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.

 

Last Massage

The last massage towards the end of September when bK returned from the south after a family event was particularly memorable.  We scheduled it for Sunday as usual. Unfortunately it was at the end of a tense week of bickering and largely NON-naked training. 😦 And I didn’t have brunch scheduled afterwards…

I suppose I set the tone by I letting bK and his massage table into the building without saying anything but even getting hello out was difficult and his frosty expression didn’t help. He walks in and heads straight up the stairs to my apartment also in silence.  Apparently we are both feeling the effects of the week.

Once upstairs he puts the massage table to the side and we proceed to the back room so I can warm up on the treadmill. No one is taking their clothes off for today’s workout. Twelve and a half minutes of studying my sneakers and the treadmill floor. How many words can I form with the letters in the word Sole? Lose, Leos, Sloe, Oles (no accent). Meanwhile bK stands two inches away studying his phone, the walls, the window or the treadmill monitor.  I can’t get through this mile fast enough and the pounding of my feet on the treadmill is a welcoming distraction in the otherwise quiet room.

The only time anyone speaks when we move to the other room to workout is when bK tells me what exercise to do and when to switch to it. No demos today, no touching. It’s not that warm but out of habit from the summer I left the A/C on relatively high which just adds to the icy atmosphere. Someone please call 9-1-1. I may as well be doing every exercise in a pool or in sand — it is taking so fucking long and it feels so fucking hard. I almost sprint to the bathroom to take a shower after the last set. In my rush, I forget to help bK move the coffee table out of the way so he can set up the massage table and to put the kettle on the pot so he can warm up my favorite almond oil. I don’t have a microwave oven, sorry.

By the time I emerge from the shower the massage table is set up, the almond oil is warm and in bK’s holster. Unlike the last several massages he is still dressed in his shorts and t-shirt. In keeping with the day. Oh well, no one is in the mood for anything more.

Wrong.

I drop my wrap and lay down on the table. bK does not place the cover sheet on me and it hits me that I didn’t turn off the A/C. Too bad I’m already on the table and we aren’t speaking. He starts at my neck and works his way down my back kneading away the tension. His fingers are strong and the knots start to give way under the pressure of his hands though I won’t comment on whether any of those knots were caused by the current situation. bK works his way down my lower back, skips my ass and goes to work on my calves and feet. All relatively cold and professional. My ass feels slighted by the detour. It is a temporary let down as he works back up to my ass and thighs and the tone of his touch changes – lingering, soft strokes are suddenly mixed in with firmer kneading. A familiar and fucking treacherous tingle start to spread and my clit starts to hum for his touch. I try to remind myself we aren’t speaking.

After about 25 or 30 minutes bK tells me to turn over. Words! I do and he massages my arms, my breasts and stomach. A slight panic starts to set in as he moves down to my thighs. I can’t lose this unspoken battle. His hands slide, firmly massaging here, gently stroking there, up and down my inner thighs, occasionally straying, but only far enough that I could convince myself that it was just my imagination. My legs are spread and even when I close my eyes I can feel his eyes concentrated on my sex. Those eyes are working in tangent with his fingers to draw every bit of moisture they can from my pu—y. Despite my best (reasonably best?) efforts moisture continues to gather between my legs and I’m praying this massage will end before I start dripping on the sheet. That prayer is not exactly answered. As one door closes another opens.

We may not be talking but my swollen and prominent lips offer silent and obvious approval for the direction that the massage has taken. bK’s wandering hands flirt closer and closer along the edge of the increasingly moist haven within those lips with teasing touches. He caresses/massages my inner thighs and mound between for what seems like forever until his hands finally slow down. Just as I am congratulating myself on making it through, he looks at me and then slowly slides two fingers inside me.

Unexpected today. He doesn’t pull them out but instead glides around, exploring my vaginal walls, feeling for my magic spot. I try to remain calm as he strokes the heat and wetness of my p—sy but my hips start rising off the table of their own volition, twisting in his direction to guide him towards the exact pulsing place upon which I want his fingers to focus. Today is not the day for any of this but here we are and it feels too good to say stop. Then his fingers hit upon the right spot. Mental circuit break — I am no longer thinking rationally.

bK’s bent fingers have struck gold and they are flicking, stroking and tap-tap-tapping my g-spot to mindlessness. He combines a gentle drum beat with light circular touches but that tender beat is my undoing. The blood is rushing between my thighs as the pressure builds within me. I feel bK watching me even with my eyes are shut. We make brief eye contact when I open my eyes but it’s hazy since I am only focused on the intense pleasure emanating from inside me where we are connected. I register his excitement but do nothing about it. Selfish mode.  My hips keep rising from the table, doing everything possible to ensure bK’s fingers don’t leave the molten shelter now being offered until the right moment.

He continues to massage my g-spot as the pleasure spreads like wildfire throughout my body. Down to my G-D toes. The only breaks to the silence are the sounds of my moans (and the meditation music that is the soundtrack for these massage sessions). I kind of wish I could stop but my voice has joined the list of body parts no longer interested in listening to my brain.

I am surprised by the intensity of my orgasm under the circumstances.  And even more surprised by the amount of fluid that gushes all over his hand and the table. But it does relieve the tension. 🙂 We maintain a now peaceful silence until he suddenly breaks out in a huge smile and says “I thought you were going to kill me with that A/C.”

As I get dressed he mentions that I didn’t help set up and we start joking about the day. Things are back  to normal. For now.

Massage rating: 10/10. G-spot session. We both felt good about it, possibly for different reasons. Sensual massage series ends on a good note.

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.

 

 

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.

 

January 2013

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.