Moving Away

 

By Dreamspinner and B. Dancer

           

            I hated the idea of moving from the town where I’d grown up.  Most of my friends from school had stayed in Butlerville after they’d graduated from high school or come back after college—including me.  Everywhere I went, I saw a familiar face.  I had no mortgage.  When my grandma died I moved into the old homestead.  That, plus my GS – 13 job at the Naval Weapons depot made for a very comfortable lifestyle.  Not many forty-five year old women had it as good as I did, never mind the fact that I was single with a capital ‘G.’ 

            But, the day for leaving came six months ago and almost before I know what’s happened, I find myself laterally transferred to Long Beach, California.  Everything about the place is different from southern Iowa.  Instead of the cornfield I used to see out my bedroom window is the beach, and in place of the soybean field I saw out my living room window are glass and chrome skyscrapers.  From my veranda I can see the harbor and beyond that lays the sprawling complex where I work.  In many ways, it’s daunting. 

            But there are two things about the move out here that make it feel like it’s the right thing.  The first is that my workouts are better—after all, it is California.  The second thing is that there are lots of other women like me—after all, it is California.  Back in Iowa, I made do with old keyed weights and squeaky Universal machines in the basement of one of the buildings at the NAVWEPS, and my runs were up and down the gravel roads by my place.  But here, they’ve got a state-of-the-art gym right in the complex, complete with Ivanko dumbbells and Hammerstrength machines.  And, they’ve got miles of paved running paths.  The one I take after my gym workout is an honest two-and-a-half miles—I drove the route with my car—that’s how I know for sure.  I love it and so does my dog, because there’s plenty for both of us to look at. 

            I got here in December, when everyone on the walking paths was wearing sweatshirts and leggings.  As the months have gone by, it’s been like watching a slow strip-tease.  The one woman I got particularly interested in is about my age.  Watching her accommodate to the weather, that is, by removing her sweatshirt in March, her leggings in April, her long-sleeved running shirt in May, and now in July when she goes in around in short shorts and bra tops—made it impossible to keep my eyes and hands off her.  But I can’t really blame it on the changing seasons.  It has more to do with me moving away.       

            I figured out her walking schedule early on: 7:00 PM on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, and arranged mine so we’d be out on the paths at the same time.  The first time I saw her she was jogging along, making little puffs when she blew out.  We were running in opposite directions.  Even from a distance, I knew by the spring in her step and by the shape of her limbs underneath her sweats that she was at least very fit and perhaps muscled.  Even bundled up, I had this image of her wearing a light blue tank top underneath with her large firm breasts jouncing and her nipples sticking out because of the chill in the air.  

            When we met she said hi with a quick little puff of condensation like she didn’t want to stop but our dogs got tangled up and she had to.  “I’m sorry,” I said.  “It’s my fault.”    

            She bent over and freed her dog and then straightened up and looked at me.  “No,” she said, “It’s my dog’s fault.  He’s an idiot,” she said.  Her dog looks up and barks and she laughs.  “That’s his name,” she says and we both laugh.  She looks at her watch.  “Sorry,” she says.  “Gotta go.  I’m shooting for a personal best this evening!” 

            I call after her.  “See you again!”  She is already fifty feet away and she waves without turning around.  In a moment, she’s gone.  My dog is straining at his leash and my head is swimming. 

            I play our moment over and over in my mind that night, wondering if her wave meant she agreed—we would see each other again, or if she was just being polite.  I want to see her, I know that for certain.  She’s just my type—smaller than me, my age, pretty, and athletic.  Her sweatshirt says ‘Property of UCLA Athletic Department’ across the front.  I want to see more of her.  I drift off, wishing for warmer weather. 

            An evening without seeing her comes and goes, then two, and then three.  I wonder if she’s moved away, or if she’s on vacation, or if there’s someone else and she’s been busy with her.

            On the fourth day, the weather takes a surprise turn for the warmer and suddenly everyone’s wearing short sleeves and shorts to work—even at the quasi-military facility where I work.  And on the path that evening, I see my lovely come around a corner up ahead.  She’s wearing a white tank and has her UCLA sweatshirt tied around her waist.  Her swaying breasts are just the right size and they’re firm and I can see her nipples sticking out through the synthetic tank.  She doesn’t look like she’s in as much of a hurry as she was the last time I saw her and I get to thinking of ways I can introduce myself.  Just like last time, we’re walking in opposite directions and as we get close, she looks at her dog, Idiot, and shifts his leash to the other side and holds her arm way out like she wants to make sure our dogs don’t get tangled up again.  I see her biceps sticking up with the effort of holding Idiot out away from her.  The angle she’s got her elbow bent seems designed to show off her muscle and I wonder if she’s doing it on purpose. 

            I’m almost hypnotized by the sight and as we get close, she clears her throat.  I look up and say, “Hi,” and slow way down.   She slows down and stops on the path, still holding her arm out with her muscle sticking up.  I feel my dog pulling on his leash and stick my arm out, too, and come to a stop and we stand there on the path, staring at each other with our arms stuck out in opposite directions with our dogs straining to get close to each other. 

            She bends her arm a little more and her biceps gets a nice peak on it.  I tear my eyes off it and say, “I haven’t seen you—I thought maybe you’d moved away.”

            “No,” she says, still making her muscle.  “I travel on business.  I was in San Jose.  I’m back now, though,” she says. 

            “Oh,” I say, like a dunce, and go back to staring at her arm.  She lets it down and the leash goes slack and Idiot and my dog go to sniffing at each other’s ends, tails wagging furiously.  I see her nipples get big, even though I’m not looking directly at them.

            “I think our dogs like each other,” she says and sticks out her hand.  “My name’s Pam,” she says.  “What’s yours?”

            Lynn,” I say.  Her hand is broad and strong and feeling it in mine makes me wet. 

            “Well, Lynn,” she says, “nice to meet you.”

            “Nice to meet you, too, Pam,” I say, still holding on to her hand, pumping it absentmindedly.  I feel like I’m going to faint.

            She breaks my grip and says, “See you around, then.”

            “Right,” I say.  “See you, around, Pam,” I say.

            “Come on, Idiot,” she says, and when he realizes it’s time to stop getting acquainted with my dog, he pulls Pam past me down the path in the other direction.  The image of her nipples sticking out comes to me as I watch her going away.  Just as I think I better get moving, she turns around and waves and smiles real big.  I think she likes me.   

            The next day, the weather goes cold (for California) again and everyone’s back in winter clothes, which in southern California means slacks and long-sleeved shirts.  And it means sweats for jogging.  About quitting time, I start wondering about Pam and my heart starts pounding.  My phone rings and I about jump through the ceiling. 

            It’s you, of course, and you say you and dad are at the airport.  You got in an hour ago for a surprise visit, all the way from Chicago non-stop, you say, can you imagine that, you say, and can I come and pick you up, you want to know.  I say OK, that I’ll be there in twenty minutes, and hang up.  So much for Pam, I think, and go out to my car.

            You see me come through the door at the baggage claim area and run over and starts kissing and hugging me.  Over your shoulder, I see dad standing by your luggage.  He’s rolling his eyes like he always does when you do something that embarrasses him.  Finally you breaks off and wave him over.  He points to your luggage and you get a look like you realize he can’t leave where he is and you pull me over to where he’s standing.

            Dad gives me a kiss on the cheek and says ‘How are you, honey,’ and ‘Ain’t our little girl something, ma?’ and you both go to patting me all over like you’re trying to see if I’m real.  Then you squeeze my biceps and stop cold.

            “Good God, Harold!” you say.  “Feel her arm!” .  

            Dad reaches over and grabs my upper arm.  “Holy cow, Lynnie!” he says.  “You got an arm like a man,” and goes on squeezing it.  “Make a muscle,” he says and I bend my arm.  His eyes bug out.  “Ma, feel this arm on our Lynnie,” he says.

            You feel my muscle and your eyes get wet.  “Oh, dear,” you say, “I was afraid this was going to happen.  I just knew moving to California wasn’t a good thing for you.  You should have stayed in Iowa.”  You let go of my arm and get real quiet like you do when something doesn’t please you. 

            Dad says we’d better get our bags and he goes over to the pile and stoops down and gets one and then another.  I go over and tell him it’s OK, that I’ll get the stuff and take them from him and get a third in my right hand.  He stands back with an amazed expression on his face and says ‘I’ll be damned,’ and he gets the fourth bag and follows me out to the car with you trailing behind, still being real quiet and I know you’ve got a case of the mopes that will last for days and just might spoil your whole visit.

            We get back to my condo and my you and dad get unpacked and we decide we’ll go to the restaurant at my complex for dinner, with you just kind of going along with it and not really participating in the decision making.

            The restaurant is really very nice, and you soften when the waiter asks if you’d like a black napkin so lint won’t get on your dark slacks.  Dad says ‘Jesus, this is awful expensive,’ and I tell him not to worry about it, that it’s on me and you go clucking her tongue.  Dad rolls his eyes.

            We’re about halfway through our meal when in walks Pam with three other girls.  They sit on the other side of the room.  At first, one girl sits in the seat facing me but Pam motions that she wants to sit in there.  When Pam sits down, she makes sure she’s got eye contact with me and takes off her light jacket.  She’s wearing a sleeveless blouse.  She crosses her arms on the table and tenses both arms so her biceps ball up.  My cheeks get hot and I get real wet.

            Over dinner, you go on and on about things back in Iowa and how Jim Bradford, who graduated the same year I did, is now a doctor over to Ames at the Veterans Administration Medical Center and how he keeps asking for me every time he’s back in Butlerville and he’d sure like it if I’d give you my Email address to give to him and on and on and dad rolls his eyes and Pam keeps on making little eyes at me over her drink and sucking on her straw real slowly and surreptitiously making a muscle whenever she thinks the other girls aren’t looking at her.  I wonder if you really don’t know about me and I think for the hundredth time that I should tell you.  (I know dad knows already, even though we never talked about it openly—it’s just a feeling I have).  By the time we’ve finished dessert I’m very tired of it all and tell you and dad I’m going to take a long walk when we get back, hoping I’ll meet Pam on the path.

            After we get back and you get settled in front of the TV and after I teach dad how to use the remote I go up and change into a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt and put on my cross-trainers.  I come down and you have my dog on his leash.  You’re both at the door, ready to go with me. 

            “I thought I’d go with you,” you say.  “You look like you could use some company.”

            For a second, I consider telling you that ‘company’ is about the last fucking thing I need right now, but I bite my tongue.  “Sure, mom,” I say.  “Glad to have you along.  You can watch TV any night.”  We make sure dad’s going to be OK by himself and then we go out into the night with the dog nearly pulling your arm out of its socket. 

            We’ve gone about ten minutes without talking before I realize you still have the mopes.  I make conversation about the trip from Chicago to Long Beach, hoping you’ll come out of it, but you’re completely mum, except for a barely audible ‘hm,’ or ‘mm-mmm’ when you can manage it. 

            About the time I’m getting ready to scream, Pam appears about twenty feet in front of us, walking in our direction.  She’s wearing the same clothes she had on in the restaurant but I see she’s got her tennis shoes on.  Lynn,” she says when we get close.  “How are you?” and gives me a hug.  She squeezes me real hard and I get wet, feeling her strength. She turns to you and says, “Is this your sister?”

            You brighten up right away like you never heard of ‘the silent treatment,’ and says, “Thank you very much, but I’m Lynn’s mom,” and stick out your hand.

            Pam takes it and introduces herself.  You and Pam make inane small talk which gives me the opportunity to look Pam up and down and get absolutely sopping wet.  After a minute, Pam crouches down and pets my dog.  I can see down her top. 

            “You never did tell me your dog’s name, Lynn,” she says.

            “Tits,” I say.  “‘Tipp,’ I mean.”  I don’t think my you heard my slip, but Pam did.  She looks up at me and lets her top come away from her chest a little more.  I can’t wait to see them unencumbered, and everything about this moment tells me I won’t have long to wait. 

            Pam stands up and takes your hand.  “Very nice to meet you,” she says, and turns to me and says, “See you soon, Lynn,” and kisses me on the cheek and goes on her way but stops after she’s only taken a few steps and says, “Darn, I’ve got something in my shoe.”  She bends down and slips off her shoe and shakes it.  When she hears something fall out, she slips her foot in and wiggles it around, trying to get her shoe back on without undoing the shoelace.  I can see the muscles in her calf twitch and bulge every which way as she squirms her foot, trying to get it just right.  Finally she gets her shoe on and goes down the path into the dark. 

            You and I look at each other and start off in the opposite direction.  After about ten minutes, you break your silence.  You tell me how nice you think Pam is, and how friendly she seems.  You wants to know all about her: is she married, what does she do, how long has she been here or is she from around here originally, how long have I known her and are we close, to which I answer: not much, I don’t think so, I don’t know, I don’t know, and not yet, but I think she’ll make a good friend.

            I stop take you by the shoulders.  “Mom,” I say.  “We need to talk.”

            You say, “Now, Lynn...you know how I hate serious conversations.  Do you have to spoil the evening by getting intense?”  You sigh like a martyr.  “That’s just your way, I guess,” You say.  “You can’t help the way you are,” you say.  Then you look like you’re reconsidering and say finally, “All right then.  What do you have to tell me?”

            I can see this isn’t the time or place to get into it, so I say, “I can’t help the way I am, mom.  That’s all I wanted to say.”

            You give me a hug.  “Well, that wasn’t so bad,” you say, and go back to letting Tipp pull you along the path.

            The next morning dad announces that he’d like to see the Navy piers.  He was stationed in San Diego in the war, he says, but his ship visited Long Beach a time or two and he wants to see how the place has changed.  You say she wants to go shopping.  I can’t get Pam’s tits off my mind.  

            I get a taxi for dad and drop you off at the mall on my way to work.  I tell you I’m only going to work a half day and I’ll pick you up at noon and we can go get lunch somewhere nice.  You say you’ll like that and you’ll be looking forward to spending some time alone with your daughter. 

            At noon, you’re waiting where I told you to and I pick you up and we go to Mezzaluna.  The maitre d' sits us at a table on the sidewalk where we can watch the passersby.  The weather’s taken another turn—this time for the warmer again, and it’s nice enough for me to take off my jacket.  I do, but when I turn back around you say, “Honey, I wish you wouldn’t show your arms like that.  They’re so...well, muscular.  Honestly, you look like a man in women’s clothes,” you say.

            I look you in the eye and say, “Mom, I can’t help the way I am,” and pick up the menu and start looking it over.  You purse her lips and I know the mopes have settled on you again.

            We order and eat without saying a word and I wonder how long you and dad are planning on staying.  As I’m wondering that for the twentieth time, Pam comes walking up and stops at our table.

            “Hello, you two,” she says.  “How nice to see you again so soon.”  She shakes your hand and gives me a long look.

            You brighten up like nothing’s been going on and say, “Pam, you look wonderful!  That outfit is just perfect for you!”  You turn to me and says, “Isn’t it, Lynn?”

            I look Pam up and down—legitimately, this time.  She’s wearing a short skirt and heels and a white blouse, open at the neck.  Her legs are like a ballerina’s—big, balled up calves and thin, sinewy thighs.  She’s got her veiny feet touching at the heel and her toes are stuck out like a dancer’s, and I can see her hips have that high, squared-off shape and wonder if she’s still taking classes.  I perspire just looking at her.    

            Lynn,” you say.  “Don’t you think Pam’s outfit is just perfect for her?”

            I nod, dumbly.  “I do,” I manage.  “You look lovely,” I say.  “Really.”

            Then you say, “Pam, don’t you think Lynn’s arms are too muscular?”   

            Pam reaches over and grabs my upper arm.  “Make a muscle,” she says.  I do.  Pam’s eyes get big.  She squeezes my muscle too many times for curiosity’s sake.  She turns to you and says, “I like muscles on a woman.”

            You make yourself laugh.  “Honestly, you California girls,” you say, hollowly. 

            Pam says, “We are different out here, there’s no doubt about that.”  She looks at her watch.  “Sorry, but I’m late.  I have a meeting with a client in ten minutes.”

            “Are you a lawyer?” I ask.

            “Yes,” she says, “I am.  See you later?”  Pam smiles radiantly and walks off.  My eyes stay glued to her bulging calves until I lose sight of her in the crowd.  When I turn back, I see you staring at your plate, not looking at Pam and not looking at me.  We don’t say a word on the ride back to my place. 

            I order Chinese delivered for supper.  If it weren’t for dad, it would have seemed like my last meal.  Thankfully, he’s full of talk.  He tells us about his day at the Navy piers.  He found some sailors from a new ship with the same name as the old one he was on, he says.  They were real nice, he says.  Treated me like a shipmate, he says.  Took me aboard and introduced me to the captain, he says.  Nice guy, he says.  Young, though—too young for command, he says. 

            After supper, I say I’m going for a walk.  When I come downstairs, you’re sitting on the couch next to dad.  You’re holding Tipp in your lap.  Dad’s the only one who looks at me.  He gives me the wink he gives me when he wants me to know he’s got everything under control.  I go out into the night. 

            It’s still warm.  I’ve got shorts and a T-shirt on and I’m not a bit cold.  I get going on the walking path.  Before long, the tears come and I stop right on the path and cry into my hands.

            I feel a hand on my shoulder.  It’s Pam.  I fall into her arms and weep.

            When I quiet, she pulls me back and wipes my tears off with her fingers.  Then she kisses me on the mouth and pulls off, waiting.  I nod.  She kisses me again, and again, and then I kiss her and then she has her tongue in my mouth and I shiver with excitement.  I put my arms around her waist and pull her hard against me and grind my hips against hers.  She grabs my breasts and bites my tongue.  I break away and bury my face in her hair.

            I open my eyes and see Pam’s girlfriends walk by.  The one who sat facing me until Pam made her move smiles and gives me a ‘thumbs-up.’    

            Pam takes my face in her hands.  “Your mom doesn’t know, does she?” she says.

            I shake my head ‘no.’

            She grabs my upper arms.  “Make muscles,” she says.  I bend my arms and squeeze her fingers between my biceps and my forearms.  “I like muscles on a woman,” she says. 

            I smile a little smile.  “I’m glad,” I say.  “Should I tell her?” I ask.

            “I can’t tell you what to do,” she says.  “You decide.  When the time is right, the words will be there.  That’s the way it was for me,” she says.

            I fall into her and start to cry again.

            “Don’t cry,” she says.  “Go home and get some sleep.  I’ll see you soon, Lynn.”  She reaches around and squeezes my ass with both hands.  Then she kisses me.  I kiss her back—hard.

            You and dad are already in bed when I get back.  Tipp meets me at the door.  He sniffs me like he knows who I’ve been with.

            You and dad stayed a week but it seemed like six months.  We said goodbye in the lobby at the airport and I watched you go down the concourse arm in arm.  You turned around when you got to the waiting area and waved.   You looked like you were crying.  I could see dad patting you on the arm like he does when you’re upset.  I went home and went to bed.

           

February comes and goes and I don’t see Pam.  It’s like she’s fallen of the face of the earth.  I get Emails from Jim Bradford nearly every day, telling me about the VA Medical Center in Ames and how the work is incredibly gratifying and how the vets he sees there are so grateful and on and on.  It’s clear he’s trying to woo me from a distance, and I think about saying something smart, like ‘Jim, you’re a nice guy and all, but since you don’t have a pussy I’m really not interested,’ but I don’t.  Instead, I tell him how happy I am for him and hope that he gets the message.  He doesn’t of course, and keeps on Emailing. 

            March comes and goes and Pam is still missing in action.  I throw myself into lifting.  My poundages go up radically and I get noticeably more muscular.   Some of the heavy iron grunters at work persuade me to join their gym on a trial basis.  They tell me the environment there is better for making significant gains, so I go for a few weeks but I really don’t like it—there’s too much bang, bang, banging, and it’s ‘all guys’ and they’re all big as SUV’s and they all have B. O. and bad complexions and they either can’t keep their eyes off me or they are transfixed, staring at themselves in the mirrors.  At the end of my trial period, I thank the guys for thinking of my progress but tell them it’s not convenient.  I bail out and go back to the gym at my complex.  It’s more my style.  There’s more Spandex, more hair, more mascara, and it’s less fragrant. 

 

Tax day comes and I see Pam on the path for the first time in months and she’s as brown as a bean.  She’s walking towards me, like before.  She’s got Idiot with her and he seems glad to see me.  In a way, I’d like to be as free as him to jump up with lots of licking all over, but I’m mad so I just stop on the path and wait for her to get to me.     

            Lynn!” she says, “I’ve missed you so much,” she says, like it was only yesterday and gives me a big hug.  “Look at you!” she says, holding me by the shoulders at arm’s length.  “You’re a goddess!”  She grabs my upper arm.  “Make a muscle,” she says.  I do and her nipples stick out instantly.  “I like muscles on a woman,” she says.  “Especially on you,” she says.  “You look fantastic,” she says.

            “Where were you?” I ask.

            Australia,” she says, like she’s telling me she was at the grocery store. 

            “For two and-a-half months?”

            “My firm sent me there to get the South Pacific offices up and running,” she says.  “It’s the price I pay for being a partner.  Lots of hardball stuff, twisting Asian arms—things like that,” she says.  “Anyway,” she says, “I’m back in Long Beach to stay for a good long while.  I told the senior partners I’m done going overseas for at least two years.”

            “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” I ask.  I’m about to cry.

            She gets a stern expression on her face.  “Now look, Lynn,” she starts in lawyer’s tones, “We were just beginning to get acquainted when I left in January.  There wasn’t anything beyond that, as I recall.”

            “I know,” I say, “but it seemed to me that there was a mutual...”

            “Attraction,” she says, cutting me short.  “There was...and is.  But let’s face it—it was what it was—a mutual attraction.  Nothing more.  Potential, yes, I’ll allow that.  But in reality, it was nothing more than that.”

            I’m stung and tears fill my eyes.  “Fuck you!” I say.  “You kissed me and comforted me when I was at my most vulnerable and now you’re talking about this thing like it was a business deal!  It isn’t, goddamn it!” I say, and turn away.  Idiot sniffs at my ankles.  “Get away!” I shout, and stomp my foot so hard it hurts. 

            Pam puts her hand on my shoulder.  I shake it off.  “My mom was right,” I say.  “I shouldn’t have come to California.  Nothing means anything out here.”  I wheel around.  “What do you do, Pam?” I ask, “Go from one girl to another like a butterfly without even looking back?”

            She won’t look at me.  She’s looking at Idiot, who’s sitting at her feet with his tongue hanging out, mindlessly waiting for a cue from his Alpha female.  The sight of her standing there with her pedigreed dog, babe hair, fabulous tan, X-top, hard abs, and ballerina’s legs really pisses me off.  ‘Fucking superficial bitch,’ I think.  ‘Doesn’t value anything except money and that stupid Idiot—maybe not even him.  What an insulting name for a dog, anyway.’   

            Finally, she raises up her head and looks me in the eye.  She’s crying.  “You’ve got me wrong,” she says, between breaths.  “I’m not like others who go from one to the other.  If you want to know the truth, I thought about you every day.”

            “I’m going to throw up,” I say.

            “No, really,” she says.  “I mean it.”

            I turn away again.

            She turns me around.  “Let me explain,” she says.

            “I’m listening.”

            Pam tells me that she thought we had something going back in January and was really sorry she had to go to Australia just when we were getting started.  She says the reason she didn’t tell me she was leaving was just as she said—that we really didn’t make any kind of commitment—that we really weren’t in a ‘relationship.’  She wanted to let me know she was leaving and would be gone a long time, but considering the fact that, at that point, anyway, it was just a mutual attraction, she didn’t want to say anything that would restrict my options.  She says she’s sorry for sounding so lawyer-like and she’s sorry she hurt my feelings by putting it so bluntly.  It’s her way of protecting herself, she says.  She doesn’t want it to end this way, she says.

            I’m still hissing mad and I tell her I didn’t have any other ‘options’ when she left.  I wasn’t interested in anyone else, I say, and turn around again and wait with my arms crossed.  Then it occurs to me I’m acting just like you. 

            I’m horrified and turn around again and put my hands on her shoulders.  “Pam,” I blurt, “I’m sorry. I’m overreacting.  It’s just that I was so hopeful.  I was so lonely and having such a hard time with the move and everything.  Then you came along and I got to thinking that we would become partners, and...”

            “...and I left without saying anything and I was gone a long time,” she says, filling in the blanks.  “I’ve been in a vulnerable, lonely place before, too, Lynn.  I moved here from another state too, you know.  I was here five years before I found myself.”  

            She takes my hands off her shoulders and puts them on her hips and looks me right in the eye.  “Can we get past this?” she says.

            “I hope so,” I say.  “I want to try, anyway.”

            “Are you hungry?” she asks.

            I tell her ‘yes,’ and she suggests we go to Mezzaluna for supper.  She tells me she’ll walk over and get me at six and we can walk to Mezza from my place and I say OK and she trots off.  She turns around when she’s almost too far for me to hear her and yells, “Wear something sleeveless!”  Then she turns back around and jogs off in a hurry.    

            Part of me wants to act restrained that evening, but the other part of me wants to fall head over heels in love.  We have wine with dinner, and the part of me that wants to fall in love wins after my third glass.  I’m enchanted just listening to her talk about where she’s from, her work, where she’s been and where she thinks she might go next.  I tell her I think she’s beautiful and to my great surprise, that makes her cry.  She says she doesn’t think she’s even pretty.  She says her mouth is too wide, her cheekbones are too high, her eyes are too far apart, her frame is too angular, she hates her long neck and she thinks her collarbones show too much.  She doesn’t like her feet, either—she thinks they’re too veiny and her arches are too high.  Then she tells me she has implants, which I figured out already, but I think it’s real sweet that she would come right out and say it.  It was her way of rewarding herself when she made partner at her firm, she says.  Now she’s a ‘C,’ she says, whereas before she was only an ‘A.’

            She takes my hands and tells me I’m the one who’s beautiful and that makes me cry.  I say no I’m not and she says ‘yes, Lynn, you are,’ and I say no, my frame is too big and I’m too tall and my hair’s too thick and curly and I can’t even float in the ocean I’m so dense.  She reaches across and feels my biceps and says it’s because I’m solid muscle.  That makes me cry again and I ask if she really does like muscle on a woman because no one has ever told me they like my muscles and she says she surely does and when she was lying on the beach in Australia she’d compare every half-naked girl who walked by to me and none of them could hold a candle to me, she says.  Then she tells me that was before I got as muscular as I am now, and now that I’m really buff it’s totally ridiculous to think that someone else would be better suited to her wants than me, and I realize I’m not the only one who’s had too much to drink but I’m loving every word of it anyway.

            We walk back arm in arm, sneaking quick little kisses every block or so.  By the time we get back to our complex, I’m squishy wet with excitement.  Hers is the first condo we come to.  I only hesitate a moment when she asks me if I want to come in and as soon as we’re inside, she closes the door and pushes me up against it and kisses me so hard it hurts my lips.  We kick off our shoes and leave a trail of clothes on the way to her living room where we fall on her couch, humping and grasping away on each other like teenagers, trading ‘on tops’ every few seconds and panting because we’re out of breath with it.  About ten minutes into it, Pam tells me to switch ends with her.

            She obviously spent a lot of time at a nude beach in Australia, because she’s brown all over.  I’m thinking how cute it is that she’s got her pubic hair shaved into a little landing strip when I feel her hot tongue dart inside me and up around my clit and suddenly I see bright lights swirling all around.  I grab her ballerina’s rock hard ass and my tongue comes in for a landing on her pussy and in moments we’re both gushing like Old Faithful.   

            That was April.  It’s July now and we’re a regular couple.  We’re very, very much in love.  Pam’s feeling better about her dazzling looks and I’m getting so I don’t mind her being away for a few days now and then. 

            Pam’s gotten interested in bodybuilding and she’s turned me on to some dance exercises.  Pam always had nice biceps, but now they’re bigger and her chest has filled out some, which supports her implants better.  Back in April, they really looked like they came out of nowhere, but now there’s a nice, smooth, unbroken curve from her pecs to her nipples.  I like it very much and I tell her all the time.  My ass—which was always one of my problem areas—is now nicely pooched out, thanks to what Pam calls ‘arabesques.’  She makes me do a hundred with each leg—with no clothes on, of course, and with her watching.  My calves won’t ever be like Pam’s, thanks to inferior genes, but oh, well.

            Walking on the path where we met is still one of our favorite things.  Every couple of weeks or so we reenact our first meeting.   Sometimes we pretend and make it turn out differently—like we did this evening.  Pam went out ahead of me.  We’d made plans for me to catch up to her and strike up a conversation like it was the first time we’d talked.  Then we agreed we’d see where it led. 

            I wait about five minutes after Pam leaves, then go out.  I take the path to the left and start a slow trot.  After about ten minutes I start smelling her perfume hanging in the air.  I go around a bend in the path and see her up ahead.  She’s stopped by the side of the path and she’s catching her breath.  She’s facing in my direction.  As soon as I see her, I think ‘this girl’s a dancer,’ because the boy shorts she’s wearing show every inch and there’s not any slack anywhere.  But that’s not the thing that really catches my attention—it’s her calf to thigh ratio that really gets me.  Her calves are as big as her thighs, and her thighs are so slender I can see between them all the way up.  They don’t touch anywhere.  My mouth falls open and I slow to a walk.

            She bends down and slips off her shoe and shakes it like she’s trying to get a stone out.  When it looks like she got it out, she wiggles her foot around, trying to get her shoe back on without undoing the shoelace.  I’m close now and see the muscles in her calf twitch and bulge every which way as she squirms her foot, trying to get it just right.  Finally she gets her shoe on and stands up just as I get to her. 

            “Nice legs,” I say.

            She makes a face.  “You don’t mean it,” she says.

            “Yes, I do,” I say.  “I’ve always liked muscular calves.”

            “Really?” she says.  “You like these?” she asks and turns around and goes up on her toes.  The twin muscles of her calves make two capital ‘V’s next to each other.  From the back, it looks like VV, VV.  She goes up and down and up and down and I feel like I’m going to faint.  Then she loses her balance and I step forward and put my arms around her and hold her steady.

            “Are you OK,” I ask.  The sudden feel of her hard body in my arms makes me damp.

            “I am as long as you keep holding me, Ms. Olympia,” she says.  She turns around and puts her hands around my upper arm.  “Make a muscle,” she says.  I bend my arm and make my biceps as tight as I can.  “I’ve always liked muscle on a woman,” she says.  “You really are strong, aren’t you?” she says.

            “I’m very strong,” I say.

            “Strong enough to pick me up?” 

            Without a word, I bend over and slip one arm behind her knees and lift.  As she falls, I catch her at the small of her back with the other arm.  “You’re light as a feather,” I say.  “How much do you weigh?”

            “A hundred fifteen,” she says.  “And you?”

            One forty-seven,” I say, still holding her.  “Do you want me to put you down?”

            “No,” she says, and nuzzles my neck.  “I like being held.  It makes me feel safe.”

            “Do you live close by?”  I feel her head nod against my chest.  “Can I see you home?”  I feel her nod again.  I put her down.  “Lead the way,” I say.

            She winds her fingers through mine and we go back the way we came.  When we get to her condo, she opens the door and asks me if I want to come in.  I hesitate for a moment like I’m thinking it over, then she gets impatient and pulls me inside.

            Once we’re inside, she pushes me into the living room and has me sit on the coffee table while she pulls the drapes shut and turns out the lights.  She comes back and bends down and kisses me, then she makes me lie on my back on the coffee table and she pulls off my running shorts.  She kisses me again and asks me again if I’m sure I like muscular legs and when I say I do, she puts her foot on my belly and points her toe so her calf muscle swells up into a ball and then she tells me to feel it and I do. 

            “Do you like that big, hard muscle?” she asks, and when I say ‘yes,’ she asks me if I’d ever thought about having a muscle like that flexing and bulging against my pussy.  I tell her I’d never thought of that but it sure sounds like it would feel good.  She tells me to scoot down so my butt’s hanging off the coffee table and when I get just the way she wants me she takes off her shoes and shorts and puts one leg between mine with her back to me so one of her big, muscular calves is right on my pussy. 

            “Are you ready,” she asks, and when I say ‘yes,’ she raises up on her toes.  I can feel her calf muscle swelling and I shudder.  “You like that?” she asks.  I say ‘yes’ and she laughs and says she’s just getting started and goes up and down and up and down and my pussy gets as wet as it’s ever been.  The wetter it gets, the easier it is for her big calf to slide up and down and the easier it is for her calf to slide up and down the better it feels and the wetter I get, and pretty soon I can’t control it and the waves start coming and I clamp my legs together with her calf at its hardest and I sit up and grab her rock hard ballerina butt cheeks until the waves stop.  Then I lie back until my heart stops pounding.

            When I’ve got my energy back I tell her to pull her leg out.  I sit up and tell her to come around and stand with her back to me.  She gets right up against me where I’m sitting on the edge of the coffee table and I stick my arm between her legs and raise it up so my upper arm is against her crotch.  I bend my elbow so my hand is right between her breasts.  “What are you doing?” she asks. 

            I say, “You remember when you said you liked muscle on a woman?  Well, I like to try to put my muscle in a woman,” and twist my wrist back and forth which makes my biceps roll up into a ball and go slack again.  She shudders.  “Do you like that?” I ask, and when she says ‘yes,’ I start twisting my wrist over and over and she starts humping my bunching up muscle and I feel her mess start to run and the more she runs the easier it is for my muscle to push her pussy lips apart and the easier it goes, the faster she humps until she gets to a point where she clamps her legs on my arm when it’s as tight as I can make it.  She holds her breath for a second and then she starts thrashing around on my arm with frantic energy and flailing around in all directions and I grab her around the waist and pull her down and sit her on my lap and tell her I love her over and over and run my fingers through her hair until she stops crying.

 

Pam comes over and puts her arms around my neck and kisses my hair.  “You wouldn’t really send this to your mom, would you?” she asks. 

            I shrug my shoulders.  “No,” I say.  “I wouldn’t want her to know how I was feeling about her back in January.  It’s pretty rough stuff.  I wrote it for me, really...and for you, my lovely.”

            I feel Pam nod.  “And,” I say, “I don’t think anybody has any business knowing what goes on behind our closed doors.  You wouldn’t tell your mom about our lovemaking, would you?” I ask  

            Pam lets her hands down on my breasts and absentmindedly twirls my nipples.  They jump up like they’re spring-loaded.  “Probably not,” she says.  I feel her hot breath on my neck, and then I feel the tip of her tongue in my ear.  I shiver.

            “Pam,” I say.  “What are you doing?”

            She grabs my upper arm.  “Make a muscle,” she whispers.  I do.  “Mmm,” she says.  “I like muscle on a woman.” 

 

The End