Behind His Back Page 4

  When the meeting’s done, the presenter, whose name I never even paid attention to, gathers his laptop and leaves, and I head back to my office. After picturing myself performing oral sex on a nameless man, I’m in no mood to perform a substantive edit on the knitting article I’ve been prepping, so naturally I go on Fräulein’s website.

  When I hit the homepage, it occurs to me that I could get fired for doing this at work. I try to estimate the amount of time I spend browsing Fräulein and a few other lingerie sites from work every day, and it probably adds up to about an hour.

  Why did I have to insult the one person who can spy on my web history?

  I’m distracted from my fears when I see a patent-leather getup in one of the homepage’s rotator slides. It’s called the romp suit, and it must be a new addition, because I’d remember something like this. It’s nothing more than an amalgam of thin leather straps, starting from a collar around the model’s neck, crisscrossing around her tits without covering them, and then connecting in another criss-cross right above her crotch. Every fuckable part of the model is exposed, which means this is now porn. I’m looking at porn at work.

  I stare at the romp suit and wonder whether I could pull it off. I’d certainly do better than their mop handle of a model, who has the chest of a thirteen-year-old boy and no discernible ass. There was a time when impossibly skinny models intimidated me and made me feel bad about myself. It’s funny how adding a little muscle tone changes all of that. Now I just feel sorry for them because they’re weak. I could fuck her with a strap-on and crack her pelvis in half.

  But confidence aside, everything I’ve bought from Fräulein has been soft and lacy—still skimpy and hot and imminently peel-off-able, but certainly nothing as edgy as the romp suit. David’s dick would probably retract into his groin like a threatened gopher if he saw me in that. And for some reason, something about the thought of scaring my husband with my leather-bound body turns me on.

  This is not my depraved, slutty subconscious.

  Narrowing in on the model’s tiny, puckered nipples, I think about all the times I’ve come close to watching porn at work over the past year. I’ve read that some men do it regularly, and I decide to figure out their secrets for hiding it. Now that I’ve crossed that bridge and had a naked woman on my screen, I’m ready for the next level.

  Chapter 4

  I’m at Rev at 6 a.m. on a Friday, and I’m eager to hoist some heavy weights and get my heart racing. Today’s workout is already up on the whiteboard, and it’s full of front barbell squats and pull-ups. They’re two of my favorite exercises, and they’re not on the curriculum in health-club Zumba classes or public-park bootcamps. I’m so lucky that I’ve found something that actually works, even if it’s turned me into a raving nympho.

  I decide to practice some skipping for my warmup, and as I’m grabbing one of the speed ropes off of the wall, a tall, tanned man with dark hair and eyes strides into the gym wearing tight jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt. He grabs a sixteen-kilo kettlebell and then uses it to prop the door open so he can finagle two long, black canvas bags through it. Chad immediately dashes over to help him.

  Based on the V-neck alone, I’d peg him as one of the annoying hipsters who congregate in our neighborhood, but when he thanks Chad with a bro-ish handclasp, an immaculately round bicep pops out from his tiny sleeve. I follow it down to forearm muscles that writhe like a pit of snakes under his tight skin, and suddenly I can’t look away. He can’t be a hipster. Hipsters don’t work out, and any man with that kind of forearm definition definitely knows his way around a gym.

  I’m still standing with the rope in my hand and my jaw on the floor when an equally tanned girl with dark hair that’s maddeningly long and straight trots through the door. She’s dragging what looks like a beaten-up roadie crate. She wheels it over to where Mr. Twitchy Forearms is opening the canvas bags and setting up black umbrellas on stands.

  Duh. He’s a photographer. I work at a magazine—it shouldn’t have taken me that long to solve the mystery.

  The tanned girl—his assistant, I assume—is wearing tight, hopefully stretchy jeans and a clingy camisole that showcases her big tits and tiny waist, and she says something in a squeaky voice that makes Mr. Twitchy Forearms laugh. I doubt her skinny arms could pull her little body through a single pull-up, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to grab her by her perfect hair and bash her button nose into the squat rack.

  This is not my petty, envious aggression.

  There are only five of us in the gym this early on a Friday, so I’m not sure what Mr. Twitchy Forearms is planning to photograph. Without introducing our tanned guest or explaining why he’s here, Chad tells everyone to find a spot and then starts the timer. My barbell is fitted with thirty-five-pound bumper plates—a total of one hundred and fifteen pounds when combined with the bar’s weight—and I roll it to a spot close to a pull-up station where I can watch our guest and his busty assistant set up.

  When the clock beeps, I attack the workout with a ferocity that would make Tom Cruise’s Oprah appearance look like a placid chat with the Dali Lama. The timer is set for twenty minutes, and every sixty seconds we have to perform five front squats and ten pull-ups. We then get whatever’s left of each minute to catch our breath and psych up for the next onslaught. There aren’t enough squat racks to hold barbells at shoulder height for everyone, so each of us has to clean our barbell from the ground to the front of our shoulders at the beginning of every set. Some of the warriors are doing this with two hundred and twenty-five pounds, which is more than any of their buff bodies weigh, and when they drop their bars on the rubber flooring at the end of each set, the thunderous sound adds to the adrenaline rush. It’s like being in a war zone, except the only casualties are excess calories and weakness.

  I’m sucking wind by the third minute, and by minute ten I’m ready to curl up into a fetal position in the corner and never move again. But between each set I steal glimpses of Mr. Twitchy Forearms, who’s standing with his arms crossed and watching us work. Something in me wants to impress him, so I push through the pain and maintain my pace. When I finally drop off the bar after my final pull-up, my lungs are whimpering for oxygen and every muscle in my shiny, sweaty body is ballooning with blood and lactic acid. The warriors and I collapse beside our barbells. Normally I’d be flat on my back huffing huge gulps of air, but today I make an effort to sit up with my legs bent in front of me and my arms draped around my knees.

  Mr. Twitchy Forearms and his perky little assistant exchange looks about what they just witnessed, and Chad, who’s been in the center of the gym barking orders and correcting our form, walks over to speak with them.

  Like frozen insects warming back to life after winter, the warriors and I slowly return to consciousness. We strip the bumper plates off of our barbells like silent soldiers and return our weapons to the racks where we found them. Everyone else stumbles out, sweaty and disheveled and reveling in their accomplishments, but something holds me back. Instead of heading home to shower before work, I chalk up my hands and lug a twenty-four-kilo kettlebell to the center of the room. If one exercise is responsible for firming my ass, it’s the kettlebell swing. It’s also a movement that I have a natural aptitude for, and my natural flexibility lets me perform it better than any of the warriors at Rev. And for some stupid reason, I suddenly feel like showing off.

  With the bell on the floor in front of me, I stand with my legs just outside of shoulder-width apart. I hinge at my hips and jut my ass back, reaching my hands forward to grab the kettlebell’s handle. Keeping my shoulders pulled back and my arms straight, I swing it back through my legs so that it’s behind me. When it’s reached the end of its arc, I explosively thrust my hips, propelling the bell forward and up to chest height. Then I let it fall back, reversing its path as I hinge my hips to let it pass back through my legs. I breathe out forcefully with each thrust and take air in as the bell returns, oscillating through each rep like one of those pl
astic perpetual-motion drinking birds from gag shops.

  I hit thirty reps of what I’d like to think is near-perfect form, and then I guide the bell down to the floor. Whatever air had returned to my lungs after the grueling workout is once again gone, and my ass is palpitating with exhaustion. I stand and shake each leg out, flexing and relaxing my cheeks to feel the fullness of the blood that’s swelling within the muscles of my bum.

  “That’s crazy good form,” Mr. Twitchy Forearms calls out from where he’s standing. Oh shit. He’s walking toward me.

  “Thanks,” I say. It’s all I can muster between labored breaths.

  Oh God. Why did I want his attention anyway? I’m a sweaty, huffing mess, and now he’ll be within sniffing range of my drenched sports bra.

  “I’m Hunter,” he says. “I just set up a studio in town.” Of course his name is Hunter. And of course he has a faint accent—what is that, Australian?—to boot. Why wouldn’t someone with a cool job have an equally cool name and a hot accent? He extends his hand, and I stare down at his ripped forearm as I brush my chalky palm on my wet thigh and then shake it.

  “Faith,” I say, still huffing.

  “You have amazing technique,” he says. “Do you have any idea how many fitness models I’ve photographed who couldn’t swing a kettlebell worth a damn?”

  “It’s a pretty basic movement,” I say.

  Too cocky? Probably too cocky. But now that I’ve nailed down the proper form, I fume every time I see someone messing it up in the pages of a fitness magazine.

  “So is that what you do?” I ask. “Photograph models?”

  “Mostly,” he says. “For a few fitness magazines, and a few other projects. Fitness models are some of the worst to work with, because they can’t pose properly and half of them aren’t even that fit. And they never show up on time because of their silly diets.”

  He gives his assistant an irritated look, and she upturns her palms to suggest she still doesn’t know the whereabouts of whomever he’s alluding to.

  “If our girl doesn’t show up soon, I may have to shoot you instead.” He looks me up and down.

  “Right,” I say, wishing he weren’t joking. His dazzling smile is dripping with sinister mischief.

  “I’m serious,” he says. “You have a fantastic ass.”

  What the fuck? Is he even allowed to say that? I mean, of course I want him to think I have a fantastic ass. Him and everyone else. But who just flat-out says that to someone? He’s even tilting his head and staring right at it. I don’t know whether to thank him or report him to human resources.

  I decide to go with thanks, and I smile at him, trying not to blush. He probably has a great ass to go along with those ripped forearms too, but I figure reciprocating the compliment would be weird.

  “Would you like to do a few shots while we wait?” he asks.

  “Umm—I’m pretty sure I look like crap right now,” I say. “I just worked my butt off.”

  “Getting a little sweaty’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he says. “It looks hot.”

  Oh God. Did he just tell me I look hot? I’m definitely blushing now. And it must be obvious that I’m struggling not to grin like a fool. I can barely remember what flirting used to feel like, but it never seemed this fun in college.

  Given that he just told me he likes my ass, I have to assume there are two possibilities: either he genuinely wants to waste his valuable time photographing me as a potential fitness model—which is highly unlikely—or he wants to fuck me. Which is just plain hot.

  “Some other time,” I say. “I really need to get ready for work. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “Oh, I’ll be around,” he says. “This place is backdrop gold, so I’ll be spending plenty of time here. And based on that backside, I’m guessing you’re here a lot too.”

  If he were any less handsome, I’d probably be creeped out. But his cheesy compliment gets a girly giggle out of me. I excuse myself to head home before I can embarrass myself further, and as I’m gathering my things I convince myself that there’s nothing wrong with thinking about him while I shower.

  Chapter 5

  “What the fuck have you been doing to get that body, you insanely hot bitch?”

  Casey can be so sweet when she tries.

  I’m meeting her for drinks at Market, an obnoxiously loud club downtown, and I’ve been looking forward to this night for two months. Casey’s always been a tough cookie to pin down. Since we became friends in college, she’s been a hub of social interaction for me and everyone else who enters her orbit.

  What bar are we going to tonight?

  Ask Casey.

  Which frat parties are the least douchey?

  Casey knows.

  Can we get into that underground VIP event with the giant bouncer checking names at the door?

  Of course we can. Casey’s on the list.

  Bleached blonde with a freshly cut bob that moves in unison with her exaggerated gestures, Casey’s the most socially gifted person I’ve ever met. It can’t hurt that she’s also mind-numbingly gorgeous with a brash, bigmouthed, flash-her-tits-at-anyone personality. Traditionally, her compliments have focused on my smarts or my record collection, both of which she routinely made use of when we were students together. And now she’s telling me I’m a hot bitch. I’ll take it.

  She’s off of her stool and accosting me before I reach her table. “Seriously, where the fuck did all of this come from?” she shouts over the music, grabbing my bare arms. I suddenly feel better about the sleeveless gold top I hemmed and hawed over before pairing with my two-hundred-and-thirty-dollar jeans. Casey’s wearing virtually the same thing, except her top is bright pink. She’s also showing way more cleavage, and her legs are skinny little sticks. She looks a little gaunt all over, actually. Maybe her years of relentless partying are catching up to her. That would be bad for both of us. Casey’s always been the hot one in our friendship. She got hit on while I helped her study. It was a good system, and I don’t think either of us would know how to deal if the tables were turned.

  “I guess I’ve been working out,” I say with a smile, knowing any vagueness will infuriate her.

  “Bitch, I want details. Actually, fuck the details. I just want those Jessica Biel arms.” She squeezes my upper arm again and tries to jiggle it, causing me to flex. “Jesus Christ,” she says. “I’m going to pick a fight tonight just so you can put those puppies to work.”

  We laugh and hug, and she makes a show of groping my ass. “Holy fucking shit,” she says.

  “Not bad, right?” I say.

  “Not bad? Oh my God, I’m literally mad at you because of how hard your ass is. What the fuck is going on? Are you doing P90X?”

  This is not my rock-hard ass being grabbed my another woman in a club.

  We sit down while the speakers blare a top-forty hip-hop song I’d have probably heard a million times if I went to a regular gym. After Casey orders a round of honeydew martinis, I tell her about my initiation into the world of training like an athlete.

  “I can squat one eighty-five now,” I say.

  “What does that even mean?”

  “Like with a barbell on my back,” I say. I reach behind my head and draw a line along my traps where the bar sits.

  “Jesus Christ,” she says. “You can probably squat that hot bartender over there.”

  I follow her index finger to its target. Behind the futuristic backlit bar, a black-clad bartender with shoulder-length brown hair and a dusting of scruff is uncapping beers for a throng of shouting college kids.

  “Looks like Izzy Stradlin, right?” she says. “So fucking hot.”

  “Right,” I say, knowing anyone who looks like a member of Guns N’ Roses in their prime is more her type than mine.

  Then again, what is my type anymore? In school it was easy. I wanted to date bookish, sensitive guys. Tall, skinny, wordy boys who looked like Jarvis Cocker from the band Pulp. Guys who liked cats and couldn’t be bothered
with sports, but who had a bit of accidental abdominal definition beneath their fitted button-downs. It hits me that knowing who I wanted to date in those days told me everything I needed to know about who I was. And now that I have a career and a town home and a solid but sparkless marriage, this burst of carnal attraction for every guy with forearm definition is really messing with my compass.

  Back then I knew the guy I married would have to be a fan of early REM and mid-catalogue Radiohead. He’d have read Catcher in the Rye at least five times while he was in high school, but by prom he’d have gotten over it and decided Franny and Zooey was superior. He’d be able to quote stanzas of poetry by Auden and Eliot, though he’d never dare do it in public—only in the wee hours of the morning when he and I were lying awake after tender, passionate sex and my vinyl copy of Meat Is Murder had run out of grooves. He’d have read and loved almost everything by Toni Morrison, but he’d have a secret penchant for manly war novels by Norman Mailer and Joseph Heller. And though he’d genuinely enjoy watching guilty-pleasure romcoms with me, his favorite film would be something dark and gritty like Cool Hand Luke.

  Most importantly, he’d be as deeply uncomfortable in this raucous club as I am.

  Of course, that was just the guy I was going to marry. Because most of the guys I ended up fooling around with, including Jason, were frat boys who lived for sex but couldn’t string a sentence together over waffles the next morning. I think I ditched my ideal guy around the time I actually tried dating an approximation of him. That’s when I realized that skinny, intellectual guys who listen to Radiohead also happen to fuck like kittens on Valium.

  I guess I wasn’t all that different back then. Even though I wasn’t comfortable admitting it, I just needed to be fucked.

  But then I met David, who changed everything. He was half-jock but well-read. He was a poli-sci major who would ace his exams and then paint his face for football games. He read fiction that you couldn’t buy at airports, and he non-ironically embraced my love of cheesy date movies, but he also played squash with his upper-crust roommates and went to the gym.