Last Training Session – Mid Oct 2013

The day before our last training session bK and I got into an argument ostensibly because I left the A/C on despite the fall weather and he thinks I did it maliciously. I guess it is possible that deep down inside I was hoping he would catch a cold before his wedding but really all I was concerned about was not getting sweaty before we consummate the session properly. At any rate his outburst led to a spat, which led to the team getting redressed and cancellation of the day’s “intimate interlude”. A terrible outcome given our limited remaining time. Shiiiiiit.

Later that evening we went through the same debate via text and ultimately resolved it – a/k/a I apologized for keeping the A/C on after he (allegedly) repeatedly said it was chilly. #sorrynotsorry 😉

On what would be our last training day, bK shows up with a swollen knee and he has trouble making it up the stairs. He does not have trouble taking his clothes off. I suspect it will be our last training day since his wedding is nine days away, but we don’t discuss that topic so I am not yet sure when exactly he will be leaving for the big day. I am sorry that bK’s knee is injured but it puts him at my mercy more than usual throughout the session. I may even have molested him as he limped up the stairs.

I can’t recall clearly what topics we discuss as we engage in a combination of exercise and foreplay. I explore and play with his body without restraint, and he with mine. Sparks of anticipation shoot down my spine as he moves up close, “explaining” some exercise or another while caressing me. The burgeoning lips and increasing dampness between my legs border on uncomfortable as I feel his nipples harden under my grazing fingertips and watch and feel his dick swell, harden and damn near double in size in my grasp. The wetness glistening shortly thereafter at his tip punctuate our impatience with the routine that must be completed before we can let the growing need consume us and ravish each other. Usually at this time of the month, I would skip our sensual forays but today I’m relying on SoftCup (http://softcup.com/about/product-info) and I hope it will be able to take it. SoftCup is the truth for active and clean comfort during exercise etc. and it has held up through squats, lunges and power walking. But today, I need will be asking for much more.

I am brazen in the freedom with which I touch and navigate the contours of bK’s body, lingering everywhere I please. Exercise is less of a priority today. The other drawback is SoftCup, which has me for the first time ill at ease with the boldness of his stroke. bK senses this and after a while incorrectly interprets it as a sign that I am not interested in sex this morning, sighs and gets dressed. What?! No, no, no!! I continue through the last two exercises naked while he watches, dressed and seated on the couch. It feels something like I’d imagine it does to be on stage trying to earn cash for those last couple of credits. Except that there are no bills being showered upon me, just a constant and palpable gaze in a silence that is occasionally broken with an exercise countdown.

As I finish the last exercise I am reflecting on what appears to be a bootleg ending to our experience and I decide to skip the treadmill. bK is amenable to the abbreviated session and he starts to get up from the couch to gather his bags. Without saying anything, I walk over and slide my hands under his shirts and begin to caress his velvety skin, reveling in the steely form of the well-defined muscles sheathed beneath the velvet. I push him back slightly and with his gimpy knee he lands right back on the couch. I straddle him and continue massaging lightly southward along his granite thighs, avoiding for now, the growing bulge increasingly protruding from his sweats. He doesn’t move or say anything other than that his knee won’t be able to support me. I glide my hands further along his thighs, allowing my knuckles to graze his thickness from time to time but no more than that. bK is trying to playing it as cool despite his body’s obvious reaction because he thinks I spurned his touch earlier. Pride. Still his ragged breathing, his nipples threatening to burst through the layers of his shirts and the rigid pole tenting up his sweats to his left tell it all. Watching his body win the battle over his mind turns me on even more. Plus I understand the conflict.

A couple of minutes pass before bK finally grabs me by the hips to place me aside before standing up and quickly stripping. By the time he leans back to me I am already up on the couch urging him on wordlessly. He pulls me toward him and starts to give me something I can feel when we notice a critical item missing – the one time the French ninja letter forgot the gold packet. We pause while he slips a condom on and then he is back, rubbing his tumescence against my cheeks. I can feel the beat of his pulsing cock against my ass. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum against the smooth chocolate skin of my African drums. That’s the sound of the team naked and frothing to connect on a sensual level immediately. He rests against me to support some of his weight as I reach back and wrap fingers around his throbbing dick and guide him inside me. He circles his right hand around one of my breasts and thrusts slowly as deeply as he can.

And the tip of his dick bangs right up on the fucking SoftCup.

We could have paused and I could have explained what it was. But neither of us has time for that. bK uses his hardness to nudge it aside and our slow, deep ride to ecstasy begins. He plays with breasts with one hands and fondles my clit with the other while he pumps with deep and slow precision. My senses are under assault on multiple fronts and it is delicious. I arch back and into him – the source of pleasure curled over and around me, popping back against his groin to the rhythm of his thrusts. Off in the background I hear some idiot sounding like she is trying to recreate those old herbal essences commercials. Wait – that’s me. I wish I would shut up but I can’t stop. The lust is loose and we are in the groove. It would be cruel and unjust for our motion to stop just yet. I reach back with my right hand to caress his balls, rolling one and then the other gently within his soft sac. Gentle globes deserving of my tender touch. bK groans his approval. I slip a little further along the sensitive area underneath as bK continues to deliver stroke after delightful stroke.  With thoughts of nothing but the sensations of our entwined bodies in motion, we take our time, lost in and scaling the heights of passion.

It was a little messy given the displaced SoftCup, but that is fitting.

About a week later he got married and moved and I stopped working out with a personal trainer anymore. Some experiences cannot be duplicated.:)

A little bit of this:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H6syUR_34dw

But more of this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tQzGhEkjNJY

 And a forever favorite to round out 2014:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IoP1M3vwnoU

Holiday Celebrations

Creative problem solving is important in all aspects of life.  Since we cannot acknowlege that we want to continue our intimate interludes until bK leaves NYC in a couple of weeks, I propose that we celebrate holidays by working out/training naked. Almost every day is a holiday somewhere.

Unfortunately, Guinea-Bissau Independence Day, the first holiday following my suggestion, is celebrated fully clothed and peppered with passive aggressive commentary. I expect better on Dominion (New Zealand) and Revolution (Yemen) Days later in the week but bK tells me that he doesn’t “do anyone’s independence day” though he will be happy to observe me observe them.  I invoke the magic words – I thought we were a “team” and he replies that he will “see how the team shows up to the door”. I show up to the door with nothing on except a silk kimono and socks on the next workout day.

Lock picked.

After that, Dominion Day, World Vegetarian Day, Nigerian Independence Day and World Heart Health Day, among others, become important “holidays” that we must properly commemorate. I start consulting Wikipedia once or twice a week for the right “holiday” that falls on a scheduled workout day and then let bK know what we will be “celebrating”.  Our agreement that the last time was “THE last time” is thrown out the window. This carnal ship is having trouble going silently into the night.

My favorite of these “holidays” is World Heart Health Day.  What better way to observe a day dedicated to cardiovascular health than a good cardio warm-up followed by an exercise session laced with stolen caresses that get our hearts racing? I use the breaks in between sets to trace my hands along the muscled contours of bK’s shoulders, chest and stomach before sweeping down to his thighs. I skip past his dick (for now) — he should get a taste of how torturous those early massages could be. Eventually I’m drawn back to his wonderful ass, cupping a cheek in each hand – squeezing those taut muscles could be an exercise in itself.

Treating bK’s body as my playground and teasing him does not come without a price. bK starts roving as soon as I am occupied with the next exercise.  Squeezing, probing and stroking every exposed inch. We continue our own experiment – how much lust and sensual exploration can one mix with exercise before combustion?  We are keeping it casual so despite the building desire we try to sound level and unaffected as our conversation flows from one topic to another.

Supposed to be casual. I can’t conceal the tropical storm brewing between my thighs from his touch.  bK has even less of a shot of hiding his thick c—k throbbing against his left side.  At least not until he buries it inside me.  Even without the physiological evidence, our increased heart rates contradict the veneer of the tranquility as we continue talking.  Conversation becomes sporadic and as we get closer to that magic moment when I reach the last set of the final exercise we are barely speaking.  We have more important things to focus on.  bK is ready even as I finish the last arm lift. After all this time I am still amused by the speed with which he gets a condom on.  It is almost seamless and with the briefest of breaks in contact we are ready to soar. He could teach a class.

bK places my still sneaker-clad legs on his shoulders, leans forward and slips his c—k deep inside me. I envelope his torso with my thighs and squeeze. We begin to move to the rhythm beating along silently in our heads. No background music, heavy breathing, sighs of enjoyment, whispers of encouragement, pleas to continue and the steady clap of our bodies in motion provide the only soundtrack needed.

Hips swiveling and pushing against each other as bK pumps further inside me. I feel every inch of the length and breadth of his d—k with each rotation and I rise to meet each thrust. Everyone would exercise if it felt this good. I wrap my arms around him taking care not to scratch his back. No need to leave evidence. We continue this beautiful motion as the pressure intensifies and the heat builds. Eventually we pick up the tempo, turning into a mindless unit team focused on nothing but rocking together to unbridled release. We both climax with an intensity that leaves us temporarily drained.  We remain joined for some time then continue to relax in quiet recovery on the towel for even longer. I skipped the post-coitus treadmill cool-down.

 

Fall 2013 – Is this the End?

We don’t talk about it, but clearly these sessions must end at some point before he leaves.  We are taking more frequent intimate breaks as the end approaches.

Our first session after the start of fall is the last agreed naked training session, which seems as natural a stopping point as any.  We have been getting along well since the last massage 🙂 so hopefully we will transition to a more suitable relationship on a positive (and high) note.  bK comes in, strips and lays his folded clothes on the arm of the couch as usual.  I also strip and lay my (unfolded) clothes on the coffee table before I head to the treadmill. The routine that we have been following for almost a year feels different on this last day.  Each action is tinted with tacit acknowledgement that our dalliance is coming to an end (as we knew it would).

We move back into the living room after I warm-up.  I get through the first two exercises before we seamlessly progress, mid-conversation, to touching one another.  We are having a good conversation, but I don’t know what about.  My mind has already wandered to what we will be doing afterwards.  When I am not thinking about that, I am reflecting on the feel of his skin as I caress his body while he demonstrates proper form, the contours of his chest as my hands splay out across it while he shows me the next exercise.  I have trouble focusing on the workout with bK playing with my nipples and taking advantage of my exposed frame arched over the exercise ball. Crunches are tough to do with his hands drifting further and further south.  The pressure starts to build inside me, together with the familiar strains of an internal battle about to be lost.

Soon bK is massaging the mound of my p-ssy, occasionally letting one or two fingers slip in, a glance here, an exploratory squeeze there, teasing of what’s to come.  Conversation slows.  We delay moving to the next exercise — neither of us is ready to break the physical connection.  When we do finally switch to the next part of the workout, I make him repeatedly demonstrate it so I have time to trace along his back, measure his broad shoulders, sweep down his stomach and finally let my hands come to rest on his balls.  Those tender orbs.  Such simple pleasure to hold those tender orbs in my hand and let my fingers roll slowly over his tender skin.  Even more enjoyable to watch and feel bK’s response to it.  He can’t control it which makes me even hotter.  Given the trauma that I caused his nuts in the past, it feels nice to give them a little TLC one last time…

It’s a pleasant struggle to work out while so aroused and with bK at full attention besides me, but I manage and finally get through the last exercise.  As usual, somehow by the end of that set he has put a condom on (French letter ninja).  We sink down to the beach towel.  On his knees, bK nestles between thighs already dotted with goose bumps that display an anticipation I’m too proud to voice.  He pauses as he lifts my legs to his shoulders and we make eye contact: “last time” he says; “last time”, I agree.  I close my eyes as he slips inside me.  I plan to savor each stroke, touch and sound that marks the end of this surreal journey.  bK leans forward and I wrap my arms around him, running my hands up and down his back as we begin to move together. Our bodies are sealed together and we start with a leisurely grind, letting the intensity build with each rotation.

After a few minutes the relaxed grinding is not enough to slake our hunger.  I need him further inside me asap and bK complies with deep forays that have the head of his dick perfectly stroking my cervix.  Mmmmm.  Even our moans, of encouragement, of pleasure, are in sync as we move in rhythm towards climax.  My hands slide down to settle where they usually do – cupping his solid ass and urging bK along each thrust.  He stops supporting himself and lets his chest fall on me as we increase the pace and scale the heights.  He doesn’t feel heavy in the midst of this frantic haze of carnal delight; his body is a comfortable weight as we reach a fiery release that radiates down to my toes.  A suitable ending.

But then my first thought as we lay there afterwards with him still inside me — what harm is a couple more weeks?  How to say let’s continue activities we don’t discuss until closer to an event we barely acknowledge…

Squats

As many personal trainers and fitness experts etc. will tell you, and as I’ve cribbed from http://www.fitday.com/fitness-articles/fitness/exercises/the-benefits-of-squat-exercises.html:  squat exercises are great for a total lower body workout as they exercise most of the major muscle groups of the butt, hips and thighs. They are also versatile and can be done anywhere with or without equipment. When I think about the best variation of squats, my mind wanders to these:

After the usual in-workout touching, squeezing and caressing that enhances our naked training days, bK and I are both worked up and pretending to wait patiently for the end of the last abs set that I am working on. He is standing by my feet and my line of vision each time I rise hits his swollen dick cheering me on. The sooner I finish this exercise, the sooner we can be reunited. When my eyes bother to travel past my turgid, expecting friend, I rarely make eye contact with bK anyway – by this point his eyes are laser focused between my legs.  We are mainly talking about the workout, but even louder is the unspoken urging to finish each exercise quickly so that we can f—k stet. The last few reps of the last exercise always takes ten times as long as all of the other exercises.

I finish the last set and in the minute or so that it takes me to get a drink of water and freshen up, the French Letter Ninja strikes again. I don’t even hear the condom wrapper. As bK pulls me against him I lean back into his chest and revel in the feel of his throbbing d—k drumming a little song of what is to come against my cheeks.

And then the squats.

As he pulls me against him, he dips into a squat position and so do I. For balance (and because he has one of the most solid asses I have come across), I cup his left cheek with my left hand and hang on to the back of his head with my right. The fingers of his left hand are firmly rounding my cl-t with just the right amount of pressure, while his right hand plays with my breasts. As I squat, he thrusts up hitting the right spots on its way to the sweetest one. “Reunited ’cause we understood. There’s one perfect fit…” He never withdraws, another benefit of this exercise/position.  He keeps whispering “give it to me” each time I dip. We go 20 or so squats but I don’t feel any burn in my thighs, just the pleasure radiating from the various parts of my body that we are connected. I could squat for days like this. Ok maybe 20-25 minutes.  Who says the benefits of exercise are not immediate?

Our legs are only so strong and eventually we drop to the towel and rock out to climax. Too bad I let that green, yellow and black anklet stand in the way for so many months.

https://pbs.twimg.com/media/BgK2MeFCEAAze2j.jpg

Do you even squat? Instead of squatting with weights or other equipment, squat with your partner. It feels better. Team squats for the world.

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

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.