My Best Year So Far
Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Heterosexual, Incest, Cousins,
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A thirty-something divorcee struggles with his empty life until he meets up with his childhood crush.
OK, so here's how this whole thing got started: I'm sitting in my recliner on my fat ass in front of the tube. I'm sure most of you have been there before; a hundred and fifty channels and not one damned thing worth watching; brainpower need not apply. The thought floats around in the back of my mind that I should be doing something other than thumb exercises to burn up a few calories but I just keep sitting there punching the damned channel selector on the remote.
The issue was that I'd been in vegetable mode for a year and a half, ever since my divorce. I just couldn't seem to work up the motivation to get back into the chase and that was the biggest reason why all my clothes were shrinking. I suppose a head doctor would have tagged it 'mild depression' and prescribed some arcane chemical designed primarily to make him and the pharmaceutical companies just a little bit wealthier.
Don't get me wrong; it's not like my whole life was a train wreck; I had my own civil engineering business and it was pretty darned successful. My house was even paid for because, thanks to the economic crash, I got it for a song (I felt bad for the previous owners but they were about to be foreclosed and had to sell and I needed to buy so we made a deal. Timing is everything, right?). I was driving a nice car and I had plenty of money in the bank so by most standards I was definitely doing OK. It was just my personal life that had turned to crap. I mean, Jesus! there I was, thirty-five years old, growing a beer belly as well as a buffalo butt, sitting in front of the idiot box on a Friday night and feeling sorry for myself. How pathetic is that?
The split between my ex and I was amicable enough. We didn't wind up hating each other or anything but there were irreconcilable issues that eventually drove us to a mutual agreement to go our separate ways. Fortunately, there weren't any kids that had to share the trauma of a failed marriage. The big difference in how my ex and I handled the split was that she got on with her life and I sat around in a blue funk. Hell, she was dating again a month after I moved out and now I hear she's getting married again. I'm afraid I didn't cope nearly as well as she did.
I must be some kind of a world-class weenie when it comes to handling emotional trauma, real or perceived, because every time I thought about taking on another relationship, I'd get the cold sweats. There was one lady in an office in the same building as mine that started coming on to me after word got around that I was available but my fear of the price I might have to pay was greater than my need to get laid. I know that's hard for anyone with normal hormone levels and functioning genitalia to comprehend but it was true. But then that's why God invented porn and self-abuse, right?
But I digress: The TV screen is flashing past reruns of 'Beverly Hillbillies' and 'Dukes of Hazard' when some kind of blockage breaks loose in my neural pathways and I hear this shout echoing through my skull: 'THOMAS! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?
Answer? I knew very well what I was doing – I was wallowing in self-pity and slowly morphing into a slack-jawed recliner spud in the process. I just couldn't let this go on! I got up, turned off the tube, put on my boots and a jacket and headed out the door. I wasn't going anywhere in particular, I just needed to walk. It was a cool night, perfect for a constitutional. I live in a mid-sized Colorado mountain town so even though the calendar said it was spring, there was still a lot of snow on the ground. I walked for damn near two hours but I couldn't tell you where I'd been because I wasn't paying any attention. I just thought about who I was turning into - Joe Sixpack on steroids! For you real 'Joe Sixpacks' out there, no disrespect meant; it's just not the way I want my own life to go.
By the time I got back to my house and unlocked my front door, I knew my life was headed in a new direction. I didn't know if it was going to be a good thing or a bad thing but it was definitely going to be a different thing. Step number one: I sat at my computer and brought up the 800 number of the satellite TV service. When the techie finally deigned to speak to me, I asked her to please stop service immediately and close out my account.
Apparently they get this kind of frustrated outburst all the time because she goes, "I'll be happy to take care of that for you Sir but for only five dollars a month, we can keep the account open so there won't be a deposit and service charge when you're ready to resume service."
"You don't understand, Miss. I have no intention of resuming service."
"I'm sure you believe that now, Sir but our experience has been that most people eventually do."
She had no intention of making it easy. "Here's the thing, see. I don't doubt your statistics and I'm sure you mean well but the mindless drivel your service broadcasts may have already done irrevocable damage to my brain and I will never allow it to enter my personal space again. Cut it off!"
"Are you certain you want to do that, Mr. McMillan? It's really no problem for us to hold your account open." No doubt the woman had been to persistence school.
"OK, let me try one this more time. CUT! IT! OFF! NOW! Did you get that, Ma'am?"
"Um, yes, Sir." A few moments of silence later, "OK, Sir, I've put in the order and your service will be terminated sometime tomorrow afternoon. Is there anything else I can help you with today?"
"No, thank you."
"If you'll stay on the line to complete a short survey..." I hung up.
Immensely pleased with myself for having done the unthinkable, I went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator to see what I might reward myself with for being so courageous. Cheesecake! Just the thing! I almost had the first bite to my mouth when that same pathway between my limbic system and my prefrontal cortex unclogged again. I stuffed the entire cheesecake down the garbage disposal and went to bed. That was step number two.
My house has three bedrooms; mine, a guest room and another that stood empty. Within three days, the empty one contained an expensive elliptical runner - my right knee has been trashed since high school football so running is out - a stationary bike, a weight bench, an impressive set of weights and a yoga mat. I was really serious about this thing. I even moved my giant flat screen TV into the room so I could follow along with the perfectly formed lady on the yoga DVD.
Oh, I know what you're thinking: 'This guy's gonna go crazy for a couple or three weeks and then start drifting back to his old inert ways when he realizes how much hard work he's letting himself in for.'
I started slow and worked up to a good routine that included forty minutes on the runner, fifteen minutes on the bike, twenty minutes of weights and twenty minutes of yoga exercises and stretches. Add some sit-ups and push-ups to boot. I put a large full-length mirror on the wall so I couldn't miss seeing my Pillsbury doughboy body as it bounced and jiggled around the room. I even worked out in just my jock strap so I couldn't avoid seeing that pooch above my pubic area that defines the difference between a size thirty or thirty-two and a forty or even a forty-two. It shames me to admit that I'd definitely been stretching that forty-two mark.
I combed through the Internet and read all about the disastrous 'American Diet' and immediately unloaded about three quarters of the food from my refrigerator and pantry. I didn't quite go vegan but it was close, probably something more like the Mediterranean diet. When your brain starts working in that direction, it's quite a shock to realize that ninety percent of the supermarket fare you've been stuffing into your face will shorten your life. It shouldn't have been a shock to arrive at the concurrent realization that food producers don't give a tinker's dam about my health as long as they can suck me into buying their products with pretty packaging and not-quite-true claims of the health benefits therein.
Three months after that fateful March evening I could see real changes. I'd dropped over forty pounds and almost all of the belly-pooch was gone. I was young enough that my skin was still shrink-to-fit so I didn't wind up looking like I'd had Shar-Pei genes grafted into my DNA. The standard I set for myself was to be able to look down in the shower and have an unobstructed view of my limp dick without having to bend over. My arms and chest began to show some definition and, while I wasn't quite what you'd call sculpted yet, I began to look pretty darned good if I do say so myself. A lot of old clothes that had been gathering dust in my closet were cycled back into service, fashion be damned. At the office, even my draftsman and my secretary noticed the change and loaded on the compliments. I have to admit their motivation might have been suspect since the former is gay and may have had prurient interests and the latter may have been fishing for a raise. To my way of thinking, compliments are compliments – take 'em and run.
But while good things were definitely happening to my body, my social life wasn't moving in the same direction. My general state of health improved but I still had a practically pathologic fear that if I got too close to a woman in that way, I'd wind up getting married again and that kept throwing a wet blanket on any hope of an enjoyable sex life. What I really wanted was a risk-free sexual relationship, knowing full well that such a thing does not and never has existed within our species.
Now, I can almost see your eyes rolling and hear you derisively pointing out, 'Jeez man, haven't you ever heard of one-night stands? They're part of the dance of life, the rite of spring, all that stuff. What planet are you really from?'
Which points to another quirky aspect of my personality. I don't like quickies. I find them clumsy, uncomfortable, sometimes embarrassing and nearly always singularly unsatisfying. I don't drink because my family tree is rife with alcoholism and I choose not to test those waters. My dad was in his fifties before he finally beat it. That means I don't hang around the local pub where one can blame one's indiscretions on the booze and I generally don't accept invitations to big bashes because mind-altered people creep me out. I guess most of the world would see me as a 'Mr. Vanilla'. So sue me! I can't help it; that's just who I am, neuroses and all.