New month, plus ça change plus c’est la même chose. bK comes to my apartment in the morning, we exchange a curt greeting, depending on the day, strip, and then work out. All the while the elephant keeps watch brooding in the corner. I’m still pissed off and quiet. He’s still pissed that I’m detached and “moody”. We address none of it. Amazingly, all the anger amplifies rather than alleviates the sexual tension. A rational person might end all naked training days, but maybe sex would break the ice and provide some healing…
The only break in this routine occurs on the days that something happens (e.g., his friend’s passing) to remind us that normal friendships are not supposed to function this way. At those times we manage to have good/meaningful conversations – close to what we used to have before the tension, lies and resentment tainted everything.
And then the Lincoln debate…After the long weekend of romance and patriotism that is Valentine’s Day/Presidents’ Day 2013, bK tells me about a random encounter that he and his “friend of Caribbean descent” (February’s code for fiancée) recently had in a hotel elevator with a Caucasian lady. Apparently, this woman stepped into the elevator and, on finding herself solo with two Negroes in a confined space, took a moment, gathered herself and did what any reasonable person in that position would do: declared her approval of the president’s emancipation of the slaves at the end of Lincoln. Her comment really upset bK. (I partially suspect he was predisposed to be distressed because they had been discussing a friend’s battle with cancer, but I’m not a therapist.) The whole thing sounds to me like a misguided attempt at solidarity. Stupid, but more amusing than offensive. My reaction further upsets bK and we get into a heated discussion about slavery, the Emancipation Proclamation and Lincoln – a movie that neither one of us has seen. I’m not sure what is the most ridiculous: (1) that a stranger thought the way to connect with the two black people in her company was to express support for the ending of a movie (loosely based on history though it may be); (2) that bK was so deeply affected by something so foolish; or (3) that we got into a three-day debate over it because I had a different reaction.
Things just get worse as we get into back-to-back arguments about Prozac, cancelled training or massage days and just about every other topic we discuss. Each fight is short and stupid, but they are collectively draining.
NO massage this month. 😦
The outlet for the increasing tension between us is usually an argument or debate over one trivial matter or another. One of our dumber fights starts when bK visits me at work. I made the mistake – keeping in mind that I usually see him in sweats or shorts (or nothing at all) of noting his monogrammed suit pockets and (very nice) fancy watch. Sigh. Just like that a pleasant surprise visit turns into a silly fight about whether I know him or my assistant better. He suggests that maybe he should stop training me nude since he is apparently a stranger and adds that he thought I knew him better. LMAO. Ironic. I let a perfect chance to segue into his yet to be acknowledged engagement pass, and choose peaceful resolution. Always channeling Gandhi… I would like our remaining months together to be pleasant – at least by our standards.
Per the usual, we return to peaceful co-existence by the following day. FLOTUS’ birthday has him in a good mood…just not one good enough to keep him from commenting on the increased circulation between my thighs during the workout. Note: If you exercise with someone that you are physically attracted to, do not have him (or her) standing naked and watching you within your line of vision while you do floor exercises.
Despite the semi-hostile undertone of our exchanges, my mind keeps returning to bK’s “master” offer. One last bite at the apple before his relationship is “official” for old time’s sake.🙂 A lapse in judgment caused by our bipolar relationship and a moral compass weakened by a recent dry spell. But when I mention that it is unfair that I only got one (or 3+) shot at being the “master” during massage sessions bK claims that I forfeited the right since I failed to “actuate” and carry out my duties on all previous occasions. 😦 Fine, but no master status means no more sensual massages.
One person is always manipulating the other in this relationship and it isn’t always clear who is playing what role.
Massage Rating: 8.5/10; He had nothing but a tank top on and ended with an intimate yoga tutorial, but we argued the whole time.
The internet is a wonderful but scary place. Within days of hearing that my friend/personal trainer/masseur is engaged, I confirm it with a five-second google search. I’m pissed, amused, confused – why not mention something so momentous?
And yet… we move into a distorted version of “don’t ask, don’t tell” in which his engagement is not acknowledged or discussed and we continue with occasional naked or underwear only training days as usual. If anything, I am more comfortable with the nudity – his engagement serves as a safety net that things won’t degenerate too far (a few stray squeezes never hurt anybody). BUT there are definitely some routines that make me acutely aware that I have no clothes on – naked ab work with an exercise ball is not for the faint of heart.
At the same time, I am brooding that I had to hear from someone else that the dude who is half naked in my crib on a regular basis is engaged. We alternate between pleasant workout sessions with good conversations on the days that I don’t focus on it and tense “serious voice” days in which we barely speak on the days that I can’t get past it. On the latter days there is hardly any space for us to workout – the elephant in the room sucks up all the air and obliterates any chance at positive energy. Couples go to therapy, family members go to therapy, friends go to therapy…has anyone ever gone to therapy with their personal trainer? Because right about now it feels necessary.
On the first day of Christmas my trainer gave to me: one bottle of almond oil; two hands rubbing said oil all over my body; four warming pads; ten fingers gliding up, down and around my ass, thighs and groin; countless trailing feather touches along my lips; teasing pressure everywhere around (but not in) the throbbing honeypot; and frustration in a pear tree.
The cover sheet pretense is over and I stopped worrying about my body’s obvious response to his touch two massages ago. Tranquil chants and music play in the background but the only thing I meditate on is how to make it through without moaning or escalating things. I should mention bK gives me these massages in his underwear. Physical and visual temptation in the desert – without any angels offering relief or reward if I survive without surrender.
Massage Rating: Approximately 60 minutes long. 9.8/10. Thoroughly enjoyed what was offered but did not ask for more. Resolve steadily deteriorating. I went to brunch very relaxed…and very tense.
Whether rain or shine, pleasant or tense, serious voice or jokes – the workouts continue. I am in the best physical shape I have been in since grad school. Tomfoolery aside bK is a good trainer.
New training rules: If bK reschedules within a 24-hour window or loses certain bets, he trains me naked; and if I reschedule within a 24-hour window or lose certain bets, I workout in “essential gear” of socks, sneakers, bandana, sports bra and a thong. The scandalous workout is born. Level One – look but mostly don’t touch. I know better, but (Clay Davis voice) shiiiiiiiit. Who amongst us is not naked under their clothes?
On his nude days, bK uses my treadmill warm-up time to rub lotion all over his body. I have to fight the urge to offer to help him reach the small of his back. After all my focus is on improving my physical fitness.
One memorable occasion, I signed a deal and then negotiated a nude day for him the next morning in celebration. The next morning, I am doing v-sits while he stands naked by the table watching…quietly counting the reps whenever I think I am almost done. Over the course of the sets his cock swells until it is thick and engorged – alert and also watching and sporadically twitching. It is a naked day for him so there is nothing to conceal his arousal. Not that I can talk, I’m the one doing v-sits with only a thin and increasingly damp film of lace shielding my excitement. Less than three feet and a centimeter of flimsy fabric separate us from taking the next step we obviously want to. But with our unspoken competition to maintain composure we may as well on opposite sides of the Mediterranean with only a skiff to cross the sea (and in some ways, just as dangerous). So we continue to exercise and talk about everything but the fog of restrained lust blanketing the room. Nothing is acknowledged until the end of the workout when bK tells me I would have gotten a better show if I had opted for a naked massage – and of course, later a text message to remind me that increased “circulation” between my legs was not unnoticed. Just another workout day…
Massage Rating: Set It Off level except no candles, beads or happy ending. 😦 9.95/10. A combination of massage/ode to my p-ssy/tribute to my ass. 100% a test of how much I can take before I ask for it. The sheet is drenched by the end and it is impossible to cross my legs comfortably for almost an hour afterwards. Mind (telling me no) over body (screaming at me yes). We all have our crosses to bear.
Matters of Health: bK introduces an instant ginger drink into my life and it is absolutely delicious. I basically drink at least one cup daily. I haven’t tried to use it to make a poor tippler’s gold rush yet but that’s imminent. If you enjoy the taste of ginger definitely pick up these crystals — you will not regret it (although I don’t guarantee that). So tasty and I think they are good for digestion. On the mental health tip, he suggests that I read “Black Pain” by Terrie Williams. Supposedly I’ve been moody and maybe my eyes are silently broadcasting my inner pain. This is what happens when I get pissed off about anything – serious voice plus insinuations about my mental health. The book is LONG so I’m obviously not going to buy it, but the Amazon reviews are decent so I might just read it one day.
Mystery Trips: We take a week off from training because bK is traveling. To maintain the peace, I don’t bother asking why he is being so secretive about a trip to see his friend when we have been talking about this stuff for months. The things I do for discounted personal training (and to avoid serious voice). Then it pisses me off that I miss him while he is gone. When he gets back he announces that he is getting off Facebook because it is a waste of time.
Descent into Bucket Nekkidness (sic): bK suggests that I answer the door naked if I lose a bet. I win the bet but make a mental note that nudity is now acceptable betting currency. 😉
The second in-home massage is at the end of September. I appreciate that bK is willing to lug the table on the train.
The first half hour is like any normal massage – neck, back, legs, arms, etc. Then he gets to my inner thighs and the pressure of his touch changes. Danger on the horizon….His fingers are teasing and caressing, feather touches along my lips, stroking along my inner things and massaging my p—y from the outside slowly, very slowly. Mmmmmmm. This is unlike any spa massage that I’ve ever had. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. The cover sheet is gone – on the couch somewhere and I have nothing to hide the fact that I am soaked. All I have to do is shift towards those magic fingers or say the word for more. I want to….but MUST. HAVE. DISCIPLINE. I concentrate on the anklet like it is a wedding band and remain motionless and silent (maybe a stray moan or two, but I am only human).
Massage Rating: A 9.9/10. 90 minutes of pleasure/torture. Massages are supposed to relieve not heighten tension.