Waving Not Drowning

Bursting at the seams, stretched tight over taut, voluptuous, well muscled thighs her tights sculpt and lift the frontal sweep of thick, heavy quads inserting high into the hip and wrapping around to a butt that rides high, like a bouncing rubber ball, hard as a rock but oh so tactile. She moves like an animal, primal, articulated, stealthy. Efficiency manifests in power and agility. She is extraordinarily feminine: graceful, confident, delightfully prepossessing. Covered in chalk. Her palms are scarred and ripped, callouses bleeding from repetitive lifting and high swings on an overhead horizontal bar. Flipping, dragging, thrusting, grunting. Sweating. Struggling. Surviving. Her legs contract and explode, flexing and extending, each fibre rippling and undulating under a sheath of unblemished skin. Her shoulders, perfect round globes perched atop astonishing arms, a horseshoe of triangulated sinew. Daunting to behold, but compelling to witness in action. Form meeting function of the hi...

Jesus christ woman, I can smell you from here. I don't know what you've been doing but whatever it is you need to take a shower. Or four. Pronto, capiche? You know I love you but seriously, what have you eaten, a dead baby? Holy dinah, darlin' you are not fit for public consumption. Oh! Oh oh oh oh! Put your shoes back on. PUT YOUR SHOES BACK ON! For the love of all that's holy and I include among that our glorious, sacred, if somewhat left of center, occasionally anachronistic union, put 'em back on your feet and then take them off in an airtight, sealed chamber where they shall promptly be incinerated. Can you not smell that? How can you NOT smell that. How can the entire neighbourhood not smell that? It's worse than the worst ridiculously over priced cheese you could imagine. Worse than that runny Belgian cheese you brought home at christmas! Phew. They let you train in those? In a group? You didn't gas the entire class with the stench? Tell me, I'm s...

No one's moving at pace. It's so hot, unbelievably hot. India-hot. The metallic click clack of the aluminum crutches is slower than ever. Kevin's hands are sliding off the foam covered grips which are disintegrating in his hands. He should've splashed out and rented a pair from the Fracture Clinic instead of borrowing Greg's. At the best of times, Greg's indelicate. These crutches have been marauded by a 270 pound hockey player with recurring ACL issues. Live and learn. If he can just make it into the grocery store he can hover near the frozen food aisle, the one with the open freezers lined up like cavernous coffins, damning them all to hell with their environmental scourging of the planet. Screw that, Kevin is hot. His ankle is swollen up three times it's regular size. Cankles, Kelly calls them. She's having a field day with this. Mr. I'm-So-Sporty takes a header while trying to play frisbee golf half in the can, three sheets to the wind, completel...