It was Friday night and I was done work for the weekend. I got home, kicked off my shoes and went upstairs to change. I heard his voice through the door: "I ordered Chinese for dinner, hope that's okay."
I sigh. Eating take-out as often as we do is not good for the body. The poor guy can't cook and I don't always have the energy when I get home, so this is our compromise. I just try not too eat too much of it. So after a quiet sigh to myself, I call back, "Okay!"
He cracks the door open and I can see him peek at me. I turn, throwing my arms over my half-dressed body, as if he hasn't seen this body naked hundreds of times over their years together. Maybe so, but it's not my choice to let him see. After a month, he's hardly a stranger to me, though. I've had relationships move much faster than this.
I e-mailed Christine after a while, saying "What about sex?" And her response amounted to "I don't want to think about it." Hardly encouraging, but not a bitter opposition. I try to psych myself into it as he approaches, and I let my arms fall from covering my breasts. He wraps his arms around my waist, letting them sit just above my butt. My hands press against his soft, hairy chest.
He tilts his head down and kisses me. I like being kissed. It's kissing back that I've had to get used to, in all honesty. Our tongues dance around each other and he pushes me toward the bed. I can feel his hardness poking into me. What's more, I can feel the wheels turning in my own body. I'm getting wet.
I don't want to have sex with him, though. I still just can't get used to the idea, as much as I've grown accustomed to his presence, and the physical reality of being a woman. My whole anatomy down there still features a part that I've never used, that I just don't feel right about sharing with him yet. But there is something else I can do, and I suspect he'll prefer it. I slide his pants off him, boxers and all, and begin to lower my head to his lap. He practically squeals with joy. I really think most married men would rather get a blowjob than sex. They don't have to do anything. And personally, I'm a bit of a pro at this. If I like someone, I'm all too happy to provide this service. For my own sake, too, the more conventional position isn't something I'm ready for yet. I wouldn't know what to expect and I'm not eager to take that liberty with Christine's body. Yet.
He's not used to this kind of treatment and it shows. He lasts barely a minute, leaving me to tend to the mess. It's just as well, because the food will be here soon. We lie side by side and he wraps his arms around me. I breathe a deep sigh of contentment. He whispers a "thank you" in my ear and I get a little tingle. That comfort I spoke of has already turned to something else. I tentatively slip my fingers down the front of my panties, possibly without him even knowing, but before I can get more than a vague sense of what I'm feeling down there, the doorbell rings. He gets up and pulls on his pants to answer it, and I consider continuing without him, but think better of it.
We eat quietly, with almost no comment on what has just happened. He's afraid to ask questions, because he doesn't want to undo the spell I'm under, whatever possessed his wife to add that to their usual routine. For the rest of the night I was pretty pleased with myself.
The next morning was a different story, as I regarded my body sadly in the mirror. I inherited a body full of bumps and lumps and while a lot of people might be okay with that, including Terry, I'm just not. I don't like the way my gut sags and love-handles bulge, the way I get tired just standing around all day. I'm not THAT far overweight for Christine's body type but it's enough to make a difference and certainly not up to the standards I set for myself. Being fine with yourself is one thing but being truly happy with your body is another. I can't go on like this, falling into Christine's patterns just because it's what she did. I need to take care of this body in a way she didn't. I wouldn't be happy with myself if I didn't try. Call it a project. I know women's fitness is a lot different from men's, and it might not even necessarily be about losing pounds as much as it is about firming and toning up, eating right and improving conditioning. This is who I am, and for the duration of my time as Christine, it's going to be who she is, too. That's final. Time to get to work.
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