July 2013 (Ramadan)

Have you ever been on a really good vacation?  In a space in which you can cast aside your responsibilities and concerns about your day-to-day and just focus on doing what you feel like when you feel like it?  You can, and do, immerse yourself in the sights, sounds, thrills, smells and sensations of your environment.  But try as you might, the knowledge that this hedonistic period is finite lurks somewhere in recesses of your mind.  Unwanted though it is, that recognition magnifies the importance of enjoying every – single – day.   A steady flow of gratification of one variety or another is a requirement.  And so you do what you can to meet the surgeon general’s recommended dosage faithfully.

Imagine then, that during one such vacation, your days of contentment are harshly interrupted by illness or foul weather.  That’s you sitting in the window, sick, while the rest of the world seemingly enjoys your damn vacation.  You are stuck in a punishing time warp in which each day crawls along as you huddle under your self-pity blanket, brooding and morose over your holiday benching, while paradoxically those same days hurtle by as you watch your vacation days dwindle away into nothing.  Your mind becomes preoccupied with all the activities that you are missing, the opportunities foregone and when, when, for fuck’s sake (literally), will your time-out be over so that you can return to enjoying what’s left of your vacation?  And also, where is that second caipirinha you ordered with your lunch?

THAT is the onset of a thirty-day fasting period in July when you are f–king with someone with a hard stop set for August (the month I eventually set as my end date).

Our last workout before the beginning of the fast starts out like any other.  bK arrives and we strip down to underwear before I warm up on the treadmill.  We talk about how our respective weeks are going, current family and news events but nothing memorable.  As is now par for the course, we let our fingers do the walking as we explore each other’s bodies, touching and teasing here, there and everywhere, as I work through the exercises.  Somewhere along the second set of exercises, the conversation stops and the silence is broken only by our increasingly labored breathing and his occasional exercise counts.  By the last set of exercises his boxer briefs and my thong have somehow evaporated and we are naked.  He demonstrates a plank modification for the umpteenth time while I sit on his back and test his ability to maintain the position while I fondle and gently massage the tip of his di-k.  Just the tip today – he is so sensitive there that a few seconds is all takes for beads of moisture to start to collect on my fingers.  bK maintains the position for a while longer until he suddenly bounces up (save the eruptions for later) and it’s time for me to do the exercise.  You reap what you sow and as soon as I am in position he takes full advantage of his access to my body.  My arms and abs are not the only things on fire while I try to hold still for a full 45 seconds.  We continue like this for three sets.  By the last set my main thought is whether I am going to turn around and rest my legs on his shoulders or whether I’m going to take it easy on this one to save some energy for the treadmill.  It’s one of those choices where either way I’m f-cked 🙂

I hear and sense bK drop to the carpet as the count nears the last five seconds.  At zero, he leans forward so that he is lying on top of me without resting his full body weight on me, wraps my right leg around his thigh and places his hands on top of mine on either side of my head.  His mouth is on my ear as he slips inside me.  [His cock goes in with so much happiness, it should be sitting on a ritz©.]  For several moments we just stay that way, bodies joined, mute and still.  Taking stock as my body contours to, and envelops, his swollen and throbbing dick.

After the clit, the entrance to, and lower part of, the vagina contain the most concentration of nerve endings – today the emphasis is on every single one.  When we start moving, the main action is the base of his cock circling around and rubbing against my inner lips and just inside my aching pu–y.   Sensory overload as each and every nerve ending seems attuned to his dick rubbing gently against me.  Sweet glory in the morning…the sensations coursing through me as his rigid staff circles against my inner lips, slowly revolving against and around the entry to the ultimate sanctum of our pleasure — it feels so right, even though it’s so wrong…without sin how can one ever appreciate the beauty of forgiveness?  With each rotation, electric shots of pleasure radiate from my core throughout the rest of my body.  Even my toes are tingling.  An internal battle is raging in my body pu–y.   The first half does not want his cock to shift  further or otherwise change his motion but the second half is calling, urging him to plunge deeper inside.  It is a temporary conflict – peacefully resolved as we begin to gyrate, pressing and grinding against one another — his movements tempered as he plunges slowly but deeper and deeper inside me —  and both halves get what they are asking for.  It’s as though we have all the time in the world and in this moment the only goal is to maintain this silent line of communication until our hunger is completely fed.  He is barely thrusting, his dick never leaves the molten shelter provided and we continue our synchronized motion.  No “lovers after all” playlist, no music at all, just the sounds of our mutual delight. We are moving so slowly that with each shift I  feel each inch of his cock against my walls.  bK is now partially resting his weight on me but the only pressure computing is  between my legs.  He whispers something, that is hard to decipher but then again I have no idea what I am whispering in response either.  Our bodies have more urgent matters to address.  He moves further inside me and I arch up beneath him to accommodate the longer stroke.  Hhhhhmmm, each stroke is measured, deep and sensuous.  A nice morning drive up the mountains – slow and winding to the peak, and every bit as exhilarating.  No rush to the top and the destination is definitely worth it.

Afterwards, we rest in the same position we started for a couple of minutes.  I am already thinking about the feasibility wondering of an afternoon session, but schedules will not allow – he has afternoon bikram and mentoring and I have work.

The cool down mile on the treadmill is too much for my legs to complete and so I stop early. This leads to stone face, stern voice and the start of a squabble that continues via text.  And thus lust turns to dust.

And then the FAST.

Our first workout during Ramadan is fully clothed.  Rather than concede that we are returning to these cumbersome barriers because of the fasting period, bK tells me that naked training affects his concentration and hinders his effectiveness as a trainer.  Maybe.  But it certainly heightens other things.  Childish, but I am still salty about the way that he addresses it and so even though we “agree” to return to normal training with only occasional nude days, the next few days are chilly.

No massage: Cancelled in first week and then Ramadan. 😦

Have you ever been sidelined during a vacation?  What did you do with your time?  It seemed like a good opportunity to complete the process and so I froze eggs.

Fasting music:

June 2013 – Part Two (Planks for Pleasure)

I have an easier time getting up on training days now that bK and I have further spiced up the routine. On the wrong days, we are two people bickering over trivial things while exercising in undergarments. On the right days, each set is a combination of exercise and “body appreciation”. Either way it is never boring. If these brick walls could talk they would describe my personal trainer tweaking my nipples and playing with my body while I get these side bends out of the way. If they could laugh, they would chortle at the number of times I ask him to show me how to do simple exercises so I can squeeze his ass and play with other parts of his body. With each set, the struggle to ignore his touch or my body’s response to it increases. I generally don’t sweat below the waist (which will be helpful) but I’m all kinds of moist by the time I have to return to the treadmill at the end of each session.

Around the third week of June, planking becomes very challenging. Not only does the time period increase, but while I plank I have to keep retrieving my thong with one arm as bK repeatedly tries to remove it.  During the alternate exercise between planks we continue to touch and tease. We also ignore the growing bulge in his drawers and discuss current events.   On this day, when I wrap up the other exercise drop into the third plank I don’t bother to retrieve my thong when he slides it down.  When I look down and back, I note that his boxer briefs have joined my thong on the carpet by my feet. The next 30 seconds could not be moving any slower. What do you reward yourself with after a tough workout? Ice-cream? Chocolate? A kale omelet? I think I deserve something more today.

bK’s voice drifts as he reaches the last fifteen seconds of the count. I hear him move to his bag to get a condom. 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1 Time! I collapse on the towel that now gets placed on the exercise mat as I feel bK drop to his knees behind me. I pretend like he is not there and start to get up, but he takes a commanding grip on my hips with both hands and suggests that we take a little break…Sure, but I’m going to be lazy with this one – I lean forward and offer up the goods. bK slides home and reaches forward to massage my tingling clit with his left hand. Mmmm – appropriate reward after so many planks. And it feels just right. He rests inside me while his left hand continues to move in a firm circular motion on and around my hot spot. As I heat up from the massage upfront, he begins to pump for gold. Long and measured, this deep slow stroke is the perfect stress buster. Surgeon general approved. I arch back and up to meet each foray and reach back to stroke his balls (we’ve come a long way since that punch and I love the way his body reacts to the touch). Twerking by the weights…

When his lingam and my yoni connect – time stands still and only pleasure matters or registers. I concentrate solely on his member moving inside me, his head massaging my cervix, the length of his swollen manhood brushing up and against my vaginal walls as our hips grind against each other…his movement further emphasizes what I already know about his prodigious dancing skills.  Slick but secure (kegels :-)), I match his rhythm, bouncing back and up to meet each thrust. We’re unwilling to tolerate even a brief break in this link-up prior to release – my hold on his ass is just as urgent as his on mine as we ride wave after wave of pleasure. Slow wind, deep grind, lost mind…While we bone this way, we transcend – floating above random conversation, forgiving (temporarily) slights real and perceived, casting aside silly disputes – for a time we even come upon the solution for peace in the middle east…so strong are the tides of lust rushing through and around us.  Non-verbal communication is best for us.

Just kidding.

We have a nice post-plank romp.   Afterwards we gather ourselves, return to reality and clean-up – then one of us has to continue with a cardio “cool down” on the treadmill.  I regret that I didn’t discover softcup® for another month or we wouldn’t have had to skip a week of these.

Two weeks to the start of Ramadan (and the end?).

 

June 2013 Part One (Breakfast of Champions)

When I decided to stop resisting (and to accept/luxuriate in/applaud..) lust during the last massage session, I planned on a one-time release of the building sexual tension before he gets married.  The best laid plans.

We continue with underwear workouts except for naked days.  We have dropped all pretense about our mutual desire to touch.  My hands roam freely while he demonstrates exercises that I have been doing for almost two years.  He returns the favor while I exercise.  I hate arms work but it is the best chance to feel the contours of his chest, mold the powerful muscles of his back, cup and massage his beautiful ass and, oh yes, play with his d–k.  Just stroke and feel it grow!  My (temporarily) own chia pet.  And what a squeezable ass.  His cheeks are so firm and sculpted – my hands are drawn every time.  I enjoy letting him walk down the stairs ahead of me so I can get my post-workout grope on…

Arms days are also an ideal time for him to touch me since I’m basically just standing there during sets.  He caresses my ass (it’s pretty nice too), plays with my breasts and lets his talented fingers explore all over.  All while standing so close behind me, I can feel his breath…and the changes in his body in response to our extracurricular activities.  I am generally at a disadvantage since it takes longer to do the exercise than it does to demonstrate it but submission feels quite nice. 🙂   Each set blows by (the only thing getting blown under these circumstances — saving the tasting and savoring for the fiancée we do not acknowledge) and the workouts are now so much more pleasurable even when we debate about silly things.

Initially touching and teasing during exercise feels like enough — but after about a week I decide that one more taste would be forgivable.  Just one more…

At the end of the next workout after we are dressed, I start to rub my hands along his thighs, letting my hands graze but never touch his d—k.  bK doesn’t move and we converse about random things while I slide my hands inside his sweats and boxer briefs, cup his balls and begin to massage them gently.  These chocolate caramel nuts don’t melt – they just distend with pleasure and fill my palms.  I want those nuts bouncing rhythmically against me ASAP.  Within minutes, bK’s boner is poking through his sweats and I suggest that I could put him for the team to work to lower my rent.  He asks what I’m going to do for the team.  Lulz. 

Have condom will travel is ready and raring to go and so am I.  In short order our clothes are off again (except for some reason his red tank – the only time he keeps something on besides his socks) and we are having sex on the side of my couch in front of my living room window.  I hope my neighbors have better things to do this morning.  If not, they might be watching bK massaging my clit gently with his left hand while clasping my rumpus with his right and entering me slowly but very fully from the back.  Coordination is so nice.  It’s not carnation but I’m loving it in an instant.  From the moans floating over me, the feeling is mutual.  I guess I’m serving frosted flakes because I brought out the tiger.  It’s gr-r-reat. 🙂  I arch back against him as he moves against me and we rock towards release.  A sweet breakfast treat that won’t give you diabetes.

Afterwards I commit to this being the last time and head to the office in a suspiciously good mood.

 

May 2013 (Crossing the Line)

bK and I get along surprisingly well during May. Some minor bickering but generally things are pleasant. It probably helps that we officially standardize what used to be an occasional dress code: boxer briefs (and socks) for him and bandana, sports bra (optional), thong, socks and sneakers for me. Just trying to do what we can for the environment – less clothing cuts down on laundry cycles and conserves water. Of course the new uniform is also helpful for more skin-on-skin contact. I like to provide “support” when he demonstrates certain exercises while he tends to take full advantage of the access provided by certain other exercises. Suddenly waking up to workout is a lot more fun…

A combination of family events leads to a short training month – but we do make time for a massage…

May’s massage falls on Malcolm X’s birthday which turns out to be a good omen…

As always, bK starts with my neck and then works down from my shoulders to my back. His hands are strong and the pressure is firm. So far nothing inappropriate, but my body recalls the last time his hands were on me and I’m already tingling with anticipation by the time his hands reach my lower back. What will today’s massage bring? bK takes his time moving further along…he skips over my ass and starts massaging my legs. My bum is bummed by the neglect. bK massages my left leg, my left foot, each – freaking – toe. It feels nice but at this point I want his touch much further above my knees. I have been trained to expect a different massage. I want a different massage. And yet he moves to my right leg and then my right foot. PLEASE MOVE ON [I scream silently]. After what seems like an eternity, his hands finally start to work on my inner thighs. Patience is a virtue. But the last thing I feel like being right now is virtuous. His fingers slow down and his touch softens as he works further along the inside of my left thigh. I might just be trembling a little bit but it’s because of the A/C not because I’m thirsty for his stroke. And finally bK eases two fingers inside me. Praise Jesus. I don’t have the strength to endure a tease session today. He caresses me softly, his fingers barely moving inside me. But then after a few moments – he suddenly stops. What? Why? What is this new level of torture? He slips his fingers out and I hear me step away from the table. I try to remain calm, maybe he just needs some more massage oil (though I think we are good on other lubrication). Then I hear the foil packet tear. It is sweet sweet music to my ears.

After what seems like ten minutes but was probably one, I feel bK’s hands on my waist as he swings my lower torso off the table and towards him. My right leg is wrapped around him while I am using my left leg for balance. He slides into me gently and starts to move his hips against me. Somehow my right arm has snaked around and I am clutching his right cheek like I might drown if our bodies are separated. The shaft of life. We have been holding back for so long that it is a passion free for all in those initial minutes. Some stranger has made her way into my apartment and is urging bK to go deeper, deeper. Wait – that’s me. He whispers “like this” with each long stroke. Hhmmm. I guess that’s also me whispering yes over and over. bK and takes a handful of each cheek and buries himself inside me. Cervix tickler and we can’t seem to get enough of each slow deep stroke. The meditative chanting from the massage playlist is now accompanied by our unrestrained moaning. His left hand moves from my ass to my left nipple (sorry right side) and then further down. Then he stops and I’m thinking no, no, no – too soon.

Thankfully, it’s just a position change. Phew. bK straightens up, takes the top sheet (finally being put to some use) and lays it on the carpet and asks me to lie down. Sure, let’s just reconnect stat. I lie down and he places each of my legs on one of his shoulders and thrusts deep. And we begin to move again. My hips are rising to meet him with each thrust. bK is ensconced so far inside me that his nuts (we are back on friendly terms) are nestled against me and providing their own caress with each stroke. The contact against my sensitive skin is delicious. Up and down, side to side, the motion continues. Is it wrong? Yes. Does it feel good? Absolutely. He is whispering something urgently but I don’t even know if it is English. I’m more interested in the language his body is speaking. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

When he climaxes he shouts aaah repeatedly like it is being ripped from the depths of his throat with each spurt. Since I’m writing this, I will say that I was in better control of my vocal chords in the moment. Afterwards we linger on the sheet catching our breath before the return to reality. Then I thank him for the massage and help him put away the massage table and he leaves. No brunch today but my appetite has already been satisfied.

Massage Rating: 10/10. The faint line we were straddling is crossed. The only negative is that afterwards, bK suggests that the given the end of this massage it should cover all remaining massages. I respectfully disagree.

We did not use the “lovers after all” playlist” we had something like this going in the background:

But more appropriate might have been something like this:

April/Blurred Lines

Our first workout after Easter is a mess.  As soon as I start warming up on the treadmill, he starts going in on what a farce Easter is, fake holiday blah blah blah.  I’m Catholic lite but the attack was so unwarranted that I am compelled to defend Easter.  Plus if I had done the same thing regarding anything to do with Islam, I know we would have been in silent workout mode with serious voice for exercise instructions.  The hypocrisy is galling.  The entire session turns into a stupid debate over priests (you can guess the go-to argument there) and all the fallacies of Catholicism.  Nothing on Islam though.  I am ready for the workout to be over.  It’s doubly tiring to argue/shout while on a treadmill.  Later in the day bK sends me a classic “if I offended you or your faith” apology that he immediately undercuts with his observations about the increased blood circulation between my thighs while I was doing ab work during our debate.  I mention but then drop the pervasive double standard in these conversations.  If I had a bigger vocabulary, I would use another word for dysfunction to avoid repetition – sorry. 

At some point, we take a break so that bK can travel for a family funeral.  While down south he texts me that he needs to extend his stay because his sister is dealing with pregnancy issues.  Funny enough when I ask how she is doing a few weeks later he acts like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.  I don’t bother pushing, I know how this movie ends  – if I push he’ll get evasive or defensive and it will escalate into a fight.  Ain’t nobody got time for that!  At least not this time…  And so April continues in roller-coaster fashion and at the end of the month we negotiate a new rate at the end of the month at a deep discount (I deserve it 🙂).  bK mentions a new sunning location for 2013.

Massage: 

bK starts out with a normal massage as always – my neck, shoulders and back.  He uncovers my lower body and starts with my legs.  By the time he begins to work on left thigh, I am already tense with anticipation and a little wet.  bK’s hands start to massage my inner left thigh, his fingers grazing my lips with light teasing touches.  Forecast calls for high temperatures and a lot of precipitation.  After a few minutes I have had enough and I ask him to move further up and inside.  He is coy about it and asks for more specific direction – but we both know there is only one direction he can head.  His hands creep higher into my groin area and then two fingers finally slide into home.  Hmmmmm!  How do you spell (temporary) relief?  T-w-o-f-i-n-g-e-r-s-g-e-n-t-l-y-i-n-s-e-r-t-e-d-m-o-v-i-n-g-i-n-c-o-n-c-e-r-t.  He strokes slowly, at first barely inside, but then gradually he explores deeper, fingers firm and lingering along my vaginal muscles and plunging deeper still.  Aaah, lady nani is happy at last to be a guest at the massage party and as luck would have it she is the guest of honor.  This is not a happy ending as much as an homage to my p—y.  I’m trying to keep the moans to a minimum and take it all in stride (some of this is still about control).  Soon it becomes obvious that every part of my body did not get the internal memo and before I am fully aware of it, my treacherous ass is bucking off the table, drawn by the sweet siren song of his magic digits.  Dammit.  But it feels so good.  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is wrong, but I can’t stop and I have been so good for so long.  There should be some award for that. 

When he asks me to turn over so that he “can massage from the front”, I flip so quickly I almost rollover the table.  Having it my way this afternoon and now bK is showcasing his dexterity.  He softly massages my clit with two fingers, yet another two are pleasuring me from inside and yet another plays with my ass.  I am not typically into finger play but damn.  Somehow over the course of the massage he sprouted extra fingers and the sensual assault that he has unleashed is almost too much to bear.  My body is on fire.  bK has a look of intense focus and I appreciate the dedication to his craft!  An initial small orgasm but the ode to the V continues and with each touch the throbbing in my clit rebuilds.  I’m gaining momentum towards the release that all the previous massages hinted at.  Waves of pleasure roll over me with increasing intensity.  He is standing on my left side by my waist and I take advantage of his positioning to massage his right thigh with my left hand.  Gradually I work further up his thigh and into his boxer briefs and grasp his thickness.  bK hangs (and rises) to the left so even lying down from this angle I can stroke his stiff dick, kinda like grasping the clutch if you have ever driven stick in a foreign country.  I have. Well.  I let my fingers work up and down his dick slowly, intermittently stopping to show a little love to his increasingly moist tip.  He has a very sensitive tip.  I use his wetness as lube to further stroke him since I don’t have the benefit of massage oil to work with.  His fingers pick up steam as he gets more excited and soon I want more though I am trying not to break.  But pleasure is pleasure and I do break and ask about condoms so we can progress (safety first!).  He says none for him and finishes me off.  OK.  I guess the line is drawn at no intercourse.  For now anyway.  I thank him for the massage and get dressed while he uses the mix of almond oil and my juices on his hands to moisturize his body.  Watching him do so is a fresh turn on, but oh well.  For the first time in a while I go to brunch feeling nice and relaxed after a session.  And two and a half hours late.  I don’t look anyone in the eye when I blame my extreme tardiness on a late start to the day’s workout. 

Massage Rating:  9.9/10.  Self-control is overrated.  I played Lincoln and set our hands free.  I’m not sure I can go back to normal massages.  We get along well for the rest of the month after this massage.  🙂

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.