The Parasocial Network

"Final rules of the cathedral:

A: Make sure you clean the benches off when you're done. Nobody else wants to walk around here smelling like Aspercreme.

B: Don't stare at those sluts at the squat racks for too long. They love the attention but will shame you for giving it to them. Won't be a problem for you, I'm sure.

And C: Don't get too into your head thinking that people are looking at you and judging. People come here to improve themselves. Besides, everybody will be too busy staring at me to notice you."

I'm trying terribly not to concentrate on Ivan's muscles contracting as he supplements every word with a hand gesture. His facial expressions. The swarthy Portuguese ancestry. The relaxed masculinity. All makes my eyes dilate.

He asks me a question and I stutter something like an idiot. The years of conversations I've had with him in my head fade away. The repertoire of his interests that I've studied up on to relate to him fizzle in a dementia haze.

Should I go with the honesty policy instead? Let him know that I've just about rubbed all the skin off of my cock beating off to his daily thirst traps? That I have a gigabyte worth of pictures I screenshot from his stories that I've stared at for an embarrassing amount of time? That I've developed an Olympiad-long emotional connection with him before we even shook hands and introduced ourselves to each other four minutes ago?

"I-I'm also a whiskey connoisseur," I repeat myself as I trail behind him. His compression shirt hugs the striations of his back. He's tall, dark, and brutally beautiful, with a little steatopygia padding his taut, muscled glutes.

"I can tell you've been connoisseu-ing all night," he says. "Try to keep up, abuelito."

The surprise of life is that even living long enough to be dubbed a sexagenarian, there were still new emotions to be discovered. The incredulity of seeing this collection of pixels I've lusted after turned flesh and blood. The exhilaration that he knew I existed. The nervousness of what's happening and the excitement of what could be. All combined to create a new feel.

"Up, up, up," Ivan yelps out, fingers barely tapping under the bar that I'm struggling to lift up.

"Yooo. What's up, bro," I hear as a familiar face pops into my peripherals: Darius, a recurring character from Ivan's Instagram feed. This was his ecosystem. He only hung out with unthreateningly attractive muscle queens, but it was understood that he was the de facto star of the show.

"This is Bradley and Connor," Darius continues. Two more muscle Mary's pop into my eyesight. "This sexy couple are gonna pitch in on the rental in Palm Springs."

"Nice," Ivan certifies, staring them up and down. "Who's the top and who's the bottom?"

The couple stare at each other with furrowed brows.

"Don't think that's a proper question to ask people you just met, bro," the blond silverback lisps.

"You the bottom," Ivan shoots back.

The iron bar compresses against my ribcage and I struggle to gasps out an SOS.

"Oh shit!" Ivan exclaims, lifting the bar and re-racking it. I continue to labor for oxygen. "Uh, this is my new client, Roy."

"It's Ray," I correct him, in between breaths.

The guys practically look through me, with only the tacit acknowledgment that there was somebody in their airspace that they needed to talk around.

"It sucks that life didn't smile on us and give us those traits, but that's just the way things are," one of my best friends, George, laments on a group FaceTime later that night. "Men like that were never naturally attracted to men with master's degrees and soft hands."

"Not unless those soft hands have paper cuts on them from counting massive amounts of dinero," adds Richard, the septuagenarian Samantha of our crew, who always fashioned himself the white-collar Liberace. "You only have to be as attractive as Benjamin Franklin."

Like the rest of the homo hoi polloi, Rich had spent his entire life endearing himself to the Greek Gods of our community. Cutouts from Men, Instinct, and Playgirl magazines littered his refrigerator. Colt videotapes were replaced by Sean Cody DVD's, which were replaced by terabytes worth of illegally obtained videos. One side of his closet housed Armani business suits and Purple Label polos while the other half was cluttered with leather outfits, accoutrements, and engineering boots of different lengths, wear, and tear.

He resented the fact that these beautiful men never gave attention to the excellence he worked hard for, and also for being his main source of weakness. During the last ten years and began to play the game the way they wanted to play. Flights were booked to Barcelona. Houses were rented in Mykonos. Tables were reserved at Michelin starred restaurants in Paris.

Rich is the guy taking the photo of some sexy guy doing a goofy pose in front of the Pisa Tower. He's the guy on the opposite side of the table that you never see as some model Instagrams his coq au vin. He's the "uncle" that every hot guy has when questioned about the obvious dynamics between the two.

"I lust after them and they lust after experiences they can't provide for themselves," he continues. "Things become a lot easier once you stop trying to complicate them."

"Jesus Christ, these guys aren't deities," Cary finally chimes in. "I understand how compelling youth and beauty can be, but these aren't accomplishments."

"I think the engineering he's put into his physique is definitely worthy of appreciation," I say. "I mean, it's an artistry in and of itself that..."

"Please," Cary cuts me off. "He's not some modern day Michelangelo or David. He's just another boy on a boat with manufactured substances running through his veins, who doesn't want to get a real job, trying his damnest to burn images out of his head while convincing people he's having a fun time doing it."

Even at his age, being a top in a metropolis full of begging bottoms meant that Cary never really starved. When the Viagra kicked in, it sent enough blood to his cock that looked impressive from any angle you photographed it at. He couldn't get them to stay, but the boys did come by.

"He has a real job," I remind them.

"The oldest one there is," Rich jokes.

"He's a trainer."

"He almost killed you today," George reminds me.

"It was a great session. He taught me a lot of things..."

"Get a hold of yourself, wrinkles," Cary cuts me off again. "Just because you have a little schoolgirl obsession with this man doesn't mean you have to be his advocate. He's just another vapid, solipsistic Instahoe fucking for a fee just like the rest of them."

"I'm with him," George agrees. "Just because you've architected some personality for him in your head doesn't mean that that's who he is. No point in trying to convince yourself or anybody else that his protein farts smell like Diptyque."

"Either rent him out for a while or deposit your desires for him into a Kleenex and get on with your life," Rich advises. "No point in giving some hooker your daily bread."

"And it definitely wasn't worth moving to the reddest, red state just for the infinitesimal chance that he'll acknowledge you as being anything more than some creepy, old man thirsting after him."

While Ivan wasn't my entire reason for moving to Ft. Lauderdale, I'd be lying if I said the opportunity to be close to him didn't rank high on the "pros" list when making my decision. With retirement came a lot of unstructured time. Teamed up with the loneliness of living alone and an extensive collection of top shelf whiskey--that had been abused every since Covid hit--my anxiety about being found face down, capsized in my pool started increasing.

With a scant amount of friends and family scattered all over the country, I'd decided spending my dotage in Ft. Lauderdale was the best option. I have a newly divorced, younger sister here and nieces and nephews I barely know. My friend Randy seems to be living a retiree dream with a couple of other gay grandaddies and a few younger bears and otters who adore them. Plus, Ivan was taking personal clients at the moment and was looking for people who wanted to change their lives.

I don't believe in coincidences.

"Look, you know he's not the reason I moved down here," I say, unconvincingly. "And it's not just about sex and I'm not being delusional about him. Trust me, with this road map of wrinkles directing towards my eyes and my extensive love of carbs, I'm aware I'll never be the object of his affection."

I sigh and continue:

"I enjoy sex just like every other man, but I can keep my mind busy enough so that it's not on a 24 hour lust rotisserie. It's not about that, and I'm not looking for a relationship with him either. I... I just want to get to know him and develop something real between us, I guess."

"Better off buying that attention from him," Rich says. At this point, he's leaned all the way into the Svengali role. I think more than the sex, he got off of being able to control these men who he knew would never be with him naturally. He had a tangible power that he held over them. They smiled at him. They laughed at his jokes. They came back for more. That was as real as finding love got at this age.

"I've been around this world," Rich continues. "Everybody's unique, but some things are universal. Don't sit around fumbling for offerings, trying to beg this man to care about you on a deeper level. Buy what you want from him and let him be."

"It means more to me than that," I say, defeatedly.

"Seriously, there were arrogant mental cases all over Ohio that you've never gave a nickel or a nice word to, but you'll move across the country just to wipe his brow while he's doing sit-ups," George says.

"Better than the sordid risks you take to get dick," I shoot back, finally taking a defensive position. "Loitering around dark parks and being some gas station glory hole vacuum."

"At least I occasionally get the chance to suck on something that isn't a Werther's Original, grandpa."

"You both sound pathetic," says the top.

"Seriously," George continues. "He's not going to reward you because you care about 'the real him' and not just his assets."

"Especially since his assets are 'the real him'," Rich adds.

"He's a hunk and humans are superficial. I'm sure people are nicer to him than their own grandmothers," George resumes.

A gaggle of agreements.

"He was blessed when he received the bounty of the genetic lottery. He doesn't need anything more than that."

Cary goes on a coughing fit then puts in his final two cents before asking to be let go: "Amazing how seemingly smart men in all aspects of life become bumbling idiots when faced with a beautiful slut with a nice ass." Cary coughs again and then carries on:

"We missed our shot of purchasing a gym membership at building up currency in this fucked up gay demimonde when we were younger. Maybe out of laziness, fear, whatever. But all of that shit fades away and those guys end up middle aged therapy failures when they can't figure out why the world is no longer kowtowing to them."

"Best to just restrain your lust and continue jacking it to porno and chasing them with Criterion features," George adds. "Even if you do somehow get him to care, he'll never stay, and that will wreak you're even more than him not caring in the first place."

"Orrrr," Rich protracts. "You can just throw him a couple of Jackson's, pop a Viagra, and give that arrogant fuck a savage pounding that he'll remember til' his final days, despite his best efforts to forget it."

"You know, Rich," I say. "One of your escorts are gonna kill you one day and rip all that gaudy jewelry right off your goddamn neck."

*****

It's been three months and I've gained five pounds.

I get my weekly email from Ivan two days late. He was supposed to FaceTime me last night to see how I was progressing. The summer started and in-person training had switched to mostly online training as he jetsetted to every circuit party, gay ghetto, and the occasional trip with his 'uncles' who he never showed.

When he was here, his eyes were red from hungover and regret. He developed a thousand yard stare that he looked through me with as I'm lifting with poor form that he should've been correcting. Darius came by and they talked about Dior Jordans, the Atlantis cruise, and a new protein powder flavor. He declined my invite to lunch Ruth's Chris, my treat.

He cancels my FaceTime session. He'll be back in town next week, so we'll catch up then.

I'm starting to notice the more minute details about him. His bad traits glare. I'm not as phased by the perfectly lit shot of him in his Aronik trunks when I know he's using the money I gave him to spend time with me to go frolic on a beach somewhere in South America. My simping had simmered down.

Still, I Venmo'ed him his weekly fee.

"Don't worry about it," Ivan says, lifting his shirt up to expose his visible abs. "See, I've put on a little sympathy weight with you."

My arms are crossed, not only to show my agitation with him, but to cover my titties, which I feel are sagging a little lower than usual. I couldn't help that my eyes still held a lust for him, but my imagination began to revolve around him making better decisions.

"Did you have fun?" I ask, sarcastically.

Weights bang and men grunt in the background.

"Are you you mad?" He picks up on the scent.

"I mean..." Yes. Yes. Yes is the word. "I'm not mad, mad. But I am paying for a service and you haven't exactly been delivering."

"Look, I'm sorry. I know. It's been a crazy summer. I mean... I'm sure you've had your time in the sun. I mean, I know you've had your time in the sun."

He stares at the spots on my face that never really faded away.

"I'll make it up to you," he promises, unconvincingly.

"How about we go out for that steak?" I suggest. "I'd actually really love to hear about your trip. I've always wanted to go to Ibiza."

"Uhhh...I'm kinda jet lagged right now, and besides..."

I huff loudly, cutting him off.

"Why do you always treat me like I'm just some creepy old man? I'm not walking around in the locker room with my towel over my should like a heavyweight belt, making everybody uncomfortable, shaving my pubic hairs in the sink, sliding my sagging balls across every surface, and soliciting every young guy with blowjob offers."

Ivan chuckles nervously. I didn't think I said anything funny.

"It's just..." I resume. "You're beautiful. I know it. You know it. Everybody knows it. But I see you walking around here, having the most Petri dish deep conversations and I'm not sure how many people in your life you really have in your corner."

The confusion is written all over his face, so I step in, putting a hand on his shoulder, to give him my final pitch.

"I... I care about you, Ivan. The real you. And I'm not sure how many people in your life really do. You're a nice guy and I know there's more to you than what's on the surface. But I'm concerned about you and the decisions you've been making.

He winces. I continue.

"You come back from your trips and I see it all over your face. I know I never really had anybody to talk to about things that were going on deep inside of my head and... and I just want to be here for you if you need somebody to talk to about things."

Ivan backs away letting my hand slid down his hard chest, until it's dangling at my side.

"Listennnnnn," he says, slowly. "I know you're probably somebody's grandfather, but you're not mines. I don't need you being concerned about decisions I make with my own life, I'm perfectly fine."

I sigh, the sting of his reaction penetrates me.

"Our relationship is trainer and client and that's it. I'm sorry if you thought this was something else, but just because you pay me a fee every week doesn't mean I have to live up to some fantasy in your head."

The sting continues to reverberate through me. I threw a Hail Mary directly at him and he swiped it at the goal line. The obsessing. The fantasizing. The planning. The moving. Everything I thought I was manifesting with him. Wasted time. Wasted energy.

The surprise of life is that even living long enough to be dubbed a sexagenarian, there were still new emotions to be discovered... and I'd never felt like a bigger idiot in my life.

"Fine," I say, defeatedly, reaching into my pocket and pulling out his weekly fee.

He stares at the money for a few seconds, contemplating, slowly reaching his hand out to grab it. Before he can get a firm grasp, I swipe it back.

"You really think I'd pay you again for the piss-poor service you've been providing me?"

Ivan's face falls. Something inside of him is stinging now. I hold the wad back up and shake it in his face.

"This isn't for a week. This is for an hour. You understand?"

He eyeballs the money, and then me, his pupils oscillating for a few seconds before snatching the chunk out of my hand and slides it in his pocket.

"I hope I'm not as disappointed paying for this as I have been these past few months," I snarl, channeling Rich now.

He looks me square in the eyes and tells me with the utmost confidence: "Men never leave my bed disappointed."

And I can tell that up until this point, that this is the realest exchange we've ever had. It felt like the most honest thing he's ever said to me.

*****

"We only have an hour so I want you to make this part quick, but don't rush it," I say, directing Ivan as he begins to pull his shirt over his head. His hands caresses his pecs. This is where he has the most abundance. The first place your eyes fall to once you're able to pull them away from the perfect symmetry that makes up his face.

"You know the power that you have, don't you?" I ask as he slides his hands down his staggered abdominals.

"Yeah," he chuckles.

"It's yes sir," I demand.

His face turns into a screensaver, taken aback my sudden bossiness.

"Yes sir," he obliges.

"Lose the pants."

He stands up on the bed and slides his track pants down, spinning around and giving me a view of the entire prize. I take another sip of the Pappy Van Winkle and my mind begins to fuzz on the emotions of the day. I can't believe he's in front of me right now, doing what he's doing. The fantasy doesn't come close to the real thing.

He drops his Nike briefs and the impressive contents inside of them come dangling out. Everything I was stressing out over these past few month become irrelevant in a second.

"Come here and kiss me, boy," I say, dropping the condensing glass back on the nightstand. He gets down on his knees and crawls towards me. The look in his eyes as he hovers over me. He rubs my nose with his before giving me a slight kiss and pulling back. My false bravado dissipates. My desperation reveals itself as I whimper for more.

He goes back in for the kill. I keep my eyes open, even though I know better. My breathing intensifies as my hands maneuver over every perfectly sculpted muscle that my limbs allow me to reach. We stay in this position a lot longer than I was expecting, but I'd empty out the rest of my bank account if I could have him like this forever.

"I want to suck your cock, baby," I say in a begging tone, finally willing myself back from him.

"Yes sir."

Ivan flips over, lying on his back now. When I get up, he grabs the pillow and puts it under him, propping his head up. A long and skinny erection plops up on his stomach, which reveals that he might stuff or photoshop his pictures, but was still nice nonetheless.

While I enjoyed it, oral sex was never a sport I was good at, but the Old Man Rip has me so warm and loose, that I go all the way down on that fucker. I'm talking to the hilt.

His irises are locked in on mines. The only time he breaks eye contact is when he moans in ephemeral ecstasy. I'm using all five of my senses to take mnemonic snapshots of this moment. This could last as masturbation material until my casket drops.