August 2013 – Breaking the Fast

bK and I are getting along fairly well by the time Ramadan ends after the first week of August. Working out dressed and suppressing the urge to act on our mutual attraction has become semi-normal.  It helps that even with religious obstacles removed, I’m not supposed to have sex for a couple of weeks after my egg retrieval procedure.  Maybe the confluence of Ramadan and this limited biological insurance is a sign that I should stop boning my engaged trainer/friend and move on, but six wasted weeks with the b-day rapidly approaching is hard to take.

We get through the first week after Ramadan with appropriate sessions – clothes, conversation, no body appreciation or celebration. The next week temptation is eliminated since bK is out of the country on a security consulting assignment.  My mind is more or less ready to cut the cord, but my flesh is not, but an unpleasant exchange before he leaves for his trip helps tip the balance further in favor of reason.

By the first workout after his trip we still have not cleared the air.  I let him in with minimal conversation and as soon as we get upstairs, I head to the other room to warm-up in silence.  It takes bK a few minutes to head in from the living room, and when he appears I see why… He is buck naked (and nicely lotioned up). Hhhmm. No matter the inner contents, the packaging is beautiful. Principle or pleasure? He still owes a couple of days of training nude so if I choose this can just be a workout with a view. Pleasure or principle? While I consider whether I will join him in the buff or keep my clothes on, we discuss it as though talking about the weather (me – I didn’t do anything to be in the buff, him – I thought we were a team). Principle or pleasure? I take a few more steps as our short and friendly debate ends without resolution. In the end pleasure carelessly crushes principle. I pause the treadmill and strip.

And just like that, we work out in the nude as though the six year week drought never happened. I make him repeatedly show me how to do exercises that I did three weeks ago without speaking to him so I can re-familiarize myself with his body, squeeze those tight buns, feel his balls tighten in my palm as I massage them and generally do whatever I feel like doing with is body in the moment. He returns the favor during each exercise that permits it.

By the second set of exercises I could use his stiff cock as a dumbbell and I am drenched and not with sweat. Just in case, I freshen up[1] when I head to my bedroom before the last set to get my vest for the treadmill. I return and finish the last set with difficulty, trying to ignore what bK is doing to my exposed body while I stretch. The six-week break is back, silent and mocking in the air, stripping us of any pretense of patience with the time it is taking to complete the last set.

I finish the exercise with bK at full attention and raring to go. All conversation, other than our bodies exhorting us to get to it, stops. My vagina’s monologue is on repeat: “f—k now” (in Danny’s redrum voice from the Shining). His rigid dick, with its pronounced veins throbbing to the same furious beat, seems to be calling for the same. If those veins were near his other head, I’d be worried he was about to have an aneurysm. Luckily we are headed for rapture and not rupture this morning.

I want to class it up on the couch today so I put my hand on his chest to pause and we shuffle, bodies pressed against each other, around the coffee table to the couch. I half lay, half crouch on the couch as bK does the same on top of me and, with his chest weighing lightly against my back, he finally slips his c-ck inside me. My body treacherously welcomes his with a tight, hot embrace and we begin to move in sync to a familiar beat. He reaches forward to stroke my clit while I reach back and down to play with his balls, allowing my fingers stray a little further. The catch in his breath and his muted groans get me every time and I’m even more aroused. Aaah, this deep, slow stroke is the right way to start the day.  We put my sofa to the test as we unleash weeks of repressed lust.  If I could, I would have spent the morning with his dick inside me.

I feel energized and ready to take on the day after I come. By contrast, bK seems dazed and worn out after he comes. 🙂 After a few minutes of relaxing in post-coital serenity, I pop up, give bK a light slap on the face to snap him back to reality and head to the treadmill. I realize too late that we did not shut the curtains before landing on the couch. Hopefully my neighbors were too occupied to notice.

Common sense returns later in the morning and I recommit to flushing this out of my system by the end of the month.  Despite that re-commitment, we slip without further discussion back into a routine of training in the buff at least once a week with a mid-workout intimate interlude. No romance, just interesting discussions, exercise and decadent copulation, peppered with the occasional idyllic Sunday afternoon in the park.

No Massage in August. The one day we tentatively scheduled was canceled due to time constraints. We still found time to “connect” on a more primal level and then spend a quiet afternoon in Central Park discussing fidelity and the surname he will give his child(ren). It was nice. But I wanted the massage.

 

 

Ramadan Part 2

          Improved mental clarity is a side effect of this forced and unwelcome carnal hiatus.  I say with minimal bias that bK and I interact best when freed from the meddlesome barriers of clothing.  Naked, every session, every exercise and even every debate is enhanced.  Perhaps because somewhere in the middle everyone (usually) comes, perhaps because clothing is to primal urge and peaceful co-existence what foil hats are to mind-control.  All that is certain is that clothes restrict us from greater achievement.  Attention all former students who should have been placed in advanced classes but instead languished bored and untested in gen pop – I understand. 

Or maybe I am just salty to be on a timeout while religious tenets are observed.  In any case, our return to dressed workouts during Ramadan is paired with a return to tense exercise sessions.  The former is now unnatural and foreign while the latter is all too familiar.  In fairness his mom is in the hospital part of this time, which is always stressful.  At least I am able to assure the nurse in the training session for the other big freeze that she doesn’t need to worry when she stresses the importance of birth control given the hyper fertility caused by hormone meds.  The mandatory march through abstention desert continues…

           Meanwhile, I am torn between annoyance and gratitude for the cancelled days.  These unplanned off days are a welcome break from rushing across town for blood work at 7 a.m. and then back home before bK arrives, but rescheduling may be more painful than learning how to inject myself with hormones and medications.  I was nervous about it but I’ve adapted to injecting myself with two different types of needles twice a day.  Unfortunately, my lower belly grows increasingly sore – I guess stomach fat is good for something.  These injections will never be as pleasant as those that have been so harshly withdrawn in the name of religion.

Despite these challenges, I miss our time chillaxing in Central Park so I mention to bK that we have not lounged out there in a while.  Blame it on hormone surge that was raging, raging.  Exactly how much am I supposed to sacrifice in the name of all that is holy?   

bK initially responds that during Ramadan he strives to forgo everything that gives him pleasure, but by the next weekend he has invited me out to our spot in the park.  From behind the reinforced windows of my glass house I cast judgment on this inconsistency, but I’m sure enough glad to be out there relaxing with him the next Sunday 😉  We are at ease and our conversations are good during afternoons in the park.  And bK wears nothing but swimming trunks while sunbathing.  Yay though I walk through the desert, I am tested by the proximity of forbidden fruit that I may not savor.  We talk, we relax, he gets his fill of vitamin D while I am deprived of vitamin S.  Injustice comes in many forms.  So as we lounge in the hot sun talking and bK gives himself a pretty professional looking mani/pedi, part of my mind is preoccupied with thoughts of an ice bath.

Countdown to the end of Ramadan.  With approximately two months to the big wedding day, time’s a-wastin’.

Massage rating? No G-D massage. No Sex.  It-is-a-FAST!