Have I mentioned I take a walk every morning?
Of course I have. How else could I have enjoyed that hot kitchen floor blowjob with the married man who lived along the way (“Taking Care of Hubby”). You may remember he moved right after our encounter. Well, I FOUND his new home, and it’s just around the corner. So expect future hookups with hubby! Then there was that group of oversexed college boys on the disc golf course (“Disc Golf Dicks”). My jaws are still sore. I can’t wait for spring break! And there’s a new kid on the block who I met while he was walking to his bus stop. He’s the 18-year-old son of a family that moved into the house two doors down from mine. Stay tuned for an upcoming story (“Coming in through the Back Door”) because the kid is a Tyrannosaurus rex when it comes to sex!
Forget about the health benefits of walking; the sex benefits are unbeatable!
Which leads me to this hot encounter. It happened about two weeks ago, again during one of my morning walks. You’ll think I’m exaggerating but the truth is, I don’t have to. It was one of those experiences that burns itself into your memory. You’ll be glad I decided to share.
It was a Saturday and I had slept in to the unthinkable hour of 7:30, which is highly unusual for me. During the workweek you can’t drag me out of bed, but on weekends I’m up at 5 in the morning. Why? Because I don’t want to waste one second of my precious time off. Some people live to work, but I’m the opposite. I work to live. The way I see it, life is meant to be enjoyed, not wasted on 12-hour workdays, seven days a week, making money for some anonymous corporation or rich asshole living on a private island.
When I left for my walk the sun was already up, obviously, which seemed odd to me. Usually I walk in the dark, before sunrise, unless it’s right after one of those goofy time changes.
The day was hot and sticky. I knew that by the time I got back to my house, my shirt would be soaked with sweat. At the ripe old age of 39, my body isn’t as efficient as it used to be. If the temperature and humidity are in the 80s, I’m going to perspire. Case closed.
As I rounded the corner I saw one of those portable tent-like stands set up, with a group of people yelling and shaking noisemakers. I could hear tinny music from a boom box. As I approached they started yelling at me to come have a beer. I could see a keg under the shade, plus a table full of red plastic party cups.
I looked at my watch. It was quarter to 8 in the morning. Who would be drinking beer this time of day?
Turns out there was a marathon being run through the area, which would explain the arrows drawn in the road with flour. Runners would use them to navigate the course. (Can you believe some dipshit actually reported them to the cops for spreading anthrax?) The partiers were part of the marathon support crew, although why they’d be serving beer to runners baffled me. What runner would drink beer during his race?
I thanked them for the offer and went on my way. My God, if I had drunk a beer at quarter to 8 in the morning the whole day would have been wiped out. Beer has that effect on me. I’m useless after just one.
I strolled down to the park, passing hubby’s old house along the way. Somebody else had just moved in, a 30-something guy, his wife and two yellow Labs. The guy was a grizzly, with a giant belly and lots of dark, curly hair all over his body. Not my type at all. (By now you’ve probably figured out I like ‘em young – not illegally young, but young. Eighteen and up to around 30 is my desired demographic.)
I took the cement walking path around the park and headed back to my house. As I approached the beer booth, the men and women there started whooping and hollering. Off in the distance I could see a runner approaching. There was a cop car just ahead of him, keeping pace. As it happened, he was the front runner, and he had a comfortable lead on the other runners. Nobody else was in sight.
He passed with a lot of noise and celebrating accompanying him (I notice he didn’t drink a beer), and then the neighborhood slowly quieted down, as quiet as it could be with a group of intoxicated, shrieky men and woman rattling noisemakers clustered around a tent. Instead of going home I decided to take a slight detour around the block with the hope that more runners would come by. The guys who run in these things can sometimes be really, really hot. Nothing wrong with a little eye candy to get the morning going.
No sooner had I turned left instead of right than another runner came into view, and I silently thanked God for letting me be here when he did. His hair was dark and closely cropped, though not as short as a member of the armed forces. His chest was wide but narrowed to about a 32-inch waist. His legs were a fine compromise between the chicken legs of many runners and the freakishly overbuilt stumps of weightlifters and gym rats. He was shirtless, and a nice patch of hair dusted his chest. He also had a noticeable 5 o’clock shadow. If I had to guess his age I’d say 25.
He caught me staring and I quickly looked away. But when he passed I turned back to study that fine ass, framed by those clingy nylon running shorts, flexing and unflexing as he headed into the distance. The things I could do to that ass.
I felt myself getting hard. I too was wearing nylon gym shorts, so getting a boner out here would serve no purpose than humiliate me. I tried to think of things that would turn me off – taxes, the presidential race, my checking account balance.
I continued down the street. More runners began to stream by. I was surprised that most were older guys – by “older” I mean in their late 20s up to my age and beyond. Not a lot of young hotties. They had the look of military officers, which would not surprise me. The services have physical fitness standards that must be met every year. Running is a great way to stay in shape, and it has a cachet that seems to appeal to the commissioned crowd.
I saw a gap in the runners and crossed the road to enter another park, much smaller than the park I had walked at. It had picnic tables beneath sheltered pavillions. I could sit at one of the tables and watch the guys pass by.
I had been there about five minutes when, off in the distance, I saw the blue strobes of a police car. It was the cruiser escorting the lead runner. Apparently the course looped back on itself, which meant my neighborhood was very close to the halfway mark. Sure enough, the car and the runner came by me heading in the opposite direction. The other runners glanced at him and you could see the envy in their eyes. They seemed to be thinking, Gosh, I wish I was that good.
I then spotted another figure approaching from the opposite direction. It was the second-place runner, Mr. Hottie himself, and even from afar I could tell something was wrong. He was running, yes, but with a limp that seemed to be growing worse as I watched. I could guess what it was: leg cramps. On a warm, humid day like today, a runner could use up his electrolytes in fairly short order. The result would be leg cramps. If he didn’t get some water and Gatorade in him, they’d only get worse.
He slowed, and you could tell by his pained expression that for him, the marathon was about to end. You can’t physically run on a cramp; it hurts that bad. Not only that but you can damage the muscles and connective tissues if you keep running.
Instead of rounding the corner like the first-place runner, he headed straight into the park where I was sitting. He held up at the table opposite me, his leg sticking straight out, and let out an anguished groan as he squinted against the pain and gritted his teeth. I immediately got up and went over to him.
“Put all your weight on the leg with the cramp,” I told him. He didn’t open his eyes, and you wouldn’t have thought he heard me. “I’m serious. Put all your weight on the leg with the cramp. It sounds counterintuitive, but it works. Try it.”
He shifted and stood on the bad leg. I knelt and gently ran my hands up and down his calf, not really pressing or massaging, but just smoothing. His leg hair felt good against my palms. As I continued to rub, I could feel his muscles starting to return to their former, relaxed positions.
He was gasping, but his respiration began to slow a little. Presumably the pain was letting up. I continued rubbing his calf and even allowed my hand to creep higher, to his thigh, my palms sliding against his flesh on a layer of sweat. What I really wanted to do was get my hands on that perfectly shaped ass because this boy was definitely a keeper.