Every…single…time. It never fails.
Many folks go to the gym to be seen. Makeup, revealing clothing and perfume or cologne that overpowers the senses and actually distracts those around them from having a quality workout.
I go to the gym for the sole purpose of getting my body right. I keep to myself, don't speak to anyone and have a rather conspicuous pair of headphones omnipresent on my head. But no matter what hour of the day I go – early in the morning or in the wee hours of the night – there are at least a handful of women who never fail to catch my wandering eyes.
I know several of them fit in the category of the aforementioned glam queens – baring plenty of extra- sweaty skin when their frumpy high school senior T-shirt would suffice only because they know we're looking.
But some are just so stunning that they could be wearing a plastic trash bag and still manage to catch my eye; the mystique of what's behind it all causes my mind to race and me to nearly kill myself when my treadmill is cranked up at high speeds. I acknowledge that it's all a result of my own rote male weakness, but it doesn't make it any easier during a vigorous workout.
I'm in the gym six days a week, and I deal with this…issue…each of those days. But once, maybe twice a week, there's her.
See, with the rest of the women, it's just a glance or two that lasts a couple seconds at most. But this one lady takes me totally off my game…commanding my undivided attention every time I see her. Beautiful brown skin; tight, curly hair, a body with no discernible flaw and a glance that could pierce the most adamantine of hearts. She's what Ron Isley talks about when he mentions "a winning hand."
She must have run a million miles, done a million crunches, thrown a million jabs in her trainer's hand completely unaware that I was watching her, pseudo-stalker-like, the entire time. As a rule of thumb, I'm never intimidated to approach women, but this one…there's an invisible force field of intimidation evocative of my shy middle-school days that makes me drop my head every time she looks in my direction.
On this day, I'm posted on the treadmill running my heart out in an attempt to beat my best time, when I glance over at her on the exercise bike. Cycling furiously, she's a vision of physical wonder; perched over the handlebars, her face drips of sweat as she pants heavily. She wears a skimpy pink and black latex sports bra – the curvature of her heaving breasts jostling about the fabric as if aching to pop out at a moment's notice. Her bent waist hides what I've seen many times before: a firm, bronze stomach; complete with a dangling stomach jewel that would fit just marvelously between my top and bottom front teeth.
Her skintight black shorts that cut off just above her knee serve to accentuate tight, bulging calf muscles. She's no novice to a life of exercise.
She's managed to truly consume my attention today – more so than usual. I kick the treadmill speed up an extra couple miles an hour to help me regain focus. It doesn't help.
When I finish, I walk past the front desk – ostensibly grabbing a towel as I head to the weight room upstairs – hoping just to catch a closer glance or two of her as she pedals away.
She never even looks up at me.
* * * * * * * * * * *
I re-rack the dumbbells following a few sets of curls when I get a mild tap on my shoulder. My stomach drops when I see my "focus girl", not more than four inches from where I stand. She stares at me with a half-crooked smile and one eyebrow popped up. I'm too stunned to allow anything audible to slip out of a mouth agape.
"So…whatcha got to say?"
"Uhh…about what?"
"'About what' my ass. You're no good at being low-key about your shit."
A nervous chuckle. "What you talkin' about? Low-key? What?"
She drops her head and cocks one eyebrow up, hands on her waist. "I see we can't both be grownups here, eh? Now you want to insult my intelligence?"
I play dumb, but I know exactly what she means. My mind starts racing with the wonder of how many other women could have caught on to my looks. I decide on the fly
not
to insult her intelligence.
"Alright, I hear you." My voice jumps with nervousness. "So what of it? I…I like what I see. Can't hang a brother for that, can you?"
"Well I can't seem to get a workout in without a pair of eyes burning through my clothes! What's up with that?"
"I mean, you know…people do what they can to get inspired during a workout. Some folks have music, some have magazines. I have you."
"Ah, that's sweet! Maybe I can forgive you for being a pervert just this once!" She deftly strokes her left index finger across the bottom of my chin playfully. I get rock-hard immediately. "That's a pretty heavy amount of looking you've been doing. What do you do with what you see?" She leans in and whispers in my ear. "Do you go home and jerk your cock when you're thinking about me?"
I'm absolutely befuddled at the query. My eyes shoot out of my head as I try to play it cool.
"Damn…a little direct, aren't we??"
"Taking the back road is for punks. Which is why I'm wondering why you never tried to holler at me...you a punk?"
"Nah…I mean…"
"Don't worry about it…I'm just fucking with you." She leans even closer to my ear. "I'd be lying my ass off if I said your eyes on me don't turn me on."
The feeling of her breath against my ear. I get that rush that's unique to the realization that something could very well go down with someone you've had your eye on for a long time. That rush apparently has a detrimental effect on my vocal cords, as I go completely silent. Sweat pouring down her face, she smirks at my haplessness.
"So, any chance I can peel you away from your weights for a little while?" She motions with her index finger to follow her as she walks toward the back of the room. Simultaneously confused and heavily intrigued, I followed her…making sure to grab my towel so as to cover the huge bulge shooting out of my pants.
* * * * * * * * * * *
We stop at the door of the room where the spinning classes are held. I've never been inside, though I keep promising myself I'll give spinning a try someday.
She opens the room with a key that's attached to a band wrapped around her right wrist. Nonchalantly, she pushes the door and walks in. I stand at the doorway…wondering why my legs aren't working at the moment.
The room is pitch black – she purposely passes the light switch at the door, so I don't bother to flick it on, figuring she has her reasons. As she descends toward the back of the room, she looks back at me.
"What are you waiting for? Come in, close the door, and lock up behind you. And don't turn on the light!"
I comply. She could ask me to detonate a thermonuclear bomb in the middle of the weight room right about now and I'd be on it.
"So…what exactly are you doing with a key to this room?"
"Ha. Well, if you ever showed up on Monday mornings, you'd know I teach spin class in here. A modest gig, but it keeps this ass you love gluing your eyes on nice and tight." She slaps her backside for emphasis and puts one knee on a workout bench sitting in the back of the room.
"Well, who else has keys to this room? Could anyone theoretically roll up in here like we just did?"
"Just me, sweetheart. What, you worried someone will come in and interrupt us?"
"And what exactly is there to be interrupted?"
She sits down on the bench and lies across it, her heaving chest in the air. She bends her right leg up and stretches the left one out completely, bringing to mind a swimsuit model I'd see stretched out in front of one of those pretentious-yet-ridiculously-lucky-and-overpaid photographers with the dirty gray beards.
Her head turns slowly to me, as she proceeds to burn a hole in my eyes with hers. The windows in the room provide minimal light in the room…just enough for me to discern her very clear intentions as she looks at me.
"Mama always told me there were times that questions were not to be asked. I'm guessing this is one of them." I traverse the small maze of exercise bikes slowly to make my way toward her – careful not to come off too eager while completely disregarding the fact that we are in a very public gym.
When I reach her, I try to lean down to do…lord knows what…when she stops me.
"Uh-uh." She runs the tips of her left fingers over the contours of my hard dick as it pushes up my track pants. She gently caresses it as one would scratch a cat's chin.
"Is that happiness to see me?"
"Absolutely."
"Hm…" She moves the palm of her hand flatly from the bottom of my still-covered balls, up the back of my cock and over the tip…ultimately making her way to my waistband. The combination of being incredibly sweaty and a long-brewing insecurity about my waistline makes me almost jump back. But I stay my hand.
"Yo…you know I just got done running for a half-hour on the treadmill, right?" I want to slap the shit out of myself for speaking the words the moment they come out of my mouth.
She pulls my pants, and my boxers, down around my thighs in one fell swoop. "Mmm…no worries. That's how I want you…how I want to taste you." She yanks me closer via my waistband, cranes her neck up from her laid-down position and gently massages the tip of my moist shaft with the very tip of her tongue.
She works with precision, making sure only the tip is caressed. No hands, no lips…she's teasing me. Already a bit weary from the run, my legs start shaking a bit after a couple minutes of this.
