The Gym Man Who Learned My Secret

I was always discreet. Since I was seventeen, when I discovered that certain clothes suited me better than one would expect, I learned to keep quiet. Outwardly I was Damián: the twenty-nine-year-old guy who lived in Tlaquepaque, trained four times a week, and had a body no one would have associated with what I carried inside. Inside, I was someone else. Someone who had been waiting a long time for the right moment.

Rodrigo came to the gym on a Tuesday in March.

He was impossible to miss. Fifty-four years old, broad back, gray-streaked beard trimmed carelessly but not neglected. He had that way of moving through the free weights area that men who have trained for decades do: unhurried, unposed, with the calm certainty of someone who knows exactly what he is doing. I watched him from the dumbbell rack and forced myself to look away every time his eyes swept the room. The last thing I could allow was for anyone to notice the interest.

Weeks later we started exchanging a few words. Rodrigo was easy to get along with: divorced for three years, living alone in an apartment ten minutes from the gym, working in consulting. Nothing remarkable. Until one Friday night, when we were finishing our routine and the place was almost empty, he came over to the locker where I kept my things and spoke without beating around the bush.

—I’ve got a date tonight —he said, rolling up his towel with his usual calm—. With a somewhat special girl.

—Your girlfriend? —I asked, even though I knew perfectly well he didn’t have one.

—No, nothing that serious. Special in a different way. —He paused, waited for a couple of guys hanging around to move off, and lowered his voice a notch—. She’s a trans woman. Ever been with one?

I said no, never, though people say it’s a different experience.

—Different doesn’t even begin to cover it —he said, and let out a short laugh—. The last one sucked me off on her knees in the foyer before I even got her dress off. Then I fucked her doggy-style until her ass was wrecked. Since I split up, I decided not to close myself off to anything. At my age you learn that pleasure has a lot of forms and that resisting them is a waste of time. —He zipped up his gym bag and added, already with his back to me—: Trust me, I don’t regret having discovered it.

He left with a sideways smile and I stood there watching him disappear through the glass door with a hard cock straining under his shorts. My mouth watered imagining the weight of his.

That night, on the way home, I knew I wanted him for myself.

***

The opportunity came three weeks later, on a Thursday afternoon when I had left work earlier than usual. My phone buzzed with a message from him:

“I’ve got a contract I need to review before tomorrow. Can you give me a hand? If you want, come over and then we can head to the gym together so we don’t have to take both cars.”

I replied that I was leaving right then and would be there in fifteen minutes.

I always keep a backpack in my car. Sports clothes, of course, but other things too. Everything needed in case the moment presents itself: lingerie, stockings, wig, heels. I’ve spent years like that, ready for an opportunity that never quite arrived. That afternoon, as I drove toward his building, the backpack occupied my every thought.

The guard let me in without trouble. I went up to the fourth floor and rang the bell for apartment four-twelve.

Rodrigo opened the door in gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt. Barefoot. He had that easy comfort of men in their own territory that I had always found incredibly attractive. And the sweatpants, those unforgiving gray sweatpants, left the heavy bulge hanging toward his left thigh visible. My eyes went straight there before I could stop myself.

—Come in, come in —he said, stepping aside—. The contract’s on the computer in the living room.

I sat in front of the screen and started reviewing the document while he poured himself something in the kitchen. We talked for a while about clauses and deadlines. Then, when the conversation found a natural silence, Rodrigo leaned back on the sofa and said, without really seeming to mean it as a segue:

—Do you remember what I told you at the gym last Friday?

—The date —I replied, without looking at him.

—That’s it. —He paused—. Ever since then my head’s been somewhere else. On Monday I couldn’t stop getting distracted. Even you, who always wear such tight clothes when we train... some days I find it hard to concentrate.

I looked up.

—Is that a compliment or a complaint?

He laughed. Then he got serious in a way I hadn’t expected.

—Would you help me take the pressure off? —he asked—. No obligations or anything weird. If you’re not interested, we’ll forget it right now and go on as always.

I stayed looking at him for a few seconds. My heart was pounding in my throat. And lower down, too.

—Give me a moment —I said—. I need to go down to the car for something.

—If you leave, you leave —he said, shrugging—. I won’t push.

—I’m not leaving. Just wait.

I ran downstairs, grabbed the backpack from the back seat, and came back up without giving myself time to think too much. If I waited longer, my head would convince me not to do it.

When I went back into the apartment, Rodrigo had turned on the TV to a music channel. He pointed toward the back bedroom with a calm gesture, as if he knew exactly what was going to happen.

—Take all the time you need —he said.

***

I closed the bedroom door and took a deep breath.

On the bed I laid everything out carefully: black thigh-high stockings with garters, dark satin underwear with small details at the sides, matching bra, knee-length pencil skirt, sheer animal-print blouse. The straight black wig that fell halfway down my back. The platform heels I had kept for more than a year waiting for exactly this kind of night.

The transformation took twenty minutes. I took my time.

When I was ready —when I was her, when I was Camila—, I heard the sound of my own heels against the wooden hallway floor and felt something click into place.

Rodrigo peered out from the sofa before I reached the living room. He froze in the doorway, mouth slightly open, eyes traveling over every detail from top to bottom. The bulge in his pants shifted, swelled, ceased to be a bulge and became a cock clearly outlined to one side.

—Jesus Christ —he said softly—. You’re gorgeous.

I smiled and adjusted the tone of my voice, that feminine register I had spent years practicing in solitude.

—You really think so? This was mine alone until today. Now we’re both sharing it. —I paused, lowering my eyes without pretending otherwise—. And your friend, I can tell he’s already awake down there. Your cock is showing through your sweatpants, Rodrigo. I can see the head.

He let out a genuine laugh, without any artifice, and grabbed the bulge over the fabric with no shame at all.

—What’s your name? —he asked.

—Camila. Though you can call me whatever you like.

—Camila —he repeated, tasting the name—. Nice to meet you. I’m Rodrigo, but from now on you can call me whatever you feel like.

—Then sit down —I said—. Let me take care of you properly.

I went to the kitchen. With the little I found in the fridge, I made something simple: some tacos with whatever was there, a bottle of tequila half-finished in the cabinet. The sound of my heels on the wood floor mixed with the background music had something unreal about it. Pleasantly unreal. The kind of unreality one longs for.

I poured him a glass and brought it over, bending more than necessary, letting him see the neckline down to my navel. He said nothing. He just looked at me with that focused expression men have when they’re already deciding how they’re going to fuck you.

—Drink with me —he said at last—. To you and to this moment.

—And to the secret that today stops being only mine —I added.

We toasted three times. I hardly drink, so by the third shot the tequila had done its work: I felt lighter, freer, less concerned with boundaries.

Rodrigo set the glass on the coffee table and looked at me with a seriousness that wasn’t uncomfortable.

—For a while now I’ve been looking for something like this —he said—. Discretion, but also something real. I don’t know if you understand me.

—I understand perfectly —I answered—. I have a life outside too. An image to protect.

—Exactly. I’m not asking you to change anything about what you are outside of here. Just that when we can, when we get the chance, this exists. Between you and me. No name or labels for anyone else.

I nodded slowly.

—That sounds good to me —I said—. Though there’s one condition.

—What’s that?

—That it goes both ways. What you ask of me, you give me too.

—Deal —he said, and got up from the sofa.

He came over slowly, took my face in both hands, and kissed me. It was a long kiss, unhurried, the kind that starts calmly and climbs in temperature under its own weight. His tongue found mine and for a while there was nothing else: the kiss, his hands sliding down my sides, my fingers tangled in his T-shirt. I grabbed his cock over the sweatpants and squeezed it all the way from top to bottom. It was rock hard, thick, hot even through the fabric. He groaned into my mouth when I closed my hand around the head and rubbed it with my thumb.

—Holy fuck —he whispered against my lips—. You know how to hold it.

—Wait until you see how I suck it.

***

He took me to the bedroom without breaking away from me, kissing my neck, my ear, my shoulder. With skill I hadn’t expected, he took off my blouse and skirt and stood there looking at me, in front of him in nothing but lingerie and heels. He licked his lower lip and I saw his cock jolting against the sweatpants, a dark wet spot forming at the tip.

He lowered his head and kissed my chest over the bra. Then he unclasped it with surprising ease and continued with his tongue over my bare skin until my knees started to give out. He sucked my nipples one by one, leaving them hard and shiny with saliva, barely biting them just to make me tremble. He went down my stomach, knelt in front of me, and ran his tongue over the satin of my underwear, right where the bulge of my own tight cock pressed against the fabric.

—You’ve got a gorgeous cock in here —he murmured—. You’re already soaking wet.

No one had ever looked at me like that. With that focus, as if there were nothing more urgent in the world.

I gently pushed him toward the bed and knelt before him. I yanked his pants down and kissed him over the boxer briefs, slowly, without hurry. He smelled like a man: gym sweat, old soap, something harder to name. I liked it. I bit his cock over the fabric, feeling it throb, and ran my tongue from the base to the head, soaking the cotton completely.

I pulled down his boxer briefs.

His cock sprang free and slapped my cheek. It was exactly what I wanted: not huge, not catalog-perfect, but real and hard and his. Thick at the base, veins standing out, the swollen purplish head dripping a clear thread of pre-cum that stuck to my lips when I grabbed it with my hand. With the other hand I found his balls, heavy and full, and squeezed them softly while I ran my tongue the full length of the shaft.

I took it into my mouth slowly, savoring the moment. First just the head, circling the crown with my tongue, sucking the salty thread from the tip until he let out a groan. Then I lowered myself down, centimeter by centimeter, until he hit the back of my throat and I had to breathe through my nose so I wouldn’t choke.

—Like that —he said, his voice rough, putting a hand on the back of my neck without pressing—. Like that, don’t stop. Suck it all.

I obeyed. I began moving my head up and down to the rhythm of his hips, taking him all the way to the base every three or four thrusts, letting the tip hit the back of my throat, pulling back and sliding down again with my mouth open and my tongue out so he could see exactly what I was doing. I looked up at him from below, my made-up eyes watering with spit and smeared mascara, and he let out a “fuck, Camila” that made me wet all over inside.

I pulled off for a moment to breathe and dragged his cock over my face, my lips, my cheeks. I sucked his balls one by one, taking them fully into my mouth, while with my hand I held him and jerked him slowly against my forehead. The tip dripped pre-cum onto my makeup and I gathered it all up with my tongue.

—Look at me while you suck me —he said, propped on his elbows, jaw tight—. Don’t close your eyes.

I held his gaze while I took him back down my throat whole. I could feel him throbbing in my mouth, feel his balls rising, feel how close he was to emptying himself. And I stopped. I released his cock with a kiss on the head and smiled up at him from below with my mouth full of saliva.

—Not so fast —I said—. You still haven’t had the best part.

He lifted me up himself by the wrists, and we lay back on the bed.

—Everything okay? —he asked.

—Perfectly okay —I replied.

He kissed me from the neck downward, not skipping a single spot. When he got to my groin he gave back everything with the same attention I had given him: slowly, with his tongue, in no hurry to get anywhere. He pulled down my satin underwear and freed my cock, already rock hard, dripping against my stomach.

—Let me keep the stockings on —I asked.

—That and more —he said.

He spread my legs and got between them, his beard rasping against my thighs. He licked my balls first, slowly moving up until he took my whole cock into his mouth. No man had ever sucked me off with that kind of hunger. He took me all the way down, cheeks hollowed, while one of his fingers slid between my ass cheeks looking for my hole. When he started circling it with the pad of his finger, wetting it with his own saliva, I felt a sharp moan escape me that I didn’t even recognize as mine.

—There —I said—. There, please.

He slipped one finger into me to the knuckle, slowly, without stopping sucking me. Then two. He worked them in circles, opening me up, while with his mouth he worked my head. My legs were spread to the ceiling, the black stockings shining under the lamp’s light, the wig splayed across the pillow, and I begged him in a woman’s voice not to stop, to open me more, to do everything to me.

He opened the drawer in the nightstand and took out a condom and lube. He placed a couple of pillows under my hips and took the time needed to prepare me, fingers thoroughly slicked up, forcing nothing. He slid in three, moving them patiently, scissorsing me open inside until I felt it was no longer an intrusion but an emptiness begging to be filled. That told me everything I needed to know about him.

When he came in, he did it slowly, giving way centimeter by centimeter, reading my body as he advanced. I felt the pressure, the heat, the fullness that has no other name. The cock pushing against the ring, forcing it open, sliding in hot and hard until his balls touched my ass.

—Good? —he asked again, holding still.

—Deeper —I said—. Put it all in, Rodrigo. All of it.

He pushed all the way in and we stayed like that for a moment, breathing. Then he started moving: slowly at first, with that rhythm that builds tension instead of burning it away. His hands on my hips, my legs over his shoulders, the wardrobe mirror giving back an image I could hardly believe: a woman in stockings and heels, wig disheveled, getting fucked by a big gray-haired man who looked at her with hunger.

—Your ass is so tight, Camila —he said against my neck—. You’re taking me so well inside.

—Break me —I answered in his ear—. Don’t treat me like I’m going to break. Break me.

He lifted my legs until they rested on his right shoulder and started really fucking me. Every thrust drew a new moan from me. I could hear his balls slapping against my ass, the wet sound of cock entering and leaving, my own cock bouncing against my stomach with each push, leaving stains of pre-cum on the stockings.

—Look at yourself —he said, grabbing my chin to turn my face toward the mirror—. Look at how you let yourself get fucked.

I looked. I saw Camila with her mouth open, mascara smeared, nipples hard under the crooked bra, legs spread and a cock going in and out between them. And I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed the back of his neck, pulled him down to my mouth, and gave him the dirtiest kiss I had ever given anyone.

After a while he asked me to turn over. I got on my knees on the bed, face pressed into the pillow and ass high, and he entered from behind with more determination this time, filling me with a hard shove that tore a sound from me I couldn’t control.

—Like that —I said—. Exactly like that. Hard.

—Like this, whore? —he said, grabbing the wig by the hair and yanking my head back—. You like it like this?

—Like this, daddy. Like this.

He fucked me doggy-style for a good while. He changed the rhythm whenever he felt like it, stopping dead with his cock buried to the hilt to make me beg, starting again with short, fast thrusts that tore broken gasps out of me. His hands gripped my hips, leaving fingerprints. Every so often he gave me an open-handed slap on the ass that echoed through the whole room and made me clench involuntarily around his cock.

—That squeeze —he growled—. Again.

He slapped my ass again. And again. I bit down on the pillow to keep from screaming. He knew what he was doing. That was the difference from the younger men I’d had: this man knew what he was doing. He knew how much to push, when to stop, when to grab my cock hanging between my legs and jerk it in time with his thrusts until I was shaking all over.

—I’m gonna cum —I told him, almost crying—. Rodrigo, I’m gonna cum.

—Cum in the stockings —he said—. Don’t touch yourself. Let me make you cum with my cock.

And I came. I came with him inside me, spilling over the sheet and the stockings, clenching around his cock in long spasms that drew a groan from him. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking me while I came, stretching my orgasm out until my vision blurred.

He turned me over again. He arranged me on my back, my legs still trembling, and knelt in front of me, gripping my ankles and spreading them until I was open all the way. The image in the side mirror was exactly what I had always imagined on the nights I stayed awake wondering what it felt like.

It felt like this.

He slid back in with his cock dripping lube and juices, and this time he could no longer hold the controlled pace. He started fucking me with deep, rapid thrusts, while I held my now-soft cock against my stomach and watched his face fall apart with pleasure. His gray-streaked beard soaked with sweat, mouth open, eyes fixed on the point where we joined.

—I’m gonna cum —he said through clenched teeth—. Camila, I’m gonna cum.

—On me —I begged—. Pull out and cum on me. I want to see you.

He pulled out, tore the condom off in one motion, and I took him in my hand and finished him with my mouth, slowly, my tongue working under the crown while I jerked him with my hand. I could feel his balls tightening against my chin, his cock swelling one last time between my lips.

—Here it comes —he groaned—. Here it comes, whore, swallow it.

He came in my mouth with a long moan. The first jet hit the roof of my mouth hot and thick; the following ones filled my tongue, spilling from the corner of my mouth down to my chin. I kept sucking the head, drawing out the last drops, swallowing what he had inside without letting go of his cock until he shuddered with sensitivity and slowly pulled it away from me.

I opened my mouth for him to see what was left, moved my tongue with the semen gleaming on it, and then swallowed. I smiled at him with my lips still white.

He collapsed beside me on the bed, breathing hard.

Neither of us said anything for a long minute.

***

—You’ve been keeping that in for a while —he said at last, staring at the ceiling.

—A long time —I admitted.

—You can tell you enjoy it. Not as something you do for someone else, but for yourself.

I turned my head to look at him.

—It is for me —I said—. That’s what nobody from the outside understands. I don’t do it to please people. I do it because it’s what I am when I can be it.

Rodrigo nodded slowly, as if processing something he had already sensed but had never heard stated so clearly.

—Then you’re lucky —he said—. To know who you are.

I smiled.

—And you? Did you know who you were before your divorce?

—I knew what I was supposed to be —he said—. That’s different.

We were quiet for a while longer. Outside, in the street, the city noise went on with its usual indifference.

—Do you have fantasies? —Rodrigo asked—. Things you’d want to try someday.

—Many —I said without hesitation—. Though not all of them for today.

He let out a laugh that filled the room.

—Seems fair to me. Anything in particular?

I thought for a moment before answering.

—I like older men. Mature, weight, history. One of my fantasies is a threesome with two men like that. One cock in my mouth, another in my ass, and me in the middle letting both of them use me. Just to see what it feels like to be in the middle of two people who know exactly what they’re doing.

Rodrigo looked at me sideways, with a half smile.

—I have a friend —he said—. You’d love him. He’s thicker than me. And he wouldn’t mind sharing.

—Are you serious?

—Completely. Though there’s time for that. First this.

He reached out and rested his hand on my cheek with a softness I hadn’t expected from someone who, minutes earlier, had been so direct.

—When can you come back? —he asked.

That night we didn’t go to the gym. We didn’t eat dinner either. We stayed in that bed talking for hours, with the music from the apartment below filtering through the floor, building the edges of something neither of us knew exactly how to name. In the middle of the conversation he got hard again and fucked me again, this time spooning, unhurried, murmuring things in my ear while he made me cum a second time on the already dirty sheets.

What we did know was that we had started.