BillyC
If not commando, then jocked.
I’ve mentioned before in posts that I had knee surgery last month — “severely” torn ACL. So I’m sidelined for months — no running, swimming, tennis, biking, CrossFit, boxing, SURFING . . . If I sound bitter, adjust your hearing aids — I’m cranky as fuckn hell! But that’s not the story I’m reporting.
Yesterday I insisted I’d go to CrossFit and do some upper body. We’ve got guests from the mainland, and over three men’s objections (my husband leading that opposition) in addition to my PT, in front of whom I declared my intent, I went. It felt fuckn good, particularly my arms-only rope climbs (with four hot men under me in case I fell!). But inevitably I was sidelined for half of the WOD.
As is always the case, there are always young (Millennial, Z), horny bitches at CrossFit, and many of them like “daddies” — I’ve stopped resisting the term . . . since I am, in fact, a dad, among other reasons. One who’s there for the next WOD comes over to me while I’m steaming because my husband, our two friends and our PT are keeping their heart rates up and sweating like pigs while I’m warming the bench — literally! “Yo, nice to see a hot man in a jock,” he leads off with and pulls his shorts to the side to show me a pristine GYM.
I feigned disinterest. “Difference is, when you grow up you’ll know that washing jockstraps is a sin,” I told him, pulling my silkies to the side and displaying my filthy pouch enough so he could even get a whiff if he wanted. Needless to say I followed him to the men’s room in the lockers and got an enthusiastic, if not expert, hummer. Before I came I made him beg for it and told him he’d only get it if he vowed to never wash his jockstraps again. When he was done swallowing and I’d told him he was a good boy he asked if I’d be willing to swap with him, but I declined and told him when he had a strap worthy of trade, THEN I’d swap him. He’s vowed to work on that, too.
I’m kinda a pied piper of jockstraps — whattaya think? (Okay, that’s not original — my husband came up with that when I told them the story on the way home.)
Yesterday I insisted I’d go to CrossFit and do some upper body. We’ve got guests from the mainland, and over three men’s objections (my husband leading that opposition) in addition to my PT, in front of whom I declared my intent, I went. It felt fuckn good, particularly my arms-only rope climbs (with four hot men under me in case I fell!). But inevitably I was sidelined for half of the WOD.
As is always the case, there are always young (Millennial, Z), horny bitches at CrossFit, and many of them like “daddies” — I’ve stopped resisting the term . . . since I am, in fact, a dad, among other reasons. One who’s there for the next WOD comes over to me while I’m steaming because my husband, our two friends and our PT are keeping their heart rates up and sweating like pigs while I’m warming the bench — literally! “Yo, nice to see a hot man in a jock,” he leads off with and pulls his shorts to the side to show me a pristine GYM.
I feigned disinterest. “Difference is, when you grow up you’ll know that washing jockstraps is a sin,” I told him, pulling my silkies to the side and displaying my filthy pouch enough so he could even get a whiff if he wanted. Needless to say I followed him to the men’s room in the lockers and got an enthusiastic, if not expert, hummer. Before I came I made him beg for it and told him he’d only get it if he vowed to never wash his jockstraps again. When he was done swallowing and I’d told him he was a good boy he asked if I’d be willing to swap with him, but I declined and told him when he had a strap worthy of trade, THEN I’d swap him. He’s vowed to work on that, too.
I’m kinda a pied piper of jockstraps — whattaya think? (Okay, that’s not original — my husband came up with that when I told them the story on the way home.)
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