Mateo
I make sure to be down at the end of my steps long before Ashlyn is supposed to meet me. Watching me limp down them is not something I want her to do. I already feel like less of a man, I don't need the evidence of that to be glaringly obvious. I thought about canceling our run, but I didn't have a way to get ahold of her. She is all I could think about last night. I waivered between wanting to push her away so she couldn't see me be weak and wanting to see her again so I could have more of her in my mind to keep me motivated to get back out there.
When I see her, she's at the end of my block jogging her way towards me. Her outfit yesterday was a tease, but today it's just fucking torture. She's wearing tight pants again, but this time they only extend to the bottom of her knee letting the smooth, tan skin of her toned calf show. It shouldn't be sexy, but it fucking is. It so fucking is. I rub my face and curse at myself. I'm a grown man, not an eighth grader. Her tank top is form fitting and is currently pulling up on one side, exposing just enough of her stomach to have my hands itching to hold her there. What really gets me are her perfect tits. She has them bound down again, which only makes them fight harder to spill from her neckline. They form two perfect globes that make me want to run my tongue right along the surface.
"Ready?" She asks, seemingly oblivious to the way my eyes have been fucking her for the last five minutes. I make a mental note to not give up so easily when trying to release the tension being around her causes. Depression is a bitch. It's one of the many mental disorders that seeks to completely sabotage it's own recovery. Having an orgasm would definitely improve my mood, but feeling depressed makes getting hard a little more difficult. Add to that my disinterest in most things, and we are left with a slow start-up and an anticlimactic finish. It's been months.
"Yes. My knee's been acting up a little today, but I'm going to give it my best." She's crouched down and pulling up my pant leg before I can even finish the sentence. A wave of excitement runs up my spine as my brain recognizes this position from years of stored images of blow job after blow job. I was not a saint before my injury and I think my mind is having a hard time reconciling why we aren't partaking in one of my favorite past times.
"I can tape it for you." She stares up at me, her big eyes pleading for me to let her help.
"It's fine. I just didn't want you to be shocked if I end up on my ass during this run." I shake my leg the best I can, allowing my pants to fall back down over the skin she's exposed.
"You're terrible at accepting help." She sighs and rests her hands on her hips. Fuck. Do they have to be perfect too?
"Depends on what kind of help I'm offered," I start jogging and she quickly catches up. I feel my lips twitch at her silence. She'll learn to be careful around me.
"How's that going for you, by the way?" I'm not expecting that response. My head whips around so I can see if she's joking.
"How is what going for me?" Maybe my body has been deprived of sex for too long and now it's imagining that everything is about it.
"Sex is good for your recovery. It's good for the depression and it helps break up the monotony of trying to come back from an injury." She spouts off the information without even looking in my direction. She's not shy about it and she doesn't sound judgmental in any way. It's simply information and she delivers it like a doctor would, straight and to the point.
"Are we besties now or something?" I tease, trying to divert the attention off the topic I don't really think she'll want to discuss with me. It would go a little like: I love sex. I use it for all kinds of things. Haven't found a position yet that I don't like. Everything was just fucking phenomenal until it suddenly wasn't. Nothing. Not a touch, not a lick, not even a completed fantasy since I took the bullets to my leg.
"Grow up." She says with the perfect tone of a teen girl flipping her hair and rolling her eyes. "Tough subject?" She throws back at me and I can't decide if I like cute-innocent-helpful-Ashlyn or cutthroat-doesn't-take-any-of-my-shit-Ashlyn better.
"Want the truth?" I ask and then answer without waiting for her response. "The meds fuck me up. I'd love to get my dick wet, but right now treating the pain has to be a priority." I shake my head, "I never thought I'd ever say that." I look into her eyes this time, "The pain is that fucking bad."
Ashlyn nods her head. We reach the end of the block and turn the corner before she says anything in response. "You'll get it back. I think guys take for granted that getting off will always be easy. There's a lot of shit up here," she points to her head, "and it can get in the way of your happy ending." Our pace is slow, but steady and it makes me feel slightly victorious even though her words make my shoulders feel heavy.
"I'm just not that guy anymore, I guess." I mean that in so many ways. I never had any trouble performing no matter what was happening in my life. I was healthy, in shape, and a high achiever. I was proud of myself. The old me would run circles around this new me while wearing a weighted vest and pushing a tractor tire. As if to prove my point, my foot catches on a lift in the sidewalk and in one second flat I'm sprawled out on the pavement.
Ashlyn doesn't ask if I'm OK or make a big show of helping me up. She stands above me as I get into a push up position and press off the ground and back onto my feet. I'm almost afraid to look in her eyes because I don't want to see pity. Fuck—right now I don't think I could even handle any empathy. When I finally chance a look, her face is expressionless. She gives me a tight nod and then begins to jog again. I stand for a brief moment wondering what the fuck just happened, but then with a slight smile I take off after her. She doesn't pity me or think any less of me for the stumbles I make. She just wants me to pick my ass back up and get back to it. And for that, she just won my respect.