weights

I have a crush on the gym. The gym at my school is windowless and a touch dank, with a variety of machines that are fully functional about 80% of the time. Because this is a gym associated with a grad school and it is not frequented by undergrads, most of the population to be found here are less interested in checking others out and more interested in maintaining either optimum health or blowing off excess steam. It is full of beautiful, distracted people; all of them in their own worlds and forgetting their stressful careers in favor of the treadmill, the weights, or pickup basketball.

Athleticism and sexuality are deeply intertwined in my psyche, and I'm fairly certain I'm not alone in this. It's not a great leap to start at spandex on the stationery cycle and a sweaty acquaintance’s grunting with weights. At a zenith it is almost impossible to complete a workout without salivating.

**********

2:00pm is not a busy time at the gym. The people who manage to come then are people who take a late lunch, who have irregular schedules, or are students. People at the gym at 2:00pm are in the habit of sweating. They are acclimated to old tshirts and short shorts in a kind of exclusive public that is limited to only other people like themselves. The early afternoon is my favorite time to check a workout off of my task list. I walk in, exchange my membership card for my locker key and a towel from the extraordinarily bored clerk, and walk across the stationary bikes to the locker room. I stand in front of my locker for a minute, collecting myself before I strip and costume in black spandex shorts, a grey tanktop, a headband, and running shoes. I gather my water bottle, my key, and my ipod, and I head over to a stairstepper.

Exercise equipment forces a certain posture: eight inches taller, hips thrust backwards and shoulders pressed forward, a rhythmic, complimentary flex-and-release of the buttocks is a hypnotic undulation. Everyone is on a different tempo. I pick a machine and settle into my own pace*. I start to sweat. From here, I can watch people enter and leave.

There are two gentlemen who never fail to catch my eye.

They are both about four inches taller than I am. One has a darker complexion, with dark eyes that crinkle at the corner when he smiles. He has transformed over the past few years from slim and willowy to solid, with the same narrow hips and waist but with a new broadness to his back. The other is larger and square: he shows off his chest hair with a tank top and sways when he walks. His stubble perpetually offsets the apparent youth of his rounded face. They are workout partners. They are friendly. They laugh loudly in between sets and stifle grunts during reps.

They always smile and wave at me when they come in: “Hey Margot! I see you're giving it hell today!” the crinkle-eyed one says to me. He teases me like this all the time.

“I do my best, Jack!” I grin back at him. He and Ted meander over to the weight room.

I finish on my machine. I am bright pink, my hair is dripping, and my shirt sticks to me. I clean the equipment off and go to the weight room for the second half of my workout.

I am on autopilot: the routine of sweating is comforting and helps me dissipate the stress of my day to day. The moment after a normal workout is, for me, not altogether unlike a moment after an orgasm: there is clarity, tranquility, and a very particular odor. I am almost there, but not quite.

I walk into the weight room. It is empty except for me, Jack, and Ted. They are ignoring me, and spotting each other: Jack lies on the bench and Ted is over him. I get an exercise ball and some weights. As I lie on top of it—hips pointing towards the ceiling, knees spread apart for stability, chest opened with my arms at my sides, toes pointing towards the only other two people in the room—I am made acutely aware that I am ovulating by both my posture and the sounds coming from my companions.

I lift my weights. I put them down again. I do this again, with a moaning, grunting sound at the peak of exertion. My eyes are closed and I am focused on the tension in my muscles as I complete this self-assigned task.

Up. Down.

I do not immediately notice that my friends are now silent. There is no more clanking and ringing from their side of the gym, there are no more grunts, and there is just some faint chatter between the two of them. I am focused.

I complete my set.

I open my eyes and sit up.

I notice that from across the room, my two friends have barely changed posture, but they are no longer focused on bench presses and are instead focused on me. I am suddenly aware that gym shorts are an extraordinarily revealing garment on a sexually aroused man. I smile at them, and bounce a little on the  exercise ball.

“I didn't know you lifted weight like that, Margot.” Ted is half-smiling. “I didn't realize you were that strong. Would you mind coming over here and help me out with spotting Jack? I can show you how if you've never done it.”

I have spent a considerable amount of time moaning into my pillows and bringing myself to orgasm to the fantasy of this moment**. The gym is cold; my nipples harden as I step over.

I stand at the head of the bench. Ted is behind me and off to the side. He and Jack are both covered in sweat: I can smell them as I approach and now that we are so close it's overwhelming. The smell goes straight from my nostrils to my gut to my vulva.

Jack unracks the bar. There is clearly more weight on it than I can be expected to spot. He does a rep, then two, then starts to falter. I lean forward like I am useful here, and so does Ted, both his arms around me. This is completely ineffective for spotting and absolutely perfect for getting me wet. The two of us grab the bar and rerack it for Jack, who is panting heavily.

Ted pulls one hand off the equipment and puts it on my hip, pulling me back to him and breathing on the back of my ear. I inhale sharply as my lower back angles itself of its own accord to his touch. I am frozen for a moment as he puts his other hand on me and peels down my spandex without saying a word.

Jack is still panting, but now he is paying attention. There is a characteristic bulge underneath the shiny nylon of his shorts. He runs his reddened hands down his body to his pelvis, under the elastic to his growing penis, which he pulls into view.

Ted is kissing my neck and rubbing my clit as he pulls down his shorts. I grind my hips into him with a rhythm from earlier in the afternoon. He asks me to turn around. I do. He pulls over a second bench and sits down.

Jack puts one hand on my thigh, and asks me to step back a little. No, a little more. He asks me to straddle his face, knees on the racks on either side of the bench. He continues to stroke himself as he guides me down. I sigh. My hips sway back and forth over his face while he sucks on my labia and clit.

Ted is staring straight through me and stroking his cock. I return his gaze, put my hands on his thighs, and bend forward. His salt-tasting erection is in my mouth, my hands are still on his legs for balance and one of his hands grips my sweaty hair, the other cupping his testicles. Jack and I make the muffled sounds of people who love the taste of orgasms, while Ted sighs and squeezes my body.

We continue like this until I cannot form a tight seal when I try to silence the moans of my orgasm. I am shaking as my pelvis gyrates at a frequency faster than the one I consciously set, despite Jack's firm grip on the bend where my hip meets my thigh. I whimper and am still for a moment.

 I stand. I take Jack's hand off of his penis, and as a gratuity for the service he just provided me, I straddle his hips and fill my pussy with his erection. I am tight from the orgasm he gave me. He gasps,  grabs me and digs his fingers in. I ride him, facing his feet.

Ted walks over, swings a leg over his friend's lower half, and feeds me his cock. I wrap one hand around his waist and pull him in and the other forms a ring that follows my mouth. His hands are in my hair. He groans and fills my mouth with come. Everything tastes of salt and musk.

My pussy starts to tighten around Jack. My thighs burn as I ride him through climaxes: first mine, then his. His fingers leave small, red bruises over the crests of my hipbones.

I stand, my legs shaky from exertion. Jack sits up and pulls me down next to him, as if he were spotting me in my unsteady stance. Ted collects my shorts hands and hands them to me with a towel. The three of us are flushed and grinning. Jack, who is so very considerate of the needs of others, grabs a rag and the bottle of spray cleaner for the bench, and wipes it down.

“Do you have plans after your shower?” Jack asks me. His voice is the same as half an hour ago, when we were friends who went to the gym at the same time.

“I was going to grab a coffee and maybe a sandwich.”

“Mind if we join?”

“I'd be delighted.”

I kiss them each on the cheek. Ted slaps my ass lightly as I walk away. I half-smile at him; he half-smiles back.

The receptionist is completely asleep at the front desk.

*Recently, this pace is almost, but not quite, entirely Girl Talk, Robyn, and Cut Copy-based. You know, if you're interested.

**How meta.

other people are also into charts.

So I have my google reader full of porn, and then I have my google reader for my real life. This chart showed up in the latter from a blog I absolutely love, copyranter:

The copyranter loved this chart way less than I do.

To see the big version, mosey on over here.

Thank you, google analytics!

I have one Mr. X over at The Sex Experiment to thank for the idea for this one, after a series of emails about how it is that people seem to find our respective blogs: 

I'm preparing a post to elaborate on this fact in the near(ish) future.

All y'all are the best readers ever, and also clearly huge, huge pervs. I wouldn't have it any other way.

bones

“Osteoclasts acting together in a small group excavate a tunnel through the old bone, advancing at a rate of about 50 µm per day. Osteoblasts enter the tunnel behind them, line its walls, and begin to form new bone, depositing layers of matrix at a rate of 1-2 µm per day. At the same time, a capillary sprouts down the center of the tunnel. ...Typically, about 5-10% of the bone in a healthy adult mammal is replaced in this way each year”

Alberts, et al. Molecular Biology of the Cell, 4^th edition, Garland Science, 2002. pg 1306.

“Constant remodeling of bone is a normal part of skeletal maintenance. ...[Bone] remodeling involves replacing old bone with newly formed bone via the functional coupling of osteoclasts and osteoblasts. ...Bone remodeling enables bone to adapt to mechanical stress, maintain its strength, and regulate ...homeostasis.”

Rubin and Strayer, Rubin's Pathology, 5^th edition, Lippincott Williams and Wilkins, 2008. pg 1088.

I am 100% aware that probably none of my readership here is deeply interested in the physiology of bones. I don't really care. It occurred to me the other night that bones, bone remodeling, and the cells that accomplish this task are a physical metaphor of emotional structures and growth*. The osteoclast breaks down what the osteoblast regenerates. The skeleton appears unchanged from the outside but it is ultimately one of the most dynamic structures in the body.

A year ago, my skeleton was fragile: too much breaking down without enough building up leads to a delicateness that lends itself to snapping. The turnover of my physiology was more rapid in degeneration than in growth. I was unable to get from my environment the nutrients and support necessary to maintain myself. The cracks in structure only show when the imbalance has gone on too long.

When the diet does not contain enough calcium or phosphorus, the bones begin to degrade. Calcium is used in other parts of the body for the immense tasks of regulating the functions of essentially all cells, and in the name of maintaining that ability the skeleton will be sacrificed. The osteoclast will break the bone and release the ions into the blood. The skeleton will waste.

A year ago, I gave away more than I had to take up. I poured calcium into the blood; I sacrificed my matrix to maintaining the integrity of other structures. I weakened under a demand that I felt I had a mandate to fulfill.

Tiny cracks began to form in me. I was not strong enough.

In order not to break, there must be a change: either the body demands less from the skeleton, or there there is more calcium made available to the bones. The alternative is unsustainable: the skeleton weakens, and there are new, crush fractures: the spine compresses; the pelvis thins.

A year ago, I had to make a decision: I could either give up less, or try to get more. I was breaking apart and all the structure that made me I was giving away.

My bones and his bones. We wore ourselves down to our ions. We let our osteoclasts work overtime, but skeletons in two separate bodies can't share. We eroded ourselves to the marrow and there was nothing left to do but break.

And we did.

And it hurt.

But a miraculous thing lives in a skeleton: the osteoblast. They wait for a signal and collect calcium; laying it down in giant woven nets to fill in the holes left over from a fracture. The woven bone is weak and can break again easily, especially if perturbed, but with time and support—from a cast, from collagen-making cells, whatever—the structure strengthens.

My osteoblasts are working. They lay down tissue, my blood nourishes it and I take the best care of it that I can. I feed and strengthen my body. I know more now about how to do this.

A year ago, what I thought was taking care of myself actually lead to wasting. I cleaved myself to a love that had become dysfunctional, and so did my partner. We tried so hard. The fracture that we were trying to fix would never heal, its ends were too far away to fuse. Two skeletons in separate bodies cannot repair each other.

I lead a life now that requires that I pour out almost my everything every day. What I take in must be restorative, or else I can't make this work. By necessity, I have learned when to give more and when to give less. I have learned what I need to take. I have discovered that other appetites and other drives sometimes serve me better.

When I open my body to a lover, they give me as much as I give them. We use the same currency. We trade the same ions. I have to pick then with some level of discrimination so that this trade is fair. The weight of another strengthens me.

Weight-bearing activity increases the functionality of the osteoblast. This increases the strength of the skeleton.

I learn new things about my skeleton with every encounter: I learn where old scars make me weaker, and where my remodeled bone is stronger than I expected. I learn where the limits of my strengths are and how the role of a new lover in my life contributes to that. I learn that I make the decisions about what to give myself and what to give away.

My skeleton looks the same on the outside.

For me, it is all newly made. I have turned over my bones. I am rebuilding. I am destroying. I strengthen and adapt. My osteoclasts and osteoblasts are in a delicate balance tipped off by breaking. My new strengths are things I would never trade.

*In case the graphs didn't tip you off, this is a sex blog maintained by a deeply nerdy gal.  

resin

A huge component of this exercise in publicizing my sex life is finding words for nameless things. Sex is full of acts and feelings that words are totally insufficient to convey: the instant between when a lover is close enough to touch my body and when they actually do is filled with viscous tension. In that flash everything is encased in resin and anticipation doesn't begin or end; it consumes every aspect of my senses and every path in my thoughts. Anticipation is luxury. Anticipation is agony.

My partner's touch against any part of my body brings a tension and a relaxation. The hand on my face while we kiss is more intimate than the hand on the small of my back: the former feels like a caress over the entire expanse of my skin while the latter has a direct connection to my loins. A lover pulling my body into theirs, pulling on my waist or wrapping me up and pressing my breasts into a receptive torso: warm and engulfing and intoxicating.

I had a partner who loved to kiss my toes, up the arch of my feet, across my heel, up my calf to the back of my knee, and linger before continuing on his travels. His tongue in the unexplored reaches of this fossa was the pleasurable version of a face full of cold water, the sensation traveling from those creases up my dermatome to the sacrum and back out in all directions, making my back arch and my labia engorge. This physiologic response is primal, it is urgent, and it has begun and worked to its end before my mind has the capacity to make my lips gasp.

He used to ask me if I wanted more.

The best response I could give was without words.

He would hold my leg as it dissolved into fasciculations. Sometimes he would kiss the back of my knee again. Sometimes he would travel north, sometimes back south: it depended on how viscous the resin of anticipation was, how deeply encased in it we were, and how much he wanted to see a glistening, shining coat of fluid escaping from my body before he would make good on his tongue's unspoken promise to explore other creases and folds.

It does not matter if he asked me questions. The responses were without words.

Another lover greatly enjoyed stripping the two of us down before a mirror, and caressing the entire expanse of my surface with his hands, wrapping me as close to him as he could. His cock would be insistent against my thigh. We rubbed our bodies together, enjoying the warmth and friction, and having to practice the most difficult kind of restraint to not fuck when a slight change in the angle of our hips would have guaranteed penetration.

The tendons that move the whole of my frame are tense as violin strings when we practice this restraint.

The ligaments that hold my bones together ached for this other posture.

The non-words that escape my larynx are as expressive as any essay; the nature of the way we touch generates profound communication. Making the request for a condom requires switching from my hypothalamus and its primal, animalistic drives to my cortex: practicality in lust is the opposite of the tension we are generating.

When my lover enters my body, there is a sensation not so much of fullness or stretching or warmth, though those are all aspects of it, but more of the completion of an infinite loop. The tension in my muscles and bones is tightened and resolved, the urges that flood my skull escape from my mouth as a sigh. The loop is made of the satisfaction of an overwhelming desire. The loop builds and breaks stress and satisfaction. It trades one type of anticipation for another, cycling back and forth between my brainstem and my pelvis.

When my lover manages to stimulate the right spot on the back of my pubic bone, or deftly massages my clitoris, there is the heat mixed with pressure mixed with clarity and fog. There is a point in this protocol where the strain and release of the infinite loop, the pressure and heat of direct stimulation, and the vibration, humming, tingling, intensely pleasurable paresthesia that derives from their synergy approach overwhelming. This moment, the instant or two before orgasm, the thickest part of the resin, is brief and eternal.

The orgasm itself is variable in nature. At its extremes it varies from an awareness that I am climaxing without much sensation; to a deep, muscular, spasming ache like what lives in my thighs the day after a long untrained run that originates in my uterus and vagina and traveling out in pulses to the ends of my extremities. It is pleasure mixed with the sensation of a muscle that has fallen asleep waking up again, blood flowing as pins and needles through all my circulation and bringing with it relapsing and remitting contraction. My mind ranges between blank and fixated on an image, sometimes sexual and sometimes not, but my voice is disconnected from my reason. It is linked to my basal drives and it expresses the unambiguous satisfaction that comes with a sensation that is completely outside the realm of words. I could shatter, I could break in half with the deepest part of my pelvis as the vertex.

The ratios of all the different wordless components that make up sex change with every partner. They vary with my cycles, they vary with my mood, they vary with my desire. There is no best or worst mixture. Sex here is not zero sum, but an infinite amount of combinations or sensations to be tried on and changed into and out of as my biological and social oscillations dictate. It is the culmination of thrumming, humming urges versus the hyperverbal, hyperanalytical aspects of my psyche. It is conflict and resolution. It is blankness and expansion.

It is trapped in a resin of anticipation, without beginning or end.