some homemade croquettes, salad, and the best ham I could find—I feel as though I’m twenty again. I’ve put on a black dress that flatters my figure and I’ve pinned my hair up in the way I know suits me.

Bruno arrives on time with a bottle of wine and a nervous smile. He looks good in that blue shirt that makes his eyes seem even more intense. Dinner passes amid conversation, laughter, and looks loaded with promises. He’s not exactly a brilliant conversationalist—he was in the military and now works as a security guard, and his anecdotes aren’t going to win any literary prizes—but he has something much better: he listens in that way that makes a woman feel like the most interesting person in the world.

—You know what? —I tell him when we finish dessert—. I think we’ve already done enough social convention for one night.

—Are you suggesting we move on to the…?

—I’m suggesting we stop pretending we came here to talk about the weather —I interrupt, getting to my feet and holding out my hand.

This time there are no interruptions.

We make it to the bedroom a little unsteadily, as if the wine were to blame for our dizziness and not this electric current crackling between us for hours. The door closes with a soft click and the world shrinks to this dim room, to our broken breathing.

—Are you sure? —he whispers, and his rough voice raises goose bumps all over my skin.

I don’t answer with words. I move close until our bodies touch and kiss him with all the intensity I’ve built up over these weeks of furtive glances. His fingers slide down the straps of my dress while his lips trace a burning trail along my neck. The fabric slips from my body and falls to the floor with a barely audible whisper. I stand before him, feeling his eyes roam over me with an admiration that makes me burn.

Then I glide my fingers over his chest, down to find the palpable evidence of his desire through his trousers. He lets out a guttural moan that goes straight to my core, and I know there’s no turning back now.

He gently pushes me back against the cold wall. The contrast between the smooth surface and the heat of his body pulls a moan from me. His hands travel the curve of my spine with a reverence that makes me tremble, and he begins sowing wet kisses across my back, slowly descending. When he reaches my ass, he bites at it with that perfect mix of softness and firmness that makes me see stars.

His hand slips beneath the lace thong I chose especially for tonight, and his finger finds my already swollen clit, stroking it with a hypnotic rhythm that steals my reason.

—My God, Bruno —I gasp, unable to hold back—. I can’t… it’s too much…

—Let go, Charo —he whispers against my skin—. I want to hear you.

He lifts me in his arms and carries me to the bed as if I weighed nothing. There isn’t a shred of fabric left on my skin.

—You’re even more beautiful than I imagined —he whispers, his gaze tracing every curve.

—Do you like what you see? —I ask with a wicked smile—. Because I’m shaking with wanting to feel you.

His lips explore every inch of my skin and awaken nerve endings I thought had been asleep forever. When he finally parts my legs, his warm breath makes my back arch. He takes his time before lowering his head, and then his tongue goes to work with a mastery that leaves me breathless.

But I want him too. I move until I’m positioned so that he can keep going while I take him into my mouth. He tastes salty and warm, with a texture that fascinates me and that I never thought I’d enjoy so much.

—Fuck, Charo —he groans, his voice muffled against my sex—. Your mouth… you have no idea what you’re doing to me.

Every moan that escapes my throat vibrates against him, and I feel how hard it is for him to concentrate. This symphony of sensations enveloping us both is overwhelming, and when the orgasm comes, it hits me with an intensity that leaves me trembling, my legs convulsing while my back arches.

—I’m coming, Bruno, don’t stop! —I shout, unfiltered, shameless, pure lust unleashed after years of silence.

Something primitive breaks loose in him too at hearing me. With a force that undoes me, he flips me by the hips until I’m on my back, propped on my forearms. His palms travel along my spine as if reading a sacred map, and when he positions himself behind me his member brushes my entrance while his breath caresses the nape of my neck.

—Now I’m going to make you mine the way you deserve, Charo —he growls in my ear.

—Yes, Bruno… —I gasp, desperate—. Do it now, please. I’ve wanted this for so long.

He starts to enter me with exquisite slowness that tears a guttural moan from me. I feel him fully inside me, every inch filling me in a way that steals my breath. He moves with a calculated, almost torturous rhythm, as if he wants to savor every second, his hands gripping my hips.

—Fuck, Charo… you’re so hot —he pants, and his words are gasoline on the flames of my desire.

Little by little his movements become more urgent, deeper, and I surrender completely. I no longer think, no longer exist as Charo the mature, controlled woman. I’m only sensation, a body arching and moaning under the delicious weight of his passion.

—I’m going to come —I growl—. Bruno, again!

—With me, Charo… come with me —he answers, his voice breaking.

And then we arrive together, our bodies convulsing in a symphony of moans that seems to fill every corner of the room. It’s as if time stops and only the two of us exist, united in this moment of ecstasy that leaves us trembling and breathless. I feel him shudder against me, and that intimate sensation is joined by a deep satisfaction: the certainty that it was I who unleashed this storm in him.

—You’re incredible —he whispers in my ear as his lips find my neck.

—You’re not bad yourself —I reply, though my voice comes out more broken than I intended.

Hours later, when we’re lying tangled in my cotton sheets, breathing slowly and smiling like fools, I know this is only the beginning.

—You know what? —I tell him, tracing circles on his chest—. I think I’m going to have to change my gym routine.

—Why?

—Because now that I know what comes afterward… I don’t know if I’ll be able to concentrate on the exercises.

Bruno laughs, a deep sound that rumbles in his chest and makes me smile.

—Well —he says—, we can always exercise at home.

And as I curl up against his warm body, I think maybe it’s time to cancel my gym membership. After all, I’ve found something much better than a treadmill.

I’ve found life again.