My Hot Trainer, Stoned in My Condo Gym

About six months ago, I joined a fairly upscale sandalwood-scented gym that many of you will know; let’s call it Solstice. As part of their introductory offer, I got two free personal training sessions. Now, I’m in my early forties, and I’ve taken pretty good care of myself, but this gym had a lot of machines I’d never used before. I figured that I would use the sessions to learn how to use the equipment properly, thank the trainer for their time, and definitely, definitely not sign up for personal training. But then I met Chloe.

Chloe was gorgeous: mid-twenties, Vietnamese-American, a few tattoos, and, as you would expect, an incredible gym-toned body. She was also funny, organized, and a genuinely fantastic trainer, who was able to diagnose my lifting issues and create a sensible trajectory for my workouts. After my second session, I was sold, and I signed up for ongoing weekly training on Saturday mornings. (Not, however, before I talked to my wife, who joked that I was only doing it to hang out with a hot trainer, but that anything that kept me in shape was fine by her.)

***

Sessions went really well, and I genuinely did get stronger, leaner, and more flexible as the months went on. Chloe was super professional, focused, and friendly, and personal boundaries were never crossed. Did I find her instagram through the gym’s account, follow her, and see that she followed me back almost immediately? Yes. Did I occasionally linger on her pictures when she posted glute-centred instructional videos, or the odd bikini photo from the sauna? Also yes.

But, again, things were very professional, and when she was in the gym training me and her other clients, she always wore baggy clothes. Women can wear whatever they want in the gym, of course, and there were plenty of women (and men) who wore minimal clothing while working out. Chloe’s typical outfit, however, was leggings, a loose-fitting top, hair tied back, and minimal makeup.

There was one day, however, I was struggling to get my form right on a bent-over barbell row (those who know will understand). Chloe had her hand on my back, trying to get me to feel the specific muscles that were meant to be contracting, but I just wasn’t making the connection. “Here,” she said, “let me show you.” I put the weight down, and before I knew it she’d taken off her oversized t-shirt to reveal an absolutely incredible chest, barely contained in a bright-red Alo sports bra. I knew that she was in great shape, but seeing her body up close was both intimidating and arousing.

“Put your hand between my shoulder,” she said, as she grabbed the barbell, bent over, and starting executing flawless rows, the muscles in her back contracting, her smooth skin warm to the touch. As I made eye contact with her in the mirror, there was a weird electric energy between us, and she was smirking at me in a way that felt decisively flirty.

She put her t-shirt back on, and I got to it. Thank god that I had somewhere to direct my energy; I did indeed start to get the form right, and as the blood rushed to my screaming muscles, the pressure in my compression shorts mercifully subsided.

Did I go home, open up her instagram, and taint my marriage bed with impure thoughts about Chloe? Absolutely. But no part of me thought that she was actually being flirty. She was smoking hot, she knew it, and I’m sure she felt a mild rush knowing that she had this kind of effect on her clients. In the next session, and every other session in the months that followed, her t-shirt stayed on, and we didn’t have any other similar moments of unexpected intimacy.

***

Fast-forward to last week: I show up for my typical Saturday morning training session, only to see Chloe and a bunch of other clients and trainers standing on the sidewalk outside the gym, as well as a fire truck. The gym’s fire alarm had gone off, and was still blaring incessantly; from what I could overhear from a nearby firefighter, there was some issue with the electrical system, and it might not be off anytime soon.

“Ugh, I’m so sorry,” said Chloe, in her typical outfit, gym bag slung over her back. “I think we’re going to miss your session.”

“No worries,” I said, “it’s honestly totally fine.”

“Well,” she said, “I was thinking… you live nearby, don’t you? And your condo has a gym? We could just…”

“Sure,” I said, “let’s do it.”

“Ok,” she said, “this wouldn’t officially be through the gym, so you’d have to pay me directly, if that’s cool. You won’t be charged for the Solstice session, obviously, and it would be the same price…”

I told her that was fine, and we headed towards my condo building. It felt a little naughty, but my wife would be away until the late afternoon, and I told myself that I’d text her as soon as the session was done. Chloe and I made small talk, but she suddenly went quiet.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure,” I said, “what’s up?”

“… it was me, hahah. Oh, god, it was so stupid, but… I was vaping in the change room. That’s what set off the alarm.”

We both laughed; I couldn’t quite believe it, since she was always so professional and together.

“I didn’t think that nicotine was especially popular amongst the fitterati like yourself,” I said.

“Well, it wasn’t nicotine,” she laughed. “… it was weed. I know it sounds stupid, but I like to take little hits before lifting. It helps with the mind-muscle connection.”

“Ok, well, I need to be honest,” I said. “I sometimes have a gummy before working out. Not with you, but when I’m on my own. I totally get it.”

“Oh my god, that’s absolutely hilarious,” she said. “Look at us, a couple of stoners. Listen, since we’re not at Solstice, do you want to…?”

By the time we were back at my condo, we were both a little high, and suddenly everything was funny. Chloe was also making a lot more physical contact with me than she ever did at the gym: touching my arm, playfully punching me, and in general being very friendly. We made eye contact in the elevator mirror, and it was like we were suddenly back in the gym, months earlier, my hand on her back, her smirking at me in the mirror. This was all feeling too good, we were stoned and flirty and touchy, and I felt insanely turned on. But Chloe wasn’t interested in me; she couldn’t be. Was she?

We both went into our respective change rooms; since I was still in street clothes, it took me a bit longer to get changed. By the time I got into the gym, Chloe was in front of the mirror, warming up, doing deep lunges. Her baggy t-shirt was on the floor, and she was wearing the the same skin-tight, bright-red Alo set, her body looking absolutely incredible. She smiled knowingly at me through the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

“Are you ready?” she asked.