Tag Archives: fitness


It never ceases to amaze me how one person can spend almost their entire life with someone and still learn new things about them every day.

It’s been almost 20 years of entanglement with my long-standing on-again, off-again partner O. We officially met on a sunny afternoon shortly after I turned 18. I’d notice him checking me out over the past four years since I moved to 1st Avenue, but my intense tunnel vision had kept our paths from crossing until one fateful afternoon. He caught me just as I was waiting for the light to change; he complimented me, introduced himself, asked for my number, and the rest was history. It’s been over 17 years, and no matter how much time passes from one hook up or boyfriend to the next, he never ceases to amaze me. He’s always been supportive, encouraging, occasional ball-buster, a great voice of reason, and a great partner.

Because I only recently moved into my own place, all our encounters over the years had been brief and at his place. It was a breath of fresh air to finally not have to get up and leave after sex. I could just sit back and relax after I locked the door and sent him on his way. Oh! How I love watching a man leave.

One day he was over my place, and I told him that I’d invite him over for dinner one night, since I’d never cooked for him, and he didn’t make it to my housewarming (despite being the 1st person to get me a gift). Going over the foods he liked and disliked, he said he didn’t eat shrimp because he was allergic, and I was flabbergasted. He swore up and down that he had told me before, and I just didn’t remember. But being a radical seafood lover (especially when it came to shrimp, and over the past 5 years – oysters), I could’ve sworn I would’ve remembered a detail such as that. God, forbid I see him after a visit to City Island (true New Yorkers know what I’m talking about), his life would be over. From that moment, I put it in my mental Rolodex that he was allergic to shrimp and to be careful when I invited him over in the future. I just didn’t think that the future would be so soon.

On a dull Friday afternoon, he called me when he got home from work and asked me what I was doing; I told him I was eating a salad. He joked about me finally getting on my fitness shit, and he told me he would come to see me. It was then that I told him I was eating a shrimp Caesar salad, and as bomb as my pussy was, I didn’t want him to die from a kiss. He said he didn’t care and that he was on his way. As he hung up the phone, I reminded him that it also meant I couldn’t suck his dick. He replied that he’d rather his dick swell up than his throat close up. Men?!?!

I finished my salad, swallowed some warm water, then used some mouthwash, and in less than 20 minutes, he was at my door. 

He pushed my body up against the counter in my kitchen, pulled open my robe, and began licking, teasing, and biting my nipples. Maybe the risk of anaphylactic shock inspired him to be more aggressive because this was a new man in the new year. Quite abruptly, after he got his fill, he stopped, went into my living room, and he had the nerve to sit in my spot. I straddled his hips as he went back to licking and sucking my nipples. I avoided his lips until he pulled my face to his, and we kissed deeply. I ran my tongue along his neck and ears when he started to indicate that I had touched a nerve. Enjoying his reaction, I continued flicking my tongue into his (very clean) ear until he had enough. I sucked at his nipples, kissed down his chest, licked at his navel, and I made my way to his long thick dick. When I pulled his pants down, his dick stood at attention, like it was waiting for me, or better yet, my mouth. 

I started on him slowly; I swirled my tongue around his tip, then I licked up and down his shaft, and then I took him into my mouth. His moans and squirms confirmed that I was doing a fantastic job pleasing him, and if he walked home with a swollen dick, he’d be happy. I rode him on the sofa until he came with perfect timing, and I continued to ride him until he resurrected. 

He said he wanted to fuck me on my bed. To be honest, I didn’t want to as my new faux fur bed set was white. I swiftly threw down my wet blanket (a microfiber blanket I ordered from amazon to protect my sheets when I squirt), and we got to business. We kissed passionately as he thrust into me repeatedly until he came. When it was all done, there was a bit of blood from my period breaking through (he didn’t mind, though). He was a little lightheaded as it had been years since we had sex back-to-back. He hit his leg on the platform of my bed, got dressed, fell on his way home, and called me to say I put a curse on him. 

I ensured him putting a curse on him was the farthest thing on my mind. I only wanted to avoid giving him shrimp dick.  


If you can’t find the joy in exercise, you’re doing it all wrong!

I don’t always love working out, but I love the way I look and the feelings I continue to encounter during my fitness journey. From my toes to the tip of my head; my entire body would be engaged during my workouts. Yet, once I really started paying attention to what was going on, instead of going through the motions… Whew! I began to understand why people liked fitness so much. Isolating certain muscle groups, controlling the breathing, and fighting to finish that one last rep gives me a high that should only happen, behind closed doors- sometimes. This may explain why I liked the sex party so much. 

Anybody that knows me, knows that I take a variety of workouts: hot yoga, barre, spin, HIIT, and ZUMBA just to name a few. When my nipples start to percolate during the warm up to the dramatic rise and fall of my breasts at the end of class because I’m exhausted; it’s a love-hate relationship that I don’t ever want to end. I love the way my skin starts to glisten as the sweat forms and the arousing, cooling feeling that mixes with the moisture when the air kicks in. With the subtle jump of my breasts during an overhead press to the clenching of my kegel muscles during a hover-plank; there is something about holding on just a few more seconds that dangerously feels like edging.  

I love hot yoga. I love the community, the energy in the room, the warmth, and the limited clothing. For starters, on top I only wear a bra and I never wear underwear when I work out; it’s always pussy to pants for me. I started going workout-commando when I got tired of always pulling them out of my crotch. You try pulling fabric you of your vagina in a down-dog-split and tell me how you feel. But, back to why I love yoga- I love the controlled movement to breath during the poses, the feeling of sweat rolling down my skin, and pushing the envelope on my strength, and flexibility. Hell no! My legs will not go behind my head during the throws of passion. But I can roll back into a decent plough position with ease. I just can’t stay there too long since my breasts cut off my oxygen, and that’s not how I want to go. 

Barre is another sexercise love of mine. If you’ve never taken a barre class, I would describe it as a hybrid of Pilates, yoga, and light weights in high reps. During the arms portion of class, is where I begin to regret my decision to sign up in the first place. Need I remind you it’s 60 minute class, and arms are within the first 20 minutes. I hate this part of the class because I always feel like I’m going to throw up my heart. But, right as the instructor is counting down, the muscle fatigue is at its peak, and my breathing becomes jagged; a tingle erupts in my chest. That wave of release after that last pulse sends a shiver down my spine. It is the same release I feel when my neck is released during orgasm. When we move to the glute portion, again I tell myself I’m never doing this, ever again. Remember the old-school Jane Fonda videos (you know the ones where the women squeezed and released their thighs)? Now, take that image and throw it the fuck out the window. Glute work in barre class does not look like that. No one is in bright colored spandex and smiling. It is utter torture: standing leg raises, circles, hydrants, side leg lifts, clam shells, and then rotations. And then you switch sides; because nobody wants a lopsided ass! By the first minute in, I’m punching my own ass to distribute the pain. You know the feeling, when you have a scab, but when you pressed down on it you got a mixture of pain and pleasure; that’s the feeling of glute work in a barre class. The only difference is, I paid for this torture.  

Less torturous, yet just as exhilarating, is spin (aka cycling). More specifically, indoor stadium style cycling; where the music is loud, and always Beyoncé, and the lighting makes you feel like you’re in a club. The instructor often starts with a round of tap backs. Tap backs are when you lift up from the seat of your bike and tap your juicy ass down to the beat. often fantasize bringing my partner to class; and as they’re riding behind me, they’re staring at my ass as it bounces on and off of the seat. Between the tap backs, the jumps, the speed work, and weight portion; there are so many opportunities for sexcitement. Most of the time, I like to face the mirror and watch my cleavage bounce up and down. While, other times I like to have a side bike; that way I can watch the juicy-ness of my ass glide back and forward on the bike. This is what my fabulous instructor calls, twerking, just on a bike. When we pick up the resistance to get over the hill, I pull together all the lower muscles of my body to ride the dick (sorry!) I mean, I ride up the hill with all the leg strength I can muster. 

By the time the class is done, I am exhausted. I’m gasping for air, my entire body is covered in sweat, and my ass is sore from all the ass dropping. (Practice for later) 

However, my longest love is Zumba. My mom once dragged me to class with her and with much resistance I finally gave in- I’ve been hooked ever since. It’s more than just the sweat and the feeling of exhaustion, the music, and the community. It’s the feeling I get when I look at my body in the mirror, as I dance to the beat. I know every person thinks they look good when they dance; but we all know this is a lie. Some people have absolutely no rhythm; while I have an abundance. In Zumba, is where I make love to myself in the mirror; these breasts, waist, hips, thighs, booty; and don’t let her put a salsa song on, it’s workout wood in the making. 

Like I said in the first line: I don’t always love working out. But, as you can find something to enjoy about everything in life, I have found the motivation to keep going back and pushing my limits. So, when someone says “they don’t like working out” I can’t help but think they’re doing it all wrong..