I met a very popular guy, a professional personal trainer who looks like a linebacker with detailed beautiful strong and graceful features of a black stallion whom many people worshipped just by being in his presence in and out the gym environment. I remember the first time I officially met him, at the top floor where the big boys and big gals play. Barbells, hammer strength machines and steel dumbbells awaited for my arrival. It was after gym hours where the lights automatically shutdown on a timer and whomever decided to stay had to fend for themselves with a small flashlight from their phone like me.
On that particular night I was out to deadlift, but before I started on my merry training session I saw a new person up there: Tall, dark, muscular, handsome and the thing that stuck out the most was the fact that he’s one of the few men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting who has a nose piercing. He came up to me and introduced himself as one of the trainers and quickly asked me what I was going to work out on and when I replied he asked if I was an athlete. I told him I was working on it. And I never thought about him again the way he slipped out my mind despite his physical appearance.
Somewhere along the line this changed and before I knew it we worked out every single weekend together for months straight through the cold warming one another with our laughter and conversation delights. I’d wait for him to make his protein/supplement cocktail mix after the workouts, sometimes I’d be in the locker room with him while we chatted and chatted about anything and everything about life way past midnight. Than he would walk me to the bus and wait until I got on giving me the smile of the sun to which I enjoyed immensely. Than one night while on the bus I realized how much he turned me on mentally by the conversations we engaged in and I became hooked. He became my muse and every time we spent quality time I jotted a poem, made quite a few blog entries on here and stalked him around the gym, along with many different things.
I knew he liked me because he spent a lot of time with me when he could as long as others weren’t around to observe us. We flirted but kept things calm and collected. One day I became frustrated at all the time we were spending and was beginning to think he was leading me on and I texted him, “Well are you interested or not?” He shot my heart down with, “Hey, aren’t we friends?” And if I wasn’t getting to the point of obsession then, I definitely was going to obsess until I could get over him because rejection turns me on almost as much as a deep stimulating conversation does.
Suddenly I thought that all the time we shared could have been imaginary, that I have quite possibly could have related to the male sex of hope and delusion. But my gut told me different, the universe in all its coincidences like picking up on his scent right before he would come to the gym to let me know he’s on his way and multiple frequencies kept voicing me the truth, that indeed he’s interested and I just have to sit back and remain patient. Or find it in my heart to get over him?
To be continued..
Here’s the first poem I ever wrote about him dated September 30, 2012. The title will be under the nickname that recently sprung up to mind:
We’re having moments
And I’m pulled by different forces,
And recurring neurosis
A question balloons:
Why do you strike me caring and tender?
I’m uncertain why I enjoy being obsessive over you?
The lingo of the mind, both voluntary and involuntary
The play room of the bloom. I’m heartless obsessing over you.
You give me a wink and my heart fetches for invisible adoration.
It’s easy to be consumed by this dopamine. These chemical reactions.
The biology in me conducting your science, your returning interactions.
You make me angry by saying you’re a different guy.
All I gather is hot and cold, hot and mischievously cold.
Your presence lights up the sky with pots of gold, uncontrolled.
I’m aware we’re aiming in the direction of part-time,
But to no avail and what is amiss? I’m not completely sold.
I know I’m afraid to ruin the image of you in my head.
To think that you’ll turn out to be a regular guy,
Full arrays of dreadful imaginations similar to Drop Dead Fred.
You make me angry by not giving me what I want:
A photo, the opposite of obscurity, a penny for your thoughts sir.
This passion has bled brick red with familiar haunts
Of subtle bouts of nonchalant and errs.