A Gift for the Wife.
Why couldn't I have been born thin with a racing metabolism like my brother? I wondered as I completed my ninth set of 110 kg bench presses. Instead, if I drink one beer without exercising, I gain 5 kg. Well, I might be exaggerating, but not by much!
Ten sets of ten repetitions at 110 kg. I could do more, but then I'd need a spotter in case the last three or four went bad. I'd already done an hour on the road running, then another hour on the bike, followed by thirty minutes on the rower and another thirty minutes of stretching and core strength work.
'Used to be so much easier when I was playing,' I thought. At the club's gym, with at least seven or eight other players training with me. The gym pounding to Sam Thaiday's latest mix tape. Pretty WAGs (Wives And Girlfriends) and wannabe WAGs exercising around us. The wannabes, especially, trying to look good, hoping a player would notice and want them.
I looked around the gym. It was midmorning. Most single girls would be at work, and all I saw were young mothers trying to get their pre-baby shape back or older women, probably retired, all busily exercising, keeping their bodies in as best shape as possible. Hubby, probably, at home, drinking beer and watching porn. They'd be dead ten years at least before their wives even considered joining them beyond the veil.
As I exercised, I considered what I should buy the wife for her birthday, less than a week away now. 'What to buy someone who has anything and everything she could possibly need?' I wondered. Last year, I bought the red-headed, lead-footed hoon that is my wife, a Targa-ready vintage MGBGT Roadster. Light blue and race-certified, the car was an immediate favourite despite its ride being like sitting on a marble benchtop as it rode over cobblestones. Every slight irregularity in the road was mercilessly fed through the car's race suspension into your bottom.
I smiled, recalling how her CAMS (Confederation of Australian Motor Sports) instructor and licensor got out of the car at the end of her accreditation ride white and shaky, saying although she'd proven she was completely safe, she scared the pants off him with her aggressive entry into the turns.
She won the first Targa race she entered, but after that, she'd been given so much extra weight as a handicap that our mechanic worried the suspension would break under heavy turning G-force. Vicky only took the car out during open track days at Willowbank Raceway.
Vicky drove the boy racers insane as she casually, dressed in nothing more than a tank top and shorty shorts, her magnificent 36D breasts unfettered and bouncing with the bumps, out braked, out turned and out accelerated them, leaving them eating her dust as she blew them away along the straights.
I didn't drive the car. I didn't fit. The seat was bolted and welded to the floor, perfectly positioned for my wife's petite frame, all 158 cm of her. Plus, I sure as hell wasn't sitting beside her as she fearlessly, recklessly, launched her car at a blind crest, believing her reflexes would save her if there was a sharp turn over the crest. They had --so far.
Glancing around the gym again, I pictured my love in my mind. Tiny, as I described, but lush. Short, muscular legs, a big rounded badonkadonk butt, a toned but curvaceous tummy, and huge tits. Vicky has a weightlifter's body. Not surprising because she regularly accompanied me to the gym. Vicky has natural brown hair augmented with dark red highlights. Yeah, closing in on forty, she had some help from the dye bottle, but only to clear up a few grey hairs at her temples.
Bright hazel green eyes under high eyebrows, with wide, white-on-white corneas. A thin nose in the middle of high cheekbones and an almost pointy chin. Full, pouting lips barely concealing bright white, even teeth and a long neck. Have you figured out that I both adore and desire my wife immensely?
But, back to the problem. What do I get her for her birthday? Another overseas trip? Where to this time? Where haven't we gone that might still hold some appeal, or where for a re-visit?
I completed the final rep of my last set and sat up. All that was left was to cool down on the treadmill, shower and go home. Vicky would be out. Silly woman still worked, even though we had more money than our kids' great-grandkids could spend in their lifetimes. Unlike most, I'd saved virtually every cent during my thirteen-year NRL career. Using the skills and knowledge given to me by the various sponsors I'd schmoozed with, I'd invested my contracts, choosing to push kids back until I retired and living frugally off of Vicky's nursing wage.
"Finished?" A delightfully sexy voice asked as I sat up.
"Yes," I acknowledged, surreptitiously checking the speaker out. I kept my eyes firmly on hers and used my peripheral vision to admire the woman's figure. 'Not as muscular as Vicky,' I thought. 'But still short and stacked! Tits probably even bigger than the wife's.'
"Get a spot then, Mr Murray?" She asked.
"Sure," I responded, unsurprised that people still recognised me even five years after I retired. "How much are you pressing?"
"The most I've done is 70 kg," the woman replied. "But, with a spotter, I'd like to try more. What do you think?"
"It depends on whether you're trying to add or tone muscle," I answered. "If you're trying to replace fat with lean muscle, then a lower weight with more repetitions is better. If you want to add muscle, then more weight and lower reps."
"Is that why you were only doing 110 kg, Mr Murray?" She asked. "How much can you press if you go all out?"
"150 kg," I replied. "I could probably do more, but I need a pair of spotters in case I dropped it.
"Wow!" She said. "That's a lot."
I smiled at her as I took off and replaced the weights, bringing the total weight down to 75 kg. I didn't say anything about it being 5 kg more than she'd suggested. "Let's try a few warm-up reps at about what you're used to," I said, settling the bar into its stays.
The staunchly built woman lay on the bench and reached up to grab the bar. I noticed her large, firm breasts didn't sag to her rib cage when she lay down and briefly wondered if they were surgically enhanced.
As if reading my mind or perhaps seeing the direction of my eyes, she smiled and said, "All me, Mr Murray. All me, nothing else."
I grinned and answered, "John. If you're going to lie beneath me with most of your generous assets on display, the least I can do is let you use my name."
The woman wore a clinging bright orange sports bra with a matching pair of lycra shorts. Lying down, her big, thick, clearly erect nipples were blatantly displayed, as was her well-defined cameltoe.
Letting go of the bar momentarily, the woman held her hand out, "Misty Beethoven," she said.
I laughed, "Surely you can't be serious? Or is Misty and Beethoven hyphenated, and your first names are The Opening of?"
"I am serious," 'Misty' retorted, using the infamous line from the 'Airplane' movie. "And don't call me Shirley!" Then she laughed and added, "Janice Mooney, John. Jan or Yannie is fine."
"Yannie?" I asked.
"Dutch," Janice explained. "Spelt with a 'J' but pronounced with a 'Y'.
Janice retook her grip and easily lifted the bar above the stays and lowered it. "One," she puffed as she pressed it above her head.
"How many?" I queried.
"Five for the warm-up."
I nodded and waited, prepared to step in if Janice struggled. However, she completed the five reps without any apparent discomfort. "How much extra do you want to try?" I asked, undoing the holding clamps.
"Two more?" Janice suggested, showing a clear understanding of the risks of trying for too much too soon.
I nodded and added a 1 kg disc to each end. "Ready?" I asked, settling into a position above the bar, prepared to help if required.
Jannie ripped through another five reps without any struggle. "Two more, again?" She said. "That went easier than I thought."
"Three," I countered. "That brings you up to 5 kg more than you typically do."
