In Like a Lion, Out Like a Lamb

At my birthday dinner we are all having a good time until we get into an argument after I feed a friend some food.  bK sees no irony in his reaction, but it’s my birthday so the party continues. 

At his birthday bowling party we are all having a good time until we get into an argument over one of the bills.  This one also blows over by the next day.

Training is still bipolar.  Some days it’s a good time and we have great conversations.  Other days, it is a tense and unhappy environment and we barely speak (other than serious voice for exercise instructions).  At some point, bK suggests that maybe I am perimenopausal.  Hilarious – and tempting fate since this is a guy who wants a child within the next year and is getting married to a woman two years older than me.  But, at my age, I guess that is a good go-to passive aggressive way to call me a bi-ch.  I counter with accusing him of suffering through prolonged PMS symptoms this winter.  None of it is very productive or mature, but at least we know where we stand.    Instead of two fat ladies in the kitchen and out and about the countryside, it is two bitchy teammates in the exercise room.  I’d like to think the resulting body is every bit as hot and tempting! 

Despite this unhealthy state of affairs, we continue with periodic naked training days and discuss investment opportunities in the village and other locations.  Honesty may not be his strong suit, but he is a good businessman with investments in a number of places, including a local lounge uptown that has some great classic drinks.  We typically discuss these opportunities with little follow through but maybe one day, plus it is a topic that doesn’t lead to fights.  At this point, things are tense enough that I consider ending the training sessions at the end of the first quarter.  Instead, we negotiate a set of make-up days and additional massages to make up for cancelled training days.  It doesn’t make sense to me either, but I did it.  

And then the massage:

By the time my next massage rolls around at the end of the month, we are close to complete silence, and definitely only serious voice, so I don’t know what to expect.  What I get is an excruciating, wonderful and openly salacious challenge to my continued attempt not to succumb to the carnal pleasure on offer…As usual, he starts out with more traditional massage of my neck, back, legs and other non-obviously erogenous areas.  And then he gets to my thighs and it all changes:  The pressure turns lighter, his fingers linger more with each motion and he massages my ass and thighs for long enough that he could probably mold them out of clay in the dark – and I damn sure want him to continue.  I know it’s not going to get better when I turn around, and by the time I do I’m dripping and the wet spot on the sheet isn’t small.  As soon as I flip over, the siege continues – his hands start at my lower thighs and slowly trace upwards in a “V” towards my sweet spot.  With each stroke his fingers get closer and closer together until his fingertips are touching and just barely tracing my inner lips.  Those treacherous lips are trembling (a first from a massage) and begging me to give in, “say uncle” and get to the main event.  But pride is a mutha.  I concentrate on keeping my mouth shut and breathing slowly.  The massage oil on his fingers is now heavily mixed with me, but he keeps going and switches up this stroke with a massage of my pubic bone that places just enough indirect pressure that my cl-t is getting some, but not enough, attention.  Help! We both know what the reasonable next step would be, but neither one of us wants to be the one to make the next move.  Can women get blue balls?  This goes on for at least 30 minutes when I think the timer goes off.  Saved by the bell!  I say thank you and hop off the table.

In a familiar state of relaxation combined with tension, I start getting dressed.  (You know I have brunch plans.)  Then we get into an argument because bK accuses me of taking advantage of him with our deal on massages.  Sigh.  Bye bye good vibes.  Our exchange continues on the subway and then by text when I have to get off (at least I get to do that when it comes to the metro;) 

As it turns out the vodka spiked mimos at brunch (new experience, tough Monday) give me enough liquid courage at some point in our text exchange (3 deep) that I finally let him know I’m pissed he didn’t think it was worth mentioning his engagement to me.  Too bad this portion the exchange was by text since it facilitated mutual cowardice.  He rationalizes that he figured I’d find out from our mutual friends and anyway it’s not appropriate for us to discuss it under the circumstances because it would completely change the context of our interaction. (Shouldn’t it change??)  I don’t view acknowledging something and discussing it as the same thing and I tell him as much, especially using code names for something we are both aware of.  bK says he understands that but stands by his main point.  It’s the 2013 No Apology tour.  

Massage Rating:  9.9/10; I second guessed my resistance well into brunch.  My resolve is fading, but the mood was soured by the post-massage argument.  The massage/argument combo does thaw the frost between us.

 

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