Runner Sex

Runner Sex

I was running at the bottom of a hill, negotiating thin patches of ice on a sidewalk when I saw him. Another runner. Coming the opposite direction. Doing the same as me, looking for the dry patches so he wouldn’t slip.

But he was a real runner. Like, in a full kit of gear and all that. Like, he was probably doing speedwork or training for the Iron Man. On furlough from being a Navy SEAL or something.

He was also super foxy. Like, a total babe of a man. Chiseled cheek bones. Ugh. Beautiful people.

Anyway, he said “Good Morning” and I said “Hi,” back and he was very handsome and I was very embarrassed.

Then I kept running. But I couldn’t stop thinking about him. What would it be like to be that guy’s wife?

We’d be like those sporty couples you see out at brunch sometimes. Wearing our running tights or toddling around in those weird biker shoes. Eating egg white omelets and fruit plates. 


Evenings, we’d sort our recycling together. Listen to NPR. We’d have a dog, some giant breed that likes to run, and one of those ball-tosser contraptions. We’d play with the dog for a respectable amount of time, since we’d have no children. Then he’d say something funny and I’d laugh and then we’d go up to bed and his eyes would get all narrow and serious and he’d watch me taking my stuff off. 


Say something like, “No, leave the compression socks on.”


Or, “No, leave the fun run t-shirt on.”


Then he’d go down on me. Following all the tips from the sex column in Men’s Health.


He’d say, “You taste so good. Like breakfast quinoa, with sweetened ricotta.”


He’d rub his hand over my hipbone. Then, when it was time for Actual Sex, our hipbones would knock together. The satisfying bone-crack of optimal health! Feeling like sparks coming off our hipbones. How that would come in handy in a survival situation. All we’d need was a piece of flint and some dry kindling. I’d close my eyes, consider doing one of those wilderness trail competitions with him…


“Come back to me,” he’d say, biting my ear.


“Sorry, you’re just so handsome,” I’d tell him. “You remind me of that one guy? On that one show? Back when we still had a television?”


“Keep talking,” he’d say, but I can’t. He’s breathing so hard his Garmin starts beeping and…

Annnnnnd then I’m just smiling and laughing and coughing a little, because I’m so gross but highly amusing to myself. Plus I’m at the top of the hill and barely remember any of it. And I’ve got just one more mile left. God, I love running.

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