Run for My Life

Saturday, time to play. Time to make my boyfriend smile, oh, I've already done that, earlier. And he liked it. Smiling as he wiped the sweat away, and the lube from his arse.

Then it's time to pull on my jogging shoes and run for a mile, so my boyfriend continues to smile, when I pull my clothes off.

I love that feeling of pulling the cotton material up and over my arse. Ffffppp. I love the way they fit me. I love the way my thighs feel so exposed, just in those little black shorts. I love the way I can feel the air blow around me down there. Does my, er, ah… look big in these.

Up on that cushiony cloud, step, step, step. Mind clear. Push myself along. Nobody can touch me. I'm a machine. My legs are like springs of steal. I slide through the air. I am oiled, I am greased, I am fluid. I am the hot knife, the day is the butter. I am in my cocoon of silence, all that exists is what is in front of me. That is where my focus is, the footpath disappearing under my feet. The rhythm of my heart, the rhythm of the bitumen, the rhythm of life, the rhythm of existence beating in my chest. Into the zone, the world blurs like it’s on time lapse. I am strong. I am powerful. I am invincible.

Watch me go, if you can. What me explode into being a man. What me sizzle under the sun. Thup, thup, thup sound my feet on the ground. I barely touch down. I am poetry in motion, if only in my own mind.

I smile, as I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.

Gertrude Street > Queensberry Street > Swanston Street > Elgin Street > Johnson Street > Home.

I stagger in the door. I’m exhausted. It is good exhaustion. I feel great exhaustion. I grab a glass of water. I can hardly stop my hand from shaking as I raise it to my mouth. I drink it down. My legs are sweating and stinging at the same time. The sweat drips into my eyes.

I pull off a shoe. I push the other shoe off with my big toe. It is a family trait, gene, really powerful big toes. I can pinch people with them that brings them to their knees with tears to their eyes. I can barely pull the wherewithal together to remove my socks.

I head to the shower. My wet t-shirt sticks to my skin, so much that I have trouble pulling it over my head. I roll my wet shorts and jocks down in one motion and they lay curled together at my feet.

I can barely turn the shower taps on, my hands are weak. But, I feel great. I feel shakingly fantastic as the water cascades down onto my red skin glistening with sweat.

Afterwards, I make tea.