My wife is a marathon runner. She had always wanted us to share a hobby, but I was never really into sports. After years of her trying to convince me, I finally gave in and decided to join the club she belonged to.
The club was pretty diverse—some people swam, others cycled, but most were runners. Since I wasn’t much of an athlete, I chose to run. My plan was to stick around for two or three months just to make her happy and then quietly quit. But, surprisingly, I discovered that running was my thing. It was the sport I’d been waiting for my whole life. So I stayed—and that’s when I met Gabriel.
I’ve never had many close friends. Because of my profession, most of the people I’d call friends were classmates or coworkers. I didn’t really have a tight-knit circle outside of work. Gabriel worked in finance and was also an entrepreneur. He had been running for over ten years, but after getting married and having three kids, he opted for a more stable job for financial security, and the lack of time made him quit. He ended up doing well—he was an executive at one of the top insurance companies in the region. For health reasons, he’d been advised to exercise regularly, and since he already had a running background, he naturally picked it up again. He was around 42 years old and still had the good looks of someone who had clearly been very attractive in his youth. He was still handsome, just with that kind of mature look age gives you. He had fair skin, dark hair with a receding hairline that he tried to cover up by keeping it a little long, but still neat. He wasn’t very muscular, but his body was well-proportioned.
At the club, it was common to see beginners running in groups of three or four. But as people lost interest, they’d drop out, and eventually, most ended up running alone—unless they found someone who ran at the same pace. Finding someone who could match your pace and was actually enjoyable to be around was like winning the lottery. Gabriel and I had almost nothing in common: I was an atheist, he was deeply religious; he worked with numbers, I worked with sick people. One of the few things we did share was our running pace, and during those long runs, we had even longer conversations—about life, family, work. Even though our lives were very different, we learned to enjoy each other’s company. We signed up for races together, sent each other short Instagram videos about running, and shared memes. Before I knew it, we were texting each other throughout the day. He often asked me for medical advice—food poisoning, allergic reactions one of his kids had—and that built trust between us. You could say he was the first real friend I’d made in my adult life outside of university or work.
My wife was happy about that. She’d always found it strange that I didn’t have a best friend—something most men seem to have. As an only child with lingering doubts about my sexuality, I’d always been shy. In fact, she was my first and only girlfriend. I love her deeply and would marry her a thousand times over. But the attraction I felt toward other men had always been there. I just never dared to act on it. I stuck to watching porn and jerk off to keep those desires at bay. But with Gabriel, it felt different. We never talked about anything like that—me being married gave him no reason to suspect anything, and since he was religious, our conversations never veered in that direction anyway, except that one time he mentioned that, between work and coming home to take care of and play with the kids, he often felt exhausted and just didn’t felt like having sex with his wife.
One day, during an easy 8K run, I had to stop because of a sharp pain in my thigh. I walked back to our starting point, and after finishing his run, Gabriel returned to walk with me while we talked about what could be causing the pain. Our coach said it was likely muscle overload and recommended a sports massage—something I’d never done before, and apparently, neither had Gabriel.
My wife usually got her massages at a center where the massage therapists were blind. Women were treated by female therapists, and men could between male or female. Because these were deep-tissue massages, it was recommended to be naked during the session, but since the therapists were blind, people weren’t self-conscious about it. She’d told me all this when she first started running. When our coach mentioned the massage, she said she’d make the appointment for me and I just had to show up. Later that day, Gabriel messaged me to check in.
—“How’s the pain?”
—“Better. It only hurts when I run. Walking is tolerable. I already have the massage appointment.”
—“You know, I’ve never had one. Sometimes my legs feel heavy—I think a massage would do me good. When’s your appointment? Maybe I can go with you.”
—“Saturday 9 a.m. There’s only one therapist available, but I’ll send you the contact. Tell them you’re with me and see if they can fit you in at 10.”
—“Perfect.”
I arrived 15 minutes early, but Gabriel was already there—he was crazy about never being late. The receptionist took us to a waiting area just before the massage rooms. At 9, the therapist came out—an older blind man, probably in his 60s, slim but muscular from years of giving massages. He told us someone had just canceled a relaxation massage, and the therapist who was going to attend to them was now available. Since we came together, he asked if we’d mind going in at the same time.
The sports massage area had two separate cubicles. When we started walking that way, the therapist said it wasn’t that was and pointed us toward the relaxation section, which, we assumed, had a similar setup. But this area was different. On the right, there was a single-person room, and on the left, a double room with two massage tables. Another therapist was there getting the space ready.
—“We’ll use this room,” the man said. “That way we can free up the sports area for another client. Since you’re together, I assume it’s fine.”
I froze.
As I mentioned, the blind therapists handled the sports massages and clients were naked. Even though we were now in the relaxation area, the type of massage was still a sports massage—so the same rule applied.
Gabriel had just found out about all this when he arrived. I’m guessing, like me, he assumed we’d be in separate cubicles. He looked thoughtful, so I said:
—“Hey, I’ll go first like we’d planned. Or if you prefer, go ahead—I’ll wait.”
—“I’m fine either way. We’re friends, and the therapists are blind—what are they going to see? Haha, come on.”
Gabriel had told me he was the youngest of four brothers, so I assumed being naked around other men wasn’t a big deal to him. He was religious, sure—but his modesty seemed reserved for women. We’d known each other for a year, and I’d never done or said anything inappropriate. Me being married, he had no reason to feel awkward around me or suspect anything. And with his religious background, he probably thought gay or bisexual guys were just flamboyant stereotypes with wigs and makeup.
We were told to hang our clothes on the rack, which we did. My heart was pounding, but I kept a neutral expression and avoided looking at him, not wanting to make him uncomfortable and put our friendship (and my reputation) at risk.
He laid face down on the table and his therapist started on his legs. Mine apologized and stepped out to grab something. That’s when I let myself look. His skin was pale, the kind you get from sitting in an office all day, away from sunlight and we ran super early in the morning before dawn. He wasn’t super hairy, but he had some, especially on his legs and butt—butt that i was seeing for the first time. Even though neither he nor the therapist could see me, I grabbed a small towel to cover an erection I couldn’t control.
The massage lasted about 45 minutes. I put on my earbuds, focused on the relaxing music, and tried to push the image out of my mind. When we finished, Gabriel was already sitting on his table, legs slightly apart, casually wiping oil off his arms and legs with a paper towel. I saw him frontal for the first time. His chest and abs weren’t super defined, but he had the natural beaty of a regular dad’s body. His untrimmed pubes was dark like the hair in his head, and the penis was of average length—more long than thick. I couldn’t tell if he was circumcised or if his foreskin was just short. I stood up and turned my back to him, pretending to clean off the oil, but really just hiding my second erection.
We were handed thin bathrobes and told to head to the showers through a door I hadn’t even noticed. Again, I took a deep breath and did my best to seem composed, though my heart was racing . The double room, meant for couples, had a single bathroom for two—just a long rectangular space with two showers facing each other, enclosed by a clear glass door. I froze again.
—“Go ahead,” I told him. “I’ll rinse off a bit more oil.”
—“Come on, there are two showers. This reminds me of military school—I was pretty rebellious as a teen so my dad sent me away.” He turned on the water to check the temperature. I remembered that military school story from one of our runs. “Let’s go, we’ll finish faster. Besides, don’t tell me you’re shy—I’ve already seen you, man. Haha. At home I had to shower with my brothers or we’d be late for school. When you grow up all boys, you get over that kind of thing.”
He walked in and started lathering up. I followed, turned on my shower, and kept my eyes strictly above the neck. I showered as quickly as I could. Afterward, we got dressed and said goodbye.
That afternoon, he texted me:
—“Hey, I really enjoyed today.”
—“Yeah? I’m super sore. That therapist found muscles I didn’t even know I had.”
—“The massage was great. But I meant going together. We’ve talked so much and gotten to know each other through training—but today, I saw you like a brother.”
—“Thanks. I feel the same.”
—“See you early Monday.”
—“Take care.”
To be continued.
The club was pretty diverse—some people swam, others cycled, but most were runners. Since I wasn’t much of an athlete, I chose to run. My plan was to stick around for two or three months just to make her happy and then quietly quit. But, surprisingly, I discovered that running was my thing. It was the sport I’d been waiting for my whole life. So I stayed—and that’s when I met Gabriel.
I’ve never had many close friends. Because of my profession, most of the people I’d call friends were classmates or coworkers. I didn’t really have a tight-knit circle outside of work. Gabriel worked in finance and was also an entrepreneur. He had been running for over ten years, but after getting married and having three kids, he opted for a more stable job for financial security, and the lack of time made him quit. He ended up doing well—he was an executive at one of the top insurance companies in the region. For health reasons, he’d been advised to exercise regularly, and since he already had a running background, he naturally picked it up again. He was around 42 years old and still had the good looks of someone who had clearly been very attractive in his youth. He was still handsome, just with that kind of mature look age gives you. He had fair skin, dark hair with a receding hairline that he tried to cover up by keeping it a little long, but still neat. He wasn’t very muscular, but his body was well-proportioned.
At the club, it was common to see beginners running in groups of three or four. But as people lost interest, they’d drop out, and eventually, most ended up running alone—unless they found someone who ran at the same pace. Finding someone who could match your pace and was actually enjoyable to be around was like winning the lottery. Gabriel and I had almost nothing in common: I was an atheist, he was deeply religious; he worked with numbers, I worked with sick people. One of the few things we did share was our running pace, and during those long runs, we had even longer conversations—about life, family, work. Even though our lives were very different, we learned to enjoy each other’s company. We signed up for races together, sent each other short Instagram videos about running, and shared memes. Before I knew it, we were texting each other throughout the day. He often asked me for medical advice—food poisoning, allergic reactions one of his kids had—and that built trust between us. You could say he was the first real friend I’d made in my adult life outside of university or work.
My wife was happy about that. She’d always found it strange that I didn’t have a best friend—something most men seem to have. As an only child with lingering doubts about my sexuality, I’d always been shy. In fact, she was my first and only girlfriend. I love her deeply and would marry her a thousand times over. But the attraction I felt toward other men had always been there. I just never dared to act on it. I stuck to watching porn and jerk off to keep those desires at bay. But with Gabriel, it felt different. We never talked about anything like that—me being married gave him no reason to suspect anything, and since he was religious, our conversations never veered in that direction anyway, except that one time he mentioned that, between work and coming home to take care of and play with the kids, he often felt exhausted and just didn’t felt like having sex with his wife.
One day, during an easy 8K run, I had to stop because of a sharp pain in my thigh. I walked back to our starting point, and after finishing his run, Gabriel returned to walk with me while we talked about what could be causing the pain. Our coach said it was likely muscle overload and recommended a sports massage—something I’d never done before, and apparently, neither had Gabriel.
My wife usually got her massages at a center where the massage therapists were blind. Women were treated by female therapists, and men could between male or female. Because these were deep-tissue massages, it was recommended to be naked during the session, but since the therapists were blind, people weren’t self-conscious about it. She’d told me all this when she first started running. When our coach mentioned the massage, she said she’d make the appointment for me and I just had to show up. Later that day, Gabriel messaged me to check in.
—“How’s the pain?”
—“Better. It only hurts when I run. Walking is tolerable. I already have the massage appointment.”
—“You know, I’ve never had one. Sometimes my legs feel heavy—I think a massage would do me good. When’s your appointment? Maybe I can go with you.”
—“Saturday 9 a.m. There’s only one therapist available, but I’ll send you the contact. Tell them you’re with me and see if they can fit you in at 10.”
—“Perfect.”
I arrived 15 minutes early, but Gabriel was already there—he was crazy about never being late. The receptionist took us to a waiting area just before the massage rooms. At 9, the therapist came out—an older blind man, probably in his 60s, slim but muscular from years of giving massages. He told us someone had just canceled a relaxation massage, and the therapist who was going to attend to them was now available. Since we came together, he asked if we’d mind going in at the same time.
The sports massage area had two separate cubicles. When we started walking that way, the therapist said it wasn’t that was and pointed us toward the relaxation section, which, we assumed, had a similar setup. But this area was different. On the right, there was a single-person room, and on the left, a double room with two massage tables. Another therapist was there getting the space ready.
—“We’ll use this room,” the man said. “That way we can free up the sports area for another client. Since you’re together, I assume it’s fine.”
I froze.
As I mentioned, the blind therapists handled the sports massages and clients were naked. Even though we were now in the relaxation area, the type of massage was still a sports massage—so the same rule applied.
Gabriel had just found out about all this when he arrived. I’m guessing, like me, he assumed we’d be in separate cubicles. He looked thoughtful, so I said:
—“Hey, I’ll go first like we’d planned. Or if you prefer, go ahead—I’ll wait.”
—“I’m fine either way. We’re friends, and the therapists are blind—what are they going to see? Haha, come on.”
Gabriel had told me he was the youngest of four brothers, so I assumed being naked around other men wasn’t a big deal to him. He was religious, sure—but his modesty seemed reserved for women. We’d known each other for a year, and I’d never done or said anything inappropriate. Me being married, he had no reason to feel awkward around me or suspect anything. And with his religious background, he probably thought gay or bisexual guys were just flamboyant stereotypes with wigs and makeup.
We were told to hang our clothes on the rack, which we did. My heart was pounding, but I kept a neutral expression and avoided looking at him, not wanting to make him uncomfortable and put our friendship (and my reputation) at risk.
He laid face down on the table and his therapist started on his legs. Mine apologized and stepped out to grab something. That’s when I let myself look. His skin was pale, the kind you get from sitting in an office all day, away from sunlight and we ran super early in the morning before dawn. He wasn’t super hairy, but he had some, especially on his legs and butt—butt that i was seeing for the first time. Even though neither he nor the therapist could see me, I grabbed a small towel to cover an erection I couldn’t control.
The massage lasted about 45 minutes. I put on my earbuds, focused on the relaxing music, and tried to push the image out of my mind. When we finished, Gabriel was already sitting on his table, legs slightly apart, casually wiping oil off his arms and legs with a paper towel. I saw him frontal for the first time. His chest and abs weren’t super defined, but he had the natural beaty of a regular dad’s body. His untrimmed pubes was dark like the hair in his head, and the penis was of average length—more long than thick. I couldn’t tell if he was circumcised or if his foreskin was just short. I stood up and turned my back to him, pretending to clean off the oil, but really just hiding my second erection.
We were handed thin bathrobes and told to head to the showers through a door I hadn’t even noticed. Again, I took a deep breath and did my best to seem composed, though my heart was racing . The double room, meant for couples, had a single bathroom for two—just a long rectangular space with two showers facing each other, enclosed by a clear glass door. I froze again.
—“Go ahead,” I told him. “I’ll rinse off a bit more oil.”
—“Come on, there are two showers. This reminds me of military school—I was pretty rebellious as a teen so my dad sent me away.” He turned on the water to check the temperature. I remembered that military school story from one of our runs. “Let’s go, we’ll finish faster. Besides, don’t tell me you’re shy—I’ve already seen you, man. Haha. At home I had to shower with my brothers or we’d be late for school. When you grow up all boys, you get over that kind of thing.”
He walked in and started lathering up. I followed, turned on my shower, and kept my eyes strictly above the neck. I showered as quickly as I could. Afterward, we got dressed and said goodbye.
That afternoon, he texted me:
—“Hey, I really enjoyed today.”
—“Yeah? I’m super sore. That therapist found muscles I didn’t even know I had.”
—“The massage was great. But I meant going together. We’ve talked so much and gotten to know each other through training—but today, I saw you like a brother.”
—“Thanks. I feel the same.”
—“See you early Monday.”
—“Take care.”
To be continued.
