He greets me at the door of a $2.5 million one-bedroom apartment near posh Beekman Pl in Midtown Manhattan. It belongs to a client, but Castro has a key. They both use it as what he vaguely calls "a getaway pad." Wearing tapered sweatpants, a hoodie, a black T-shirt, and a fly pair of orange Nikes, Castro sits at a marble-topped table, drinking a bottled protein shake. He looks me over and slides a bottle in my direction. Then he tells me I should drink it and skip dinner.
Here he is, in his own words.
Seriously obese guys never have mirrors in their bedrooms. That strikes me as odd. I have mirrors all over my apartment. I want to see myself at every opportunity. They don't want to see themselves for who they are. They lie about their weight, lie about what they eat, lie about the amount of activity they get. Then they hire a guy like me. They pay me $10,000, $15,000 per month, and I help them to get into the kind of shape that once seemed impossible to attain. I force them to work out when they don't want to, make sure they eat the proper food and dress the right way. I give them the feeling of being the fat kids in third grade that everybody makes fun of; I get them working hard enough that they run into the bathroom and puke. That's a good thing.