My Fitness Instructor Chose Me in a Room Filled With A-List Gays

"I forgot how incredible it felt to be desired, especially by someone you’ve longed for."

As of 2025, the BOYSLUT Substack is now accepting and publishing fiction erotica. For submission guidelines, please head here.

Original illustration by Eduardo

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F.I.T Gym was where all the A-list gays took workout classes—the ones with the three As: abs, arms, and ass. I always wondered when they started taking classes because no one there looked like me. I wasn't big enough to be a bear and definitely not small enough to be a twink. I kinda wished I was a jock—why else would I take these $27 classes—but only in appearance, not in attitude. (Don’t forget your roots. Never let the FFK [former fat kid] completely die.)

Quickly, I developed a crush on the instructor, Carlos. He was all smiles and good vibes. I knew that a “can do” attitude bordering on pathological positivity was part of his job description. I knew that he was always a little flirty with everyone. But how this man could flash his pearly whites while sweating profusely on a stationary bike was inspiring! He encouraged me to keep going when I wanted to quit (literally starting at minute five and continuing for the entire hour).

He always seemed to have a soft spot for me. Not in a condescending way. But I’d be willing to bet Carlos was a FFK. He also saw how the other gays looked at me. They’d never say anything to me directly, but I could read their faces—their confusion that someone like me was at a workout class like this.

I did my best to ignore them. Fuck those dudes, right? But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care. Still, I didn’t care enough to stop attending classes. I used their looks as fuel to keep pumping weights, even when my entire body felt like it was trapped in some medieval torture device. I wanted to prove to them that I deserved to be there (despite knowing I didn’t have anything to prove).

“Pete, you are killing it today!” Carlos said, his voice characteristically upbeat. “Killing it” was a stretch, but I hadn’t passed out, so I’d take the win. “Just one little adjustment.” I was at the weight station, doing over-head shoulder presses with fifteen-pound dumbbells. “You’re actually over-arching your back here. Do you mind if I touch you?”

“Not one bit,” I said with a love-drunk grin.

He gently rested one hand on my upper back and put his other hand over my belly. He then pushed, correcting my overextended posture, helping me “maintain a neutral spine” (whatever that meant).

After correcting me, his hands lingered. I turned my head to meet his gaze, messing up my posture. His eyes glistened a warm amber hue. His pupils resembled tiny insects trapped inside, forever preserved. And his smile was so warm I could feel the heat radiating from his open mouth.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he said. “Keep the core engaged. He pressed down on my belly again, and I tightened. “Good,” he said. He then rubbed my belly, like a full-on Buddha rub. I usually don’t like when men touch my stomach, even when they claim to find it hot, even when they look like me. But I didn’t mind when Carlos did. I found the gesture quite tender.

Carlos then dragged his hand from my stomach up my chest, grazing my shoulder and then neck. His trimmed fingernails scratched me ever so gently before he removed his hand entirely.

Okay, that felt intimate. While I didn’t spend the entire class staring at Carlos—just 98% of it—I had never seen him touch anyone else this way. I never had heard him ask, “Can I touch you?” Either these men were all perfect-postured machines—actually, that’s very possible—or Carlos wanted an excuse to touch me.

“Switch stations!” he shouted. It was my turn on the treadmill, my least favorite of the stations, especially at this moment. There was no way to look sexy on a treadmill when running, out of breath, and sweating like a turkey on Thanksgiving. I wanted to look sexy for Carlos. To see if I could catch his eye in a room filled with men who wanted to sleep with him. (What, you think I was the only one who had a crush on the instructor?)

Alas, no dice. Carlos didn’t look at me—at least like he had—for the rest of class. He didn’t correct my form again. (That was on me, I could have purposefully fucked up my chest press, but noooo, the straight-A student had to have great form.)

“Great job today, everyone!” Carlos said as I sprayed disinfectant on my bench. When I finished spraying and wiping, a big ol’ wad of sweat dripped past my chin on the bench. “Oh, for the love of Jesus,” I mumbled, wiping down the station again.

“Pete, mind staying a second? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

I nearly shat myself. “Yeah, of course,” I replied, concealing my nerves. Nothing good has ever come from a teacher asking you to stay after class. Was he going to suggest another class? I knew I wasn’t the most athletic person there, but I finished every station. I didn’t distract anyone or slow them down.

Goddamn it. This is what I get for listening to my therapist. (Betty, next time you should join a fitness class!)

I finished wiping the station and turned to see a gaggle of gays staring at me. I responded with a hostile gaze. Fuck off.

Once every other man had left, Carlos approached me.

My heart still pounded furiously from the workout, my brain running 100 miles a minute. “I’m sorry! I know I’m not the best, but I am trying, and I do think I deserve to be here, and I promise I’ll try even harder. I just need another chance. If only you—”

“Woah there,” Carlos interrupted, placing his hand on my shoulder. “What’s all this?”

“I..uh…I’m sorry,” I replied, looking away from him, even though I only wanted to stare into his eyes. “I thought you were—actually, why did you want to see me?”

He paused and grinned slightly. “I thought you were cute,” he replied casually, as it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I was hoping you found me cute, too.”

Cue the nervous laughter. What the fuck?

“Um…yeah, I do.” I figured he would ask for my number or give me his. Maybe he wasn’t serious and would just give me his Instagram handle. But it was a serious move to hold me back after class.

Instead of whipping out his phone, he said, “Good,” walked to the studio’s entrance, and locked the door, which loudly clicked.

If anyone else besides Carlos did this, I would have assumed he was a serial killer and shouted for help. (If this were a proper kill room, he would have soundproofed the room, which he hadn’t. Then again, he did smile incessantly, but that was part of the job—and Jesus, Peter! Why is it so implausible that Carlos found you hot? Who hurt you?)

“I’ve wanted you since the first day I saw you in class,” he said. (Mind you, that was all of three weeks ago.) I was about to reply, “Really?” but then stopped myself and thought, what if I pretended I was one of those A-list gays? What if I didn’t fake it until I made it; what if I faked it until I became it?

And what if—and I knew this was a wild idea—I actually believed I deserved sex, intimacy, and pleasure? What if my appearance didn't dictate my worth but came from being a decent man striving to show love in a world where love seems to be in short supply?