Gym Boys by Shane Allison Page B

starving and it was manna from heaven. Then we just collapsed on the floor.
    Coach looked over at me and grinned. “And that, Rufus, is how you relieve sexual tension.” I didn’t say nothing, just squeezed his hand in gratitude.
    Well, Coach has made it a particular point of his to keep on helping me out with my sexual tension problem. We meet for sessions just about every day after practice. Coach is a stickler for trying new methods. And I think we’ve near got the problem licked. I ain’t never felt so relaxed and easy as I do now. And my wrestling’s improved a whole lot too. But Coach says we got to keep on with the practices, just in case, and how next time he’s in Tulsa he’s gonna pick up a few toys as he puts it, to add a little more variety to our sessions. “Hell, I’m game, Coach,” I told him. “Anything for the good of the wrestling team.”

HEART ON
Michael Bracken
    T he scrubs worn by the staff and the average age of the people using the exercise equipment made the medical center’s cardiopulmonary rehabilitation center nothing but a high-priced gym with short-term memberships paid for by various health insurance plans. In my early fifties, I was younger than most of the other patients, but that didn’t make me any healthier. Only a few weeks earlier, after decades of inadequate exercise and poor dietary habits, I had undergone quadruple heart-bypass surgery. Following surgery my cardiologist had prescribed—in fact, had demanded—my participation in rehab.
    Other than the occasional use of hotel fitness centers while traveling for business, I had not been inside a gym of any kind since college, so when I first shuffled in I was unprepared for the number and variety of fitness machines filling the rehab center. Treadmills lined one wall; stationary and recumbent bicycles lined another, and arranged throughout the remaining space in some pattern that I could not fathom were various weight machines and equipment that I could not identify at first glance.
    The physical therapist assigned to my case—a hot little number in his midthirties who would have made my cock rise under other circumstances—took me into a private room where he weighed me, measured me and discussed my cardiologist’s rehabilitation plan. As we talked, he attached a trio of electrodes to my chest, sticking them where my hair was only beginning to regrow. Wires from the electrodes trailed under my shirt to a transmitter that hung from my belt and sent data about my heart to an EKG at the nurse’s station in the center of the outer equipment room.
    Then he led me out of the private room, stuck me on a treadmill set to the slowest speed and walked away. I could barely keep up and I stopped the treadmill after a few minutes.
    Trevor noticed my distress and hurried to my side. He helped me to a nearby chair. “You’re already out of breath.”
    â€œYou,” I said with a wink, “take my breath away.”
    He laughed and patted my hand. “You’re in no condition to make passes, Mr. Tate.”
    â€œCall me Bob,” I said. “And if I was?”
    When he leaned forward and whispered in my ear, my physical therapist provided a workout incentive that I had not anticipated when I’d shuffled into the rehab center an hour earlier. “I’d fuck you so hard your heart would break the EKG.”
    â€œIs that a promise?”
    â€œGet well,” Trevor said as he straightened, “and we’ll see what happens.”
    An elderly woman was struggling on one of the stationary bicycles so Trevor left me sitting in the chair while he attended to her needs. I watched him work with the woman. Even the loose-fitting blue scrubs couldn’t hide the classic V of his figure— broad shoulders, thick chest, narrow waist, and tight ass held aloft on muscular legs—nor could it hide the tantalizing bulge of his personal