A little ditty about a boxer and female kickboxer. Full disclosure, they do not have sex in a gym, the summary was just a pun.
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The first time I saw Mason Winger in the flesh was on an otherwise mundane Tuesday night. I went to O'Lydia's to hit the heavy bag in an attempt to blow off some steam after an obnoxious day at work. Finding my smooth rhythm of punches and kicks, knees and elbows, I felt an even veneer of sweat begin to form just as I was starting to work through my muddled haze of professional frustration. My dad had been a boxer and before I completed my law degree I had done local Muay Thai kickboxing competitions for years. For me, there is something about a smelly gym full of sweaty, hyper-macho men that will always feel like coming home. Not to mention sweating out negative vibes is always a good alternative to a psychological breakdown.
The night in question, after pushing myself to near exhaustion, I paused my assault long enough to take in some air and then a few massive gulps of water. Rubbing a rough white towel over my face and neck, I considered moving over to do some weights and that's when I spotted him, out of the corner of my eye, running drills with Tito in the ring that monopolized the already cramped gym. The fact that I failed to notice him sooner is a testament to my distracted state of mind. I was practically raised in O'Lydia's; in fact, Seamus O'Lydia himself had been my dad's closest friend and also my godfather. Considering how much time I spent at that gym, I knew all the regulars and O'Lydia's was not the sort of joint that attracted or welcomed outsiders.
That being said, I recognized him as being more than some Joe blow off the street immediately; his massive black jaguar tattoo covering half his back was a dead giveaway as to identity. At the time, he was an up and comer in the boxing world and I had seen him fight on several occasions. I thought I remembered hearing that he might come to Boston to train for this next bout. However, I assumed it would be at the world class training facility downtown, and not the hole-in-the-wall gym where he was currently destroying the worn out pads held by Tito.
Some say that meeting celebrities or athletes in person is always disappointing because they seem somehow smaller, less significant, more human than their media personas might indicate. For Mason, this was not the case at all, and seeing him live and in the flesh made me realize how much pictures and video did not do him justice. His body was massive: tall, tan, tattooed, and built like a bull with broad shoulders, bulky biceps, and a well-defined torso. He looked like the sort of guy little old ladies might cross the street to avoid, but his wide grin also indicated he was the kind of gentle giant who would carry your groceries or help you move. He was smiling then, as he backed Tito into the corner, pounding away at a relentless pace, but with such aplomb and grace that it was mesmerizing. His obvious ferocity combined with his playful babyface made for an intoxicating mix that had my heart jumping and breath panting even though I was well into a rest. Nothing could have prepared me for the way my body reacted to seeing him in my gym, looking sinfully sexy and delightfully lively to boot.
Unable to help myself, I kept looking, nursing my water bottle as an excuse and practically drooling. Luckily, he had also attracted the attention of the other seven or so men who were also there to lift weights or whatnot. In our little boxing haven, Mason was an oddity, a solid professional with a better than decent record who was expected to make a serious run for the title very soon. The men watched as if they might learn a thing or two. I watched because seeing him in action was a true thing of beauty. Shirtless and sweaty, muscles popping and jerking with every move, heavy and hot breath stuttering out between his smiling lips; everything about his display was turning me on. He was, in a word, beautiful. Considering I had seen enough half naked men in that gym to fill the spank banks of every woman on earth, I knew there was something unique about Mason, even if I was unable to describe exactly what it was.
I watched him, for far too long, until I felt like a certifiable pervert. And then I tried to resume my workout, to no avail. I was far too distracted to concentrate on anything besides the moist throbbing between my thighs. So, I went home.
The second time I was Mason Winger was later that night, as I laid in bed and conjured up images of him from behind closed eyes. The way he bobbed and weaved when Tito went on the offensive, sweat literally dripping off his sinewy body and making me want to run my tongue over every inch of his heated flesh. His laugh that resounded loudly in the tiny gym and reverberated through my entire body. Those pale green eyes that when combined when his dirty blond hair and the sharp angles of his face made him look like a Scandinavian God. I thought about how sweet he had been, offering tips and pointers to the men training alongside him, even though they had no chance of ever going pro. This, his genuine generosity and attentive nature, was what really pissed me off. Hot guys, especially at the gym, are a dime a dozen, but Mason was also just really...nice. Damn him.
I flipped onto my back in frustration and, with his entire being the only thing on my mind, shoved a hand under the waistband of my shorts and sunk two fingers into the wet heat of my pussy. I closed my eyes and saw him again; he had me pressed against the wall of the locker room at O'Lydia's, which was really nothing more than a hallway to nowhere packed with skinny metal storage towers. I could almost feel his full lips working my neck, his hard cock pressed against my center, one hand on the back of my head threaded in my hair, the other on my hip forcing our bodies closer together. I heard his deep, rumbling voice uttering filthy obscenities and just as I was about to reach down and palm his dick, I came with a short gasp, my legs jerking against the mattress as my eyes snapped open, shattering the picture of bliss I had spent so long crafting. With an unsatisfied sigh, I flipped back onto my stomach, pulling an extra pillow against my body and attempting to find sleep.
Annoyed, not only because Mason had evoked such a visceral reaction, but also because my self-induced orgasm brought me no relief, I tossed and turned. At around 3 a.m. I barely stopped myself from checking when his fight was schedule for to figure out how long I would have to put up with him haunting my town and my thoughts. There were about a million reasons I should have forgotten all about Mason, but as soon as I had them organized and cataloged in my mind, they suddenly seemed irrelevant in the all-consuming, all-distracting shadow of his eyes, that smile, his body, God, his body, that laugh...
The third time I saw Mason Winger, a few weeks later, my only thought was, "Goddamn it, I have been avoiding the gym because I can't fucking trust my body not to react around you, so how dare you show up my Starbucks, mine, looking hot as shit!?" Externally, I maintained my composure and did the rational thing: pretended I had no clue who he was and avoided eye contact at all costs. Even when I saw him staring at me in my peripheral vision as I waited for my drink. And even when I felt him come up to the condiment bar where I was shaking some cinnamon onto my Chai with already jittery hands.
When he spoke, my resolve crumbled. "Hey." Lord, he smelled good up close. So much so that my deep breath didn't help to calm my pumping blood at all.
I turned to look up at him, a rare sensation for a tall woman like me. "Good morning."
"August, right?"
"Do I know you?" Hey, I'm a lawyer, lying is what we do.
He bit his lip as he chuckled softly, "Not really, sorry if this is creepy, but I recognized you." I raised an eyebrow at him in response even though I knew what he was going to say next. "Your picture's up at O'Lydia's. I assume you train there...?"
"Uh, yeah, I do." I was going to kill my godfather, no question. At least I knew it was good picture of me, one from my competition days when I was the best shape of my life.
"I was wondering when I'd meet you."
"Oh, yeah? Whys that?"
"Well I met all the other guys and training at such a small gym..." He paused and shrugged one massive shoulder. "I just wanna get to know everyone."
Christ, how I wanted him to know me, intimately. His sincerity was not helping me concentrate, but I managed, "Well, I'm nothing special."
He actually scoffed at me. "Not from what I hear, sounds like you're a hell of a kickboxer. Maybe you could teach me a thing or two." He winked at me and for a moment I felt like I was in a bad porno. As if in his next breath he was going to whip out his dick and start pounding my ass into oblivion. Not that I would have objected very much, but still.
Luckily, a slightly elevated level of annoyance made me appear collected in the face of his obvious innuendo, which was, admittedly, more than welcome. I knew he was trying to be nice, but my career, or lack thereof, was not something I often cared to discuss. "Once upon a time, maybe. I just train for fun now."
"Hmm, fun...I think I remember what that was like. It's all work for me nowadays." He flashed his grin at me and I couldn't help but return it in kind. He was fucking adorable and I could almost feel the heat radiating off his skin even though we were no where close to touching. I felt an irrational desire to reach out and stroke his arm or run my fingers through the shaggy mohawk he sported.
I mentally shook myself. "Well, Mason, it was nice chatting with you, but I need to get to work." I turned to leave, but his stifled laugh stopped me. "Something funny?"
"Just you, pretending not to know who I was."
Even as my cheeks flushed pink, I thought about giving him a hard knee to the stomach to teach him not to laugh at kickboxers. However, something about his demeanor made me feel almost...delicate, which only made me want to do bodily harm to him even more. Instead, I stammered, "I-I don't know who you are."
