My Tommy

           A few years ago, I ended my relationship with my personal trainer, which was harder than dumping any silly old boyfriend.  I learned quickly that relationships with trainers take on new heights of perversity and co-dependency.  A month before I started with Tommy, I read an article in GQ that humorously outlined the gray area often created between client and personal trainer.  There were tales of woe and disappointment, anger and confusion.

            What pathetic chumps!  I will never be one of those people.

            Well, hello world!  Meet the newest pathetic chump!

            I paid fifty dollars every month to work out at Bally’s Gym in Chelsea, but there were always better things to do.  Like eat and sit.  So I decided to hire a personal trainer to motivate me and keep me in the gym.  I figured that eighty dollars an hour is plenty of motivation to put down the fork and get off the couch.  Besides, I was going to Provincetown that summer for a week with a group of friends, and the thought of looking like a broomstick with hair didn’t appeal to me.  Or to anyone else.  So I found Tommy:  young, hot and straight.  Tommy was in graduate school studying to be a physical therapist, so he obviously knew his stuff.  He looked like Daniel Craig, only younger.  I say this because Tommy told me this at our first meeting.

            “Girls tell me I look like the new guy that plays James Bond,” he offered.

            “Oh really?” I asked, interested.  “I haven’t watched that series since Roger Moore quit.”

            “Who’s Roger Moore?” 

Jesus, I suddenly felt like Mrs. Robinson.                                                  

            He started me on a workout regimen that included a mixture of free weights, resistance exercises, cardio, and a high-protein diet.  The diet lasted three days until I had my fill of eggs and cottage cheese.  I continued to take the protein shakes that he prescribed but slipped in a Big Mac and kept that to myself.  I dutifully went to the gym, three times a week with him and once or twice a week on my own.  He pushed me to the limit, and for the first couple of weeks, I couldn’t lift my arms above my head.  Making out in a bar isn’t quite the same when you can’t lift your arms.  But I kept at it, the gym that is.  Gradually, I got stronger and noticed changes in my physique.  I actually had visible muscles in my back, and friends could no longer grab my love handles and squeal “Pinch an inch!” 

I hate that.

            However, my newfound positive body image came at a price.  Tommy increasingly used me as a substitute therapist, asking my opinions on everything from parental issues to friend problems.  Once he even asked my advice on how to break up with his girlfriend.

            “Tell her you’re gay,” I proposed. 

He looked at me, blankly.  I guess he didn’t know his audience.

            I slowly became too reliant on his motivation.  It was clear that I knew how to do all the exercises, and my form improved significantly.  But I still saw him three times a week. Suddenly, an epiphany:  I was basically paying for an escort service.  He was an appealing straight guy who carried on intelligent conversations and rubbed my shoulders.  It was actually fun to work out with him.  I enjoyed his attention and loved to make him laugh.  But anyone would laugh at my jokes if I were paying them eighty dollars an hour. So I decided to break it off, but not cold turkey.  Baby steps.  We scaled it back to twice a week and finally once a week.

He soon became suspicious, and I knew what I had to do.  I needed the money spent on him to save up for a security deposit on an apartment.  I wanted to travel, and not seeing him would untie some of my funds.  I decided it was time to be an adult, to take charge of the situation and not be intimidated into seeing him again and again. It was time to be my own man!  Hear me roar!  Take the bull by the balls!  And all that other hyper-masculine stuff.

            So I did what any other passive-aggressive, self-respecting gay man would have done in my situation.  I broke up with him.  On his voice mail.