Runner

By

Donna M.

 

How can one erase a memory? 

That’s what I keep asking myself after losing Emily.  We had our precious bundle home with us for three days.  Three whole days.  And then she was gone.  Doctors couldn’t tell us why.   It wasn’t SIDS, they said.  Oh, they rattled off a bunch of long medical terms, yet the bottom line was that they didn’t really know.  It just happened sometimes.

At the gravesite, I passed out rather than look at that small casket any longer.  John held me, but even while surrounded by my husband and the entire family I knew I was alone.  I numbly accepted all the well-meant condolences. I remained in a daze, a stupor that allowed me to survive the rest of that day.  How could I face another one?

I decided to run.

Much later I contemplated the metaphor, but at first I thought of running as simply an exercise to keep me from thinking of my baby.  It wasn’t an escape.  Of course not.

I bought a new sports bra for support while running, plus some new shoes and shorts.  My husband was worried about me.  “Shouldn’t you take it slowly?  Why rush into this running thing?” John said.

I didn’t even bother answering him.  After all, I wasn’t sick.  My body didn’t need to heal like my soul did.  I blamed the world for Emily’s death but one thing I never did was blame myself.

I ran.

At first I jogged through city streets, since our neighborhood was on the fringes.  It wasn’t satisfying for a few reasons, chief among them were the leering youths on tenement stoops with their wolf-whistles and catcalls, people walking dogs, and the incessant smell of automobile exhaust.  I couldn’t forget, running that way.  Then I tried driving to the suburbs to jog.  The air was clearer but I still got ogling looks and lewd comments (“Oh baby, look at those tits bounce”) from guys doing yard work, etc.

And still I ran.

I certainly wasn’t in an amorous mood, though John kept telling me that we should try for another baby.  How could he think that our dear little Emily was like a lost pet that could be replaced?  No, I wasn’t in the mood for sex.  Thankfully, he didn’t openly complain.

I found an Internet reference to a State Park in our area that had lots of trails for biking and jogging.  It wasn’t close by, but once I tried it out I realized how much I craved the solitude along with the running.  Some of the trails were more appropriately hiking trails, not running ones.  After overtaxing myself on one of them, I vowed that I’d eventually work my way up to this level of exertion.  I didn’t see many runners.  Most of the folks I saw were walkers, however I was surprised by the number of mountain bike riders that I ran into—or more accurately, who nearly ran into me.

The running took over.

I didn’t go back to work right away.  My employer was sympathetic, and allowed me to take the rest of my maternity leave.  As I ran more, I cried less.  Even without tears, I grieved.  I imagined Emily’s first words, her first steps, and her first tooth.  I imagined the girl and the woman she would’ve become.  And then I ran.  John complimented me on the weight I was losing.  That’s not why I was running, so the compliments fell on deaf ears.  God bless him; he was patient and caring but it wasn’t what I needed.  I needed my baby, yet she was inexplicably taken away from me.  What was left?

Running.

The State Park became my refuge.  Regardless of the weather, I reveled in the exertion.  Released endorphins, or whatever the cause, made running my drug of choice. When I went back to work, I’d travel the miles to the park after work to run.  As autumn turned to winter, I ran.  Coworkers complimented me on how well I was “coping” and how well I looked.  What did any of them know about coping?  In the meantime, John’s patience began to wear thin.  He made comments about eating “dinners alone” and “feeling neglected.” I knew that most of the ‘neglect’ was in the bedroom.  I always had a healthy libido, yet these months without sex didn’t bother me at all.  As daylight hours grew shorter, I ran in the dark.  As it grew colder, I ran with slightly more clothes on.  I ran in sleet and snow, occasionally slipping and sliding and falling down.

But still I ran.

My husband said he was worried about my health, worried about me being in the “woods” after dark, and worried about how I’d “changed.”  He didn’t have to say it; he was worried about my mental health.  He was worried about our sex life, actually HIS non-existent sex life.  His questioning got me to thinking about how he himself had changed these past few months.  He was never one for working excessively late, and yet on several occasions when I’d get home from running, he’d still be out.  He’d tell me he was working late; and when I sought details he would get defensive and in effect blame me, saying that since I wasn’t home, why should he be home alone.  I concluded that he was having an affair.  The strange surprise was that it didn’t really seem to trouble me.

I just ran more.

One slightly nippy yet sunny Saturday afternoon, I was running on one of my favorite trails. Thinking about the episode later, I couldn’t quite put my finger on a cause.  Perhaps it was the contrast between my sweatiness and the cold air.  Perhaps it was the new panties under my running outfit.  Perhaps it was simply that it had been so long.  I felt the itch and then a wave of warmth spread outward from my core.  Doubling over, I fell to the ground, and with trembling and kicking legs let out an ungodly moan that echoed through the trees.

A man I’d seen jogging in the park several times came running rapidly up to where I lay on the ground.  “Are you okay?” he asked as he bent over me.  I registered that he wasn’t out of breath regardless of how fast he’d approached.

My spasm over with, I sheepishly began to stand as I replied, “Tripped, that’s all.  I’m okay.”

With a strong hand, he gripped my arm and helped me to my feet.  He was studying my face as a puzzled look settled upon his own.  “You sure?  You’re still a bit unsteady, and that groan I heard sure sounded like pain to me.”

Pain.  One could construe that the beautiful agony of a woman’s orgasm brushed against that precipice.  I knew pain, had become intimate with it since Emily was taken from me, even as I forgot the pleasures of a different intimacy.  Could he see it on me?  The flushed skin?  The shallow, panting breath?  I doubted if I’d recognize the look of climax on my own face if I was staring into a mirror it had been so long.

“No, really, I’m not hurt, except maybe my pride.”

He smiled and said, “Don’t worry.  Nobody saw you, and I won’t tell a soul.”

I wanted to start running again; to run away from this man. “Thanks…I’ll see you around.”

I didn’t realize he was still holding my arm until I went to move away.  He said, “I’m Dan, by the way.  Can I run with you?”

Damn, I wanted solitude.  I didn’t want company, but what could I say and not be rude?  “I’m Joanne.  Nice to meet you, Dan.  Sure, we can run together at least for a little while until I’ve got to get home.”

He was trying not to be obvious about it, however he was looking me over, and I could tell he liked what he saw.  He was a great looking guy, tall, with the rangy body of a man who ran regularly, like a marathoner.  We ran together, and regardless of what I’d said about leaving we must have ran for another hour.  It still amazed me how effortlessly I ran now.  Time flew by and I barely felt the effort.  Dan asked me many questions while we ran. 

“How long have you been running?”

“Do you like running here as much as I do?”

“What does your husband think about your running?”

I don’t know why I opened up so, but I answered everything. He told me about himself (divorced, no kids) and his running (Boston Marathon once).  He didn’t ask if I had kids, so I pushed the thought and all its repercussions out of my mind.

We ran.

He offered me water as we ended up back at our vehicles.  During the last few meters before we stopped, I felt the same feeling build within me as what floored me earlier.  Was I about to have another orgasm?  Before today I hadn’t had a decent one since long before Emily was born, if you can call one while running and falling down ‘decent.’  Dan saw my distress, and I knew he interpreted it correctly—arousal.  We sat in the back seat of his SUV as he offered me a drink from his water bottle.

“Running fits you well, I mean, you look great…”

Oh God, it HAD been too long!

I didn’t say a word as I kicked off my shoes and pulled off my running pants.  It wasn’t until I hooked my thumbs under the waistband of my panties that he lost the dumbfounded expression and began to take off his own clothes.  When his cock became free, it sprang up beautifully.  We were mostly naked when he slipped a finger into my pussy.  He moaned, not me; I guess my wetness did something to him.

Back seats of cars were never made for what a lot of couples did in them.  Unlike the cars I fooled around in when I was a teen, his SUV had quite a bit more room.  I lay back and spread my legs.  He quickly got between them but hesitated.  Was he thinking about protection? Worried about getting caught?  Impatiently, I cried out, “Will you hurry up and fuck me!”

His energy and stamina, even after our long run, turned out to be exactly what I needed.  His thrusts were fast and furious, and I came almost immediately.  And I kept cumming and cumming and…

I never heard him grunt his climax because I was screaming so loudly, yet I did feel his spasms deep within me.

He’d barely pulled out of me when we saw lights approaching.  Like teenagers we scurried to get our clothing back on before the approaching light morphed into a police cruiser.  The cop must have called in Dan’s plates, for it took a while for him or her to exit the cruiser.  That gave us a chance to straighten ourselves up a bit.  I picked up the water bottle and took a long swig as the officer approached the vehicle with a flashlight.

Dan nervously powered the window down.  The cop was a big man (aren’t they all?) who wanted to know why we were there.  I did the talking, explaining that we’d been running through the park all afternoon because Dan was training for a marathon, and we were cooling down before we headed home.  When he questioned us further (certainly the park must be a ‘lovers’ lane’) I gestured toward my car and explained that we were simply running partners, nothing else.  I had told him we’d been running, and we must have looked sweaty and winded to him; he seemed dubious but what could he say?  Unless he had a superior sense of smell, he couldn’t tell if it was from feverish sex or running.

With a warning about the dangers of after-dark activities, the cop said we should leave.  I thought it was a good idea.  Before I got out of his SUV, Dan asked if he could see me again.

I showed him my ring in case he hadn’t noticed it earlier.  “You got lucky,” I said.  “You’re good, but that was probably a one-shot deal.  Maybe we’ll see each other again while running.”  I walked to my car, leaving him slackjawed and speechless.

I immediately pushed Dan from my mind, though I was puzzled.  The sex didn’t puzzle me.  What did was the first orgasm, the one that was nearly touchless, the spontaneous one that brought me to my knees on the trail.  I’d had no sexual thoughts at the time.  There had been no fantasy daydreaming.  I simply climaxed.  What caused it?  I thought about my panties rubbing me a certain way, but dismissed it quickly.  Perhaps it was hormonal; my menstrual cycle had been all out of whack since I got serious with the running.  Whatever it was, it felt great.

Long resigned to my running obsession (I had no delusion—it was an obsession) John still noticed a difference in me when I got home.  I saw it in his face though he didn’t say a word.  I examined myself in the mirror and easily saw the “just fucked” look he’d seen.  Hard to describe, but it was there.  After dinner, I went into what would have been Emily’s room and cried.  John wanted to clean out everything as some form of closure but I wouldn’t let him.  He tried to get me to see a counselor.  I refused.  There wasn’t anything mentally wrong with me that my running—and daydreaming of what Emily would have become—couldn’t cure.

The next time in the park I purposely chose a different path, one I figured Dan wouldn’t use.  I ran for miles, thought I was lost, then saw a few familiar landmarks and kept running.  Well before I was exhausted I felt the wave coming, like the last time.  I didn’t fall to my knees.  Instead, I left the path, went behind a large tree, slid down my running pants, and masturbated.  My orgasm was stupendous—and loud.  My cry was so loud I think I scattered every bird in the treetops.  As soon as my legs stopped shaking I pulled up my pants and took off down a different path lest someone come looking for who made all the noise.  I figured if I had heard the cry I’d just made, I’d think someone died.  I didn’t want the attention.

I ran.

I didn’t desire my husband, but otherwise my libido shifted into overdrive.  I masturbated twice more before bed time.  When I ran, I’d have to cum.  It was that simple.  I now had two natural responses: I thought of Emily and cried, and I ran and climaxed.  Maybe the two were related.

One day in the park I ran alongside a guy named Mike who I’d seen running there in the past.  His attraction to me was overt, flirting the whole time.  We were both sweat-soaked and pretty well spent when I felt it. 

That feeling.

Again.

“Fuck me,” I said.

“Huh?”  I know he heard me but his mind couldn’t process it.

“It’s a simple concept, really.  I want you to bend me over that downed tree over there and fuck me.”

His synapses misfired until his cock got the message.  I pulled him along off the path toward the aforementioned tree before I pulled off my spandex and panties and leaned over the tree.  Unlike Dan, Mike didn’t even think about a condom.  He was behind me, with his running pants down around his ankles and inside me in seconds.  He was being too cautious, so I implored him to fuck me harder.  By the time he got up to jackrabbit speed I was cumming buckets.  He moaned, and then moaned louder as he unloaded into me.  It felt like a good load.

I deflected the “when can I see you again?” questions.  If I ran into him while running, so be it, otherwise don’t count on the fringe benefits—that was my not-so-subtle message.

With warmer weather coming, I wore less while running.  But I was running more.  And farther.  I laughed to myself when I imagined running a marathon and masturbating right in the middle of the race.  Wouldn’t that be a hoot?  The park soon became too predictable.  Too boring.  I went back to running in the suburbs.

One fairly handsome dude was outside trimming a hedge when I ran by.  I got the obligatory whistle.  I floored him by stopping, jogging over to where he was working.  He was shirtless, sweaty, and buff.  “Your wife home?” I asked.

“My wife?”

Okay, he didn’t get it.  I’d have to spell things out for him.  “Yeah, you know, the woman you sleep with at night.  The one you may or may not have great sex with.  Your wife.  Is she home?”

“N…No…she’s not.  Won’t be back for a while.  Why?”

“Good,” I said before dragging him by the arm into his house.  “I need a shower.  Fuck me there.”

Why do men need so much translation?  He finally got it though; taking me to the master bath.  Our sweaty clothes came off and under the hot shower spray he took me from behind.  He had a great body and knew how to use it, holding my hips with his strong hands and making steady, forceful thrusts into my vagina.  Just what I needed.

“Oh God, I’m cumming alreadyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy,” I bellowed.

“Sweet Jesus,” he proclaimed seconds later.

His wife conveniently forgotten for the moment, he wanted to know if he could see me again.  As I dressed I told him I might jog by his house again sometime soon.  As I ran away from the house, I mused that we never exchanged names.  He was the anonymous fuck toy that so many feminists champion.  However, I wasn’t a feminist, I just needed it.  It was that simple.

I kept running.

On the day it would have been my darling Emily’s first birthday, I cried in the morning, ran all day, and fucked four men.  Each orgasm left me cum-filled and temporarily satisfied.  The state of satisfaction didn’t last long nowadays, but on this special day it was especially short lived.  I yanked unsuspecting runners off the park trails and into the deeper woods, and depending on their physiques, either let them do me from behind or I took the top.  I went back to the State Park because the male runners there tended to be the serious, fittest runners; and that meant they were the most virile, at least in my mind.    I wasn’t kidding when I said ‘cum-filled.’

I met my best friend Pamela for a coffee, and she surprisingly altered her usual screed of my running (that I lost so much weight I looked anorexic).  “I wanted to join you when you first started jogging, your weight loss and all, but you know that I don’t approve of your obsession, this extreme running that’s changed you.  But it’s funny, lately you’ve looked…I don’t know…like you have a new glow about you, like you’ve turned a corner or something.”

“Turned a corner?  What corner?” I asked.

She couldn’t meet my eyes.  “You know, it’s been a year…”

Pam didn’t need to remind me of time passing by.  “Don’t go there.  You may be my friend but you don’t know anything about what I’ve been through.”

Her hurt expression haunted me, but that’s how I felt.  Emily was my baby girl.  She was taken away from me, and maybe I’d never get over that.  I figured that my husband had given up on me, and now it seemed as if my best friend had as well.  John didn’t even try to relate to me anymore, and we never had sex; two strangers living under one roof.

In reflection, one thing Pam said troubled me—the “glow” thing she mentioned, and about turning a corner.  It wasn’t running’s effect she was seeing but the impromptu sex and the accompanying massive orgasms, though I assumed they were connected.  The men were simply tools while my running appeared to be the cause.  Was it hormonal or something else biological?  Or were John’s subtle comments dead on—that I was mentally unbalanced?  Whatever its cause, and I had my suspicions, I instinctively knew the “glow” was real.  That’s why I needed to fuck John that night.

And then the following day I ran twice as far.

Almost marathon distance.  I had two spontaneous orgasms.

The next day after that, a Sunday, I purposely ran through the suburban neighborhood hoping to see the man who had fucked me in his shower, or anyone else for that matter who could meet my requirements.  It was on my third pass by his house that the man was in his driveway waiting for me.

“I saw you jogging by,” he said.  “My wife’s not home, by the way.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” I said as I took him by the arm and walked him to his door.

He really didn’t know what to say, realizing he was about to get lucky again.  He stammered, “You look great,” followed by “my name is Gary.”

“Mine’s Joanne.  Which way is your bedroom?”

This had to be like a dream to him; a strange woman offering anonymous sex.  It made me wonder what his wife looked like, yet then again that didn’t seem to matter to most men when it came to extramarital sex.  I was out of my running clothes, on his bed with my legs spread, begging for cunnilingus.  He wasn’t the most skilled man at eating pussy, but his looks and enthusiasm overcame the shortcomings and I was cumming soon enough.

Fresh off orgasm number one, he climbed on top and drilled me fast and deeply until orgasm two overpowered me, basically sucking his ejaculate out of him.

“When does your wife get home?” I asked.

“Not for a while.”

“Can you get it up again?”

When the flesh is willing…

As soon as he got hard enough again, I got onto my hands and knees and he entered me from behind.  I angled my ass upward to maximize his penetration, and the beginning strokes of his cock did the job of firming him up the rest of the way. He held onto my now bony hips as he tried to bore his cock right into my cervix.  I thought it would hurt but instead it was divine.

“Yes…yes…fuck me deep…Gary…you can…do it…yes…”

“Oh Joanne,” he groaned. “It’s coming…I’m cumming…ohhhhhhhhhhhhh…” he cried out as my orgasmic spasms milked the cum out of him.

I tried to coax him to another erection but failed.  Leaking semen yet happy, I dressed immediately, told him “Kiss your wife when she gets home,” laughed as I ran out the door, and left him spent, dazed and confused.

It’s one of those things a woman senses. 

I ‘knew’ it once, and now had the same feeling again.  A couple of weeks later it felt substantiated, though I hadn’t truly tested my feelings yet.  In the meantime I went back to the park for my running, ran into Dan again, and fucked him for old time’s sake.  Interestingly, I noticed I wasn’t having the spontaneous orgasms any longer.  If anything, that was my sign.

Because I lost so much weight I didn’t show for months.  John hardly looked, though he did comment one day on how I had scaled back my running.  Of course it was for a good reason.  When I finally showed, John didn’t know how to react, especially when I found out it was a girl and started telling everyone her name would be Emma.

“That’s so close to Emily.  Why do you want to go there?” he said.

“I…we…have to,” was all I could say.

My doctor criticized me for losing so much weight.  I assured her I’d backed off on my miles.

But, I still ran.

Although I never bought his argument, I used my husband’s words in my internal ‘discussion,’ thinking I wasn’t running away but running toward a healthy baby, one that wouldn’t leave me.  I ran through the park trails.  I ran by Dan and then by Mike; both of them wanting sex but I ignored them.  They’d served a purpose.

My belly grew as I kept running, getting steady admonishments both on my continuing regimen as well as my lack of expected weight gain.  I felt healthy, had no morning sickness, and believed my bump was the perfect size.  Some of the admonishments came from John, but overall he was ecstatic about being a father again. A healthy baby girl was all I wanted.  Maybe after that I wouldn’t need to run.

I went into labor right on schedule.  The delivery went smooth until they placed the tiny girl in my arms.

“This isn’t Emily!” I shouted.

Those in the room looked at each other as John quietly said, “No honey, you chose the name Emma, remember?  This is Emma, and she’s healthy and beautiful.”

I didn’t understand.  She didn’t look anything like John and certainly not like my Emily.  Everything I’d done in the past year leading to this point in time was forgotten.  I yelled, “Take her away!  She’s not my Emily! There's been some mistake! Please, take her away!"

­­________

 

They take good care of me where I live now.  The nurses always smile when I tell them about Emily’s accomplishments and how I can’t wait for her to visit me.  I see it on their faces that they want to tell me something, but they don’t.  When he visits, John looks sad and doesn’t say much.  I don’t know why.  He should be happy for me because there is a great path for running around the perimeter, just inside the tall fence, that I use every day.  The nurses tell me how lovely I look; they say I have a certain “glow” about me after I run.  I overheard one of the nurses say something about sex, but I didn’t understand the context.

I am happy.

My Emily is back.

She visits me often.

I run.

 

Donna M.

 

© 2012

 

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