I decided it was time to start exercising.

At 36 years old, I had decided to study another career, and I spent most of the day sitting, getting rusty, and feeling a certain stiffness in my joints.

There was an old and small gym on my street. I thought it was the best option, not only because of its proximity to my home but also because it was a small gym where the atmosphere could be warmer.

In this gym, there was only one trainer, Vasco (a Portuguese name, since I live in Porto). He was a 34-year-old man, but I had the impression that he was older than me due to my slender build and youthful face. In contrast, Vasco was broad, strong, with brutish arms and legs. His face was equally brutish, with wide and bushy eyebrows, very short black hair, a two-day beard, and fierce dark eyes. He looked like an illustration of Tom of Finland, perhaps not as exaggerated but quite close.

He was kind but always spoke to me with sarcasm. That made me feel very foolish. He would often say, "Look who's here," with a small mocking laugh when he saw me arrive.

One rainy day, I arrived a bit earlier, and there was no one in the weight room. Only Vasco was there, training his broad chest. His tank top was soaked on his chest and armpits, and several drops of sweat slid smoothly down his face. I approached him to greet him.

"Good morning," I said.

He didn't respond, continuing his exercise while fixing his gaze on my eyes and flashing a half-smile on his mouth.

I didn't know what to do... Should I wait there until he responded? Why was he staring at me fixedly, without looking away for a second, without saying anything? Why was he smiling like that?

Finally, he spoke:

"You've noticed my body, haven't you? My macho body..."

"Huh? Why?" I replied, lowering my gaze to the ground, embarrassed, as I often do in these situations.

Feeling my sudden attack of shyness, he let out a laugh.

"Come on... Lie down on one of the mats, and we'll get started. Today, you've got me all to yourself, so we'll improvise a new routine..."

I did what he asked. I lay down and waited for him to arrive with some instruction.

He stood behind my head. I looked up, and there he was, so tall, so macho, with his short sports pants that I imagined were completely soaked with sweat on the inside...

He crouched down, squatting in front of my head resting on the ground.

"Put your arms close to your body, with your palms on the ground. Now, lift that bony ass, come on!" he said, grabbing my shoulders and starting to talk.

"I saw you the other day entering the Zoom alley (a gay disco in Porto). I already imagined you were a 'bicha' (a derogatory term for a gay man in Portuguese)..." When he pronounced the word "bicha," his smile became more mischievous.

I knew that because as soon as he said it, I lifted my gaze to his face. I was taken ...