By Sivasankar venkatakrishnan
She wasn’t just a room of iron and sweat.
She was seduction. She was fire.
She was the first woman to teach me how pain could feel like pleasure,
how effort could bloom into power,
how devotion could chisel dreams into flesh.
Our affair began in the wild rush of youth —
testosterone, ego, and fantasies sculpted in steel.
I chased her with hungry eyes,
gripped her dumbbells like promises,
and kissed her mirrors with my ambition.
But life — that jealous lover — pulled me away.
Work, fatigue, comfort… distractions whispered me astray.
I left her waiting in silence,
her weights untouched, her mirrors dimmed.
Then, fate played its wicked poetry —
my wife, seeing my body soften and spirit dull,
sent me back into the arms of my first love.
And oh, when I returned…
she welcomed me without bitterness.
No questions. Just sweat.
Just fire.
What we shared this time was no mere flirtation.
It was deeper, rawer, almost sacred.
By 48, I was hers entirely.
Every rep was a confession.
Every drop of sweat — a poem.
She became my addiction, my obsession,
my morning ritual, my evening fantasy.
I courted her with clean food,
wrote her love letters in protein shakes,
whispered sweet nothings in amino chains and testosterone tides.
I pushed my body to stay worthy of her,
to rise with her, to be sculpted in her image.
And in return,
she kissed every inch of me with definition —
delts like armor, veins like rivers,
a chest carved like a vow never broken.
Ours was a love that aged like wine —
richer, more intoxicating with time.
She never grew tired of me,
only asked that I show up,
that I never fake it,
that I give her my all.
And I did.
I do.
I will.
Because this isn’t just fitness.
This is poetry.
This is lust.
This is devotion.
This… is forever.