Grudge Match

The front door opens with considerably more force than necessary, and you look up from your phone just as your wife comes marching into the living room. She is still wearing her workout clothes, a white sports bra and matching shorts, with her gym bag slung over one shoulder and her hair pulled into a thoroughly disheveled ponytail.

Her cheeks are flushed, although whether from exercise or irritation is difficult to determine. She drops her bag beside the stairs, plants her hands on her hips, and announces that she has finally had enough of the disgusting bastard at the gym. You lower your phone and ask which disgusting bastard she means.

Your wife gives an incredulous little laugh, as though she can hardly believe what she is about to tell you. "Some enormous creep at the gym. I've never seen him before today, but apparently he's been there a while. One of the girls at the front desk says everybody calls him Grudge."

You raise an eyebrow at the name, and she rolls her eyes. "I know. Can you believe that? She begins describing him, and you find yourself paying considerably more attention than you expected. He is enormous, she explains, at least six feet tall and built like a professional wrestler, with a thick neck, massive shoulders, and heavily tattooed arms.

His head is shaved, his beard is dark and unkempt, and he has the sort of battered face that suggests a long history of settling disagreements with his fists. She says he must be in his forties, although it is difficult to tell beneath the scars and tattoos. He wears an old black tank top, filthy-looking sweatpants, and heavy boots that seem completely inappropriate for a gym.

"And he has this horrible way of looking at people," she adds. "Like he's trying to decide whether he wants to fight them or fuck them." You laugh at the description, but she insists she isn't exaggerating. She has never seen anyone quite like him, and she certainly hasn't encountered anyone so completely indifferent to ordinary manners.

You ask what he actually did. She stops pacing and looks at you, her cheeks coloring slightly. "Well, I was finishing my workout on that machine where you sit down and push your knees apart. You know the one?" You nod. You know exactly which machine she means, the thigh abductor.

It is one of the machines she uses regularly, and you have occasionally watched her perform the exercise when you've accompanied her to the gym. "I was doing my last set, minding my own business, when I noticed somebody standing in front of me. At first I thought he was waiting to use the machine, so I kept going. Then I looked up and realized he wasn't even looking at my face."

She pauses, evidently embarrassed by the memory. "He was staring straight between my legs." Something unexpected happens inside you. The image arrives before you have time to consider whether you want it. You picture your wife seated on the machine in her white workout shorts, concentrating on her repetitions while an enormous, tattooed stranger stands directly in front of her.

You imagine the moment she realizes where his attention is directed, the embarrassment that must have followed, and the sheer audacity of a man who apparently makes no effort to conceal his interest. You feel an unmistakable flutter of jealousy, but feel your cock twitch as well. It is so sudden and inappropriate that you immediately attempt to bury it beneath a more respectable emotion.

You ask whether she told him to stop staring. "Of course I did! I looked him right in the eye and said, 'Can I help you?'" She plants her hands on her hips, unconsciously recreating the indignant posture she must have adopted at the gym. You can see her pussy through her shorts, but you don’t tell her that.

"And do you know what that disgusting pig said?" You shake your head. "He looked right at me, gave me this awful grin, and said, 'Yeah, sweetheart. You can spread your legs, because I can see your pussy.'" You stare at her.

For several seconds, you cannot think of anything remotely appropriate to say. The remark is so crude, so brazenly disrespectful, that you should be furious. Part of you certainly is. Some enormous stranger has publicly humiliated your wife, speaking to her in a manner you would never dream of tolerating under ordinary circumstances.

But another part of you is reacting very differently. You can almost hear the man's deep, rough voice delivering the insult. You imagine your wife's startled expression, the sudden rush of color into her cheeks, and the horrible realization that a complete stranger has been openly examining her while she exercises.

The thought produces an excitement so powerful that you shift uncomfortably on the sofa. Your wife is too busy recounting the incident to notice. "And he said it loud enough for other people to hear! There were two guys over by the dumbbells, and one of them actually laughed. I wanted to crawl into a hole."

You ask whether there was anything wrong with her shorts. "Absolutely not!" she insists. "They're the same white shorts I always wear. They're perfectly decent. That machine just puts you in a position where your legs are apart, and apparently that was all the invitation this Neanderthal needed."

She shakes her head in disbelief. "I mean, what kind of man says something like that to a woman he's never even met?" You tell her that he sounds like a complete asshole and suggest that she report him to the gym's management. It is precisely what a decent husband ought to say, and you deliver the advice with what you hope is convincing indignation.

Unfortunately, the image refuses to leave your imagination. You picture the enormous man standing over your seated wife, his tattooed arms hanging at his sides, his attention fixed upon her as she struggles to maintain her composure. You imagine her looking up at him, demanding an explanation, and receiving that appallingly vulgar response.

You have never met this man. You have never even seen a photograph of him. Yet the description your wife has provided is more than sufficient for your imagination to construct an intimidating figure who seems almost absurdly masculine beside her. You dislike him immediately. You also find yourself wanting to know considerably more about him.

Your wife continues pacing, apparently determined to work through her indignation before she can relax. "The worst part is that he wasn't even embarrassed. Not a bit. He just stood there grinning at me like I was a piece of meat." You ask what she did afterward. "I told him he was disgusting and that he needed to learn some manners."

You ask how he responded. "He laughed." She delivers the answer with such offended disbelief that you nearly smile. "He actually laughed at me. Then he looked me up and down, gave me this horrible grin, and said, 'Listen, sweetheart, if you ever want the dust knocked off that pussy, you just let me know. I'm available.'"

Your mouth falls open, and she nods emphatically, confirming that you heard her correctly. "Those were his exact words! Can you believe that? He said it right to my face, like he was doing me some kind of favor. Then he winked at me and went back to lifting weights, like he'd just offered to help me carry my groceries!" You struggle to summon an appropriately outraged response.

The image of that enormous, tattooed stranger making such an outrageously vulgar proposition to your wife has already lodged itself somewhere in your imagination. You can almost hear his gravelly voice, picture the arrogant grin spreading across his battered face, and imagine your wife's expression as she realizes that her attempt to put him in his place has only encouraged him.

The man's sheer audacity is infuriating, yet the uncomfortable excitement stirring beneath your anger makes you grateful that your wife is too busy fuming to study your reaction. She falls silent for a moment, evidently replaying the encounter. "And those arms," she adds, almost absently. "Good Lord. I don't think I've ever seen anybody built like that outside a movie."

You glance up. She notices your expression and immediately becomes defensive. "I'm not complimenting him! I'm just saying he's enormous. He looks like he could pick somebody up and throw them across the room without even trying." You assure her that you understand. She resumes her account, describing the man's thick shoulders, his heavily tattooed forearms, and the unpleasant confidence with which he moves through the gym.

She mentions that several people seem to give him a wide berth, although she cannot say whether that is because of his appearance or his behavior. She knows almost nothing about him beyond his nickname. She doesn't know where he lives, what he does for a living, or whether the rumors about prison are true. For all she knows, Grudge might simply be an exceptionally unpleasant bodybuilder with an unfortunate sense of humor.

Nevertheless, she has already decided that he is dangerous. You listen with an attentiveness that surprises you. What you cannot know is that your wife has been experiencing a remarkably similar conflict since leaving the gym. Her indignation is genuine. Grudge embarrassed her in front of strangers, and she resents the casual arrogance with which he treated her. She has every reason to be angry.

But the incident has also awakened something she does not particularly want to acknowledge. She remembers how completely unashamed he seemed when she confronted him. Most men would have looked away, apologized, or at least pretended that their attention had been innocent. Grudge did none of those things.

He met her eyes without hesitation and delivered his remark with the absolute confidence of a man who could not care less what she thought of him. She remembers the laughter from the nearby weightlifters. She remembers the heat rising into her cheeks, the dampness in her gym shorts. She remembers that, after returning to her workout, she had glanced toward the free weights to see whether he was still watching.

Their eyes met across the room. He gave her another slow, knowing grin, and she looked away so quickly that she nearly dropped her water bottle. She has been trying to convince herself that the encounter was merely unpleasant ever since. Standing in your living room, she tells herself that she is describing Grudge in such detail because she wants you to understand how thoroughly offensive he was.

She does not consider the possibility that she is enjoying the opportunity to describe him again, or that your attentive expression is encouraging her to linger over details she might otherwise have omitted. You, meanwhile, are discovering that every additional detail makes the scene more vivid. You imagine his size, his tattoos, his battered face, and the sheer insolence of his behavior.

You picture your wife sitting beneath his gaze, furious and embarrassed, with absolutely no idea how to respond to such an outrageous stranger. The thought makes you uncomfortable for reasons that have very little to do with anger. Eventually, she shakes her head and announces that she needs a shower.

"I swear, I ought to find another gym. Or at least go at a different time. I don't need some disgusting creep staring at me while I'm trying to work out." You agree that changing her schedule might be sensible. She retrieves her gym bag and starts upstairs, then pauses halfway up the staircase.

"You're awfully quiet about all this." You look up, suddenly conscious that you have been considerably less outraged than the situation probably warrants. You explain that you're simply surprised anyone would have the nerve to speak to her that way. She studies you for a moment, then gives a small, uncertain smile. "Well, apparently Grudge does." With that, she disappears upstairs.