on running (rather NSFW)

Friday at the gym, I saw an old would-be lover. I called up the calm and strength I've learned at my sunday afternoon Yoga class, and managed to smile and nod a polite hello to him. But seeing him, remembering the way I couldn't even bring myself to say much to him, much less admit my feelings, made me angry. I felt 24 again, still a virgin, and so overwhelmed by arousal and insecurity every time he came near, that I was afraid he could look at me and tell all the things I would do if he would only ask; the things I would beg of him, if only he would allow it. The time I danced with him at a club and came home, panties soaked and breasts aching from the grinding we'd done, my skin still smelling of the smoke and him; I'd run up to my room, undone my jeans and plunged my fingers into my pussy, wishing they were his, bringing myself to an orgasm so sharp it was almost frightening. He remained either blissfully ignorant of my lust -- or kindly chose to not acknowledge it instead of outright refusing me. We lost touch, of course. But our town is a smallish one, and it was inevitable that we meet again, if only briefly.

And of course, when I wasn't wearing makeup or a fabulous outfit.

Tree pose and namaste be damned, saying hello and seeing him, the memories of how many times I dreamed of those thick brown arms he extended to me for a brief hug hello-and-how-are- you -- I wanted to fuck him senseless. Right there on the gym floor. My nipples were almost painfully tight -- a rarity for me -- and I thanked God for the sportsbra and baggy tee as I made my retreat, bolting up the steps to the exercise machines.

I'm not a runner. I walk a good bit, I do rowing machines, I enjoy strength training. Running? not my thing. But the couple of laps I walked around the upstairs track was doing nothing to ease the twitch of my thighs, which apparently wanted nothing more than to be spread around the hips of the ex-crush downstairs. To be held at a 90-degree angle while he slid his cock into my pussy, stretching muscles I didn't know I had and would feel for days. My arms were tight with the imagining of being pinned above my head while he kissed me. My lips were slightly parted, the cool air tasting like the anticipation of his tongue on mine. I didn't realize how fast I was walking until I saw an elderly woman look at me questioningly. Obviously the track was for leisurely paces. I was too restless for leisurely. And in serious danger of going back downstairs and making up for lost time.

The treadmills were my only hope. I mounted the nearest one and found myself running: a physical defiance of the need I still felt. My pussy was throbbing and liquid with want; I ignored it in favor of a trickle of sweat down the small of my back. The tingling in my thighs was soon joined by a heat in my shins. I worked to find a rhythm of breath that didn't remind me of the heavy inhale/exhale of orgasm.

I ran away from him, from my body's lust, from my want. I'm sure it wasn't that far -- I'm a beginner, after all. And when I stopped, the stitch in my side forcing me off the treadmill and back into the present, I walked loose-limbed to the water fountain. When I glanced around, there was no sign of the onetime crush. Cool water lapped over my tongue and down my throat, and I was grateful for good sense and the disappearance of my tormentor.

I haven't seen him at the gym since, and there's a part of me that is grateful: the part that loves the subtlety and ease of my muscles into poses, the easy ebb and flow of the present. But there's a part that wishes I'd see him again at the gym.

I've bought new running shoes, in case.