You Deserve Perfect (LGBTQ+)

2

I knew it was coming soon, but I'm not sure whether that's good or bad.

A few days ago, it was our one-month anniversary. Up till now, the most we've done is make out with a tad of groping here and there. Eric has more experience than I do –everyone has more experience than I do– and he wanted us to wait until 'I'm ready', although I never said, not even implied, that I'm not.

Lately, whenever we're together, it's hard to hold ourselves. I'm bold enough to make comments and suggestions but too shy to actually initiate anything. But, more often than not, it's Eric's hand to slip underneath my shirt or my jeans, before he pulls himself together abruptly. 'Not the perfect setting,' he keeps saying.

I'm not sure what the 'perfect setting' is but, as I'll never admit to Eric, I'm not ready! Of course I won't tell him he's right because he's not: it's not psychological nor emotional as he thinks, no, because I honestly can't wait – it's physical. With Eric being practically a model, I need to be in excellent shape if I don't want him to experience disgust at first sight the moment I take off my clothes!

I'm still dizzy from coming face to face with the six babies – otherwise known as his abs. If anything, I owe him a good body. Not as good as his, I'm not dreaming that big, just... presentable. Five kilos less sound acceptable.

Let's be realistic. Three.

Maybe two.

Two. Starting now.

I quickly say my goodbyes to the guys –my teammates don't hide their relief that I won't rejoin them– and slip away before Eric can come after me.

Should I take a run home? To kickstart the whole thing?

But home is ten minutes away. I'm not that desperate.

When I go in, the family laptop is on the table, unprotected, so I rush it to my room where I can exercise in peace, before anyone notices.

The memory of Eric's body is too vivid, so I need a first stop in the bathroom. Thinking of him, thinking of his abs on me... my God, I don't think I can wait until I lose weight. I don't think I can wait at all – it's basically up to him.

I tidy up my mess and am on my way to leave, my heart clenched at the thought of what I must do next, when my eyes fall on That. The Beast, well-hidden underneath a pile of dirty clothes because me and my family collectively hate it.

The scale.

Leaving the laptop alone in the room while my little sister Emma is on the loose is risky, but if I'm tracking progress, I should know where I'm starting from.

I step on.

76 kilos.

I'm too short to be pulling that. I shrug; as long as I fall on the healthy part of BMI, I don't care if I'm a little chubby. But for Eric, I can make some effort to look my best.

It's too hot to wear anything but underwear, so I just shut the curtains. Nothing personal, neighbors, your house is nice and your barbeques the best, but I wouldn't want anyone watching.

Starting with sit-ups.

Not to exaggerate, but I'm about to die.

Four minutes. That's how long I lasted.

I found a bunch of workout videos on YouTube and chose the one with the buffest guy. He did it, so he knows what to do.

Huge mistake.

My untouched pile of homework across the room is glaring at me, and Mrs. Whatever –aka Mrs. Smith, our math teacher– will have my head tomorrow at school, but all I can calculate is this: I spend about triple the time staring at the ceiling, panting and waiting for the sweet release of death, than exercising.