I show up in high-waisted jeans and a cropped white blouse with a plunging neckline, an outfit designed to capitalize on my big, curvy body. She's already found us a place to sit, and she's bought coffees.
When I get to the table, she gets up and gives me a hug.
She looks hot. Zipper boots, high-waisted slacks that look painted onto her thickish legs, and a tropical button-down shirt open almost to her navel. No bra.
We sit down. I take a sip of my drink. My profile included how I take my coffee; she must have remembered it.
We make small talk. After the coffee wakes us up, the conversation turns to sex. Quietly, of course; you never know who's listening.
She casually segues out of the previous topic. "I got an STI screening. All the ones the clinic could test for. I get 'em pretty regularly."
"Really," I say, kind of surprised.
Usually, I have to drag new partners to the clinic and make a date of it. I didn't count on her taking the initiative herself. Looks like I might have bagged a good one.
She says, "It came back negative. For everything. They were able to tell me some of the results right away, then they called me yesterday to give me the rest."
I smile. "I love seeing people ace the test."
She laughs, reclining with her coffee.
I have a question I'm burning to ask.
I lean in, conspiratorially.
"How are your tits staying inside your shirt?" I ask quietly.
"Surgical tape," she says back, just as quietly.
We sit with that for a moment, then we both start laughing.
On our way out of the coffee shop, she asks me if I like jogging. I tell her I do, and she asks me if I'd like to jog with her in the morning.
The next day, she shows up at my door at the appointed time. Black stretch pants and a matching longline sports bra hug her body and bare her soft, pale tummy.
When I lay eyes on her, I immediately want to call off the run and take her upstairs, but she won't have it.
Even so, she looks at me appreciatively. I'm in canvas booty shorts and a sports bra with big cutaways in the back. I'd half-hoped that my own body-baring outfit would crack her resolve.
But, one thing leads to another, and, instead of fucking in my house, we're out jogging in the hot sun through the winding off-campus neighborhoods.
I love working out. I love sweating. I love being sore, the rewarding ache of work done and things accomplished.
I also love cruising for strange in gym locker rooms. One of those added benefits of exercise.
We mostly don't talk.
I glance at her frequently. She's so cute and hot. Delectable in her slutty workout outfit, her skin flushed, shining with sweat.
I feel her glancing at me a few times.
We decide to take a break in a public park. There's a little paved circle with trees, benches, and a water fountain.
We each drink our fill and sit next to each other on one of the benches. There's no one around.
"Can I kiss you?" she asks.
I put my hands on the sides of her damp cheeks and give her a sensuous, wet kiss, and she responds in kind.
We make out for a while under the shade of the trees, sweat cooling on our exposed skin. We get a little grabby, but nothing too naughty.
I'd love to fuck her right here. But people come here with kids, and that might turn into a whole thing.
We get ourselves composed, then we jog back.
The trip home is brutal--the sun hotter, our energies already taxed.
But we make it.
We guzzle glasses of water in my kitchen, then make our way upstairs on jelly legs. I promised her a shower, with obvious ulterior motives.
She enters the bedroom ahead of me, already shucking her shirt. It occurs to me that she didn't ask first if it was okay for her to go in and start stripping, but I'm not sure I mind.
While we gingerly peel tight fabric loose from our sweating bodies, I ask her, "When did you start working out?"
She's down to just the mesh panties she wore under her leggings.
She says, "I wrestled in high school."
My eyebrows go up. I pause, naked from the waist down, still in my bra.
She stares at me while she talks. I don't mind.
I'm staring at her, too.
She's not as big as me, but she's a healthy, modestly endowed girl. Her nipples are dark, almost purple, with a horizontal barbell through each.
I would very much like to suck on them.
"There was no team for girls," she clarifies, "so it was me and the boy wrestlers."
"You wrestled with boys?"
She laughs. "Nothing like that. I wasn't into them, and they just wanted to prove that they couldn't get beaten by a girl."
"Did you ever beat them?"
"Sadly, no. I learned all the moves as best I could, but they were just too big and too strong. I was in the bottom weight class by default, and even then, I didn't stand much of a chance."
She disrobes the rest of the way.
At one point, she'd shaved her body hair. But her pubic hair is growing back, and her armpit hair is growing in. She has a few days' stubble on each.
Wheels turn in my head. Gears click into place.
Once I successfully worm my way free of my sports bra and stand naked in the free air, I ask:
"Do you still remember any of those old moves?"
Soon, we're situated on my comforter, which we've spread across the floor. I'm crouched on my hands and knees. She's behind me.
