She’s not what you think of when you think of a professional weight lifter. She’s maybe 5’4″ tall, blonde, petite. Well, not perfectly petite: her hips are a bit wide, her thighs muscular, her ass meaty. Her breasts were delicious A-cups, tiny, pert, but she decided that for her career, they needed to be D-cups, and for several months now, they have been. Yet another way in which the tyranny of the lovers of the big breasts has harmed me.
She is part trainer, part therapist, part confessor, part therapy patient.
Once or twice a week, I meet her at the gym. She dresses provocatively for me (well, she dresses provocatively when I’m not there, too, I’m sure. But she takes requests from me). I like to dress her in ways that show off her thighs, her ass, and the tiny little patches of light one can see between them. That’s one of the best things about her body: when she wears yoga pants, her ass pops out, her thighs bulge, and then, just below her pussy, there’s a tiny triangle of light where the legs don’t touch.
She’s never read this blog, but she knows of it. She wants me to write about her – it’s her inner exhibitionist showing. I’ve told her that, while I know lots of intimate details of her life, I don’t know anything that really would fit here: here, I told her, I write really about two things – things I think, and things I do. The boundary between the two isn’t always perfectly clear, even to me. But those two categories capture pretty much everything.
“But what about that time I told you about, when I fucked that guy in a gym, after hours? In the pool? The hot-tub? The sauna?”
1. Wasn’t me.
2. Actually, what would make that interesting isn’t the bare-bones outline of it, or even the gory details – whether provided by her or imagined by me – but the surroundings. What’s sexiest, as I’ve written elsewhere, is the context – the emotional context, the power context, the physical and relational context in which it took place.
AND – it’s not really that interesting to me to write about sex someone else had.