Blue Tents

It was in the second year of my collegiate sports career that I met Sandra. She was a freshman runner for Davidson Bible College, based among the scenic leaves and caterpillars of southern Virginia. My previous year of experience amidst the co-ed cross-country racing circuit had been unsurprising; indeed, it seemed terribly similar to the high school scene, only with less class-work to catch up on after one’s return. I’d regularly survey the field of competition when I was meant to be warming up; teams would set up little patches of tents, and runners would frequently enter and exit, though sometimes you’d catch one student not emerging for several minutes, or not at all. It was totally beyond my already jangled sense of logic as to what purpose these tents could serve. If you’re tired, lay in the grass! If you need to change into uniform, there’s always a lavatory around. But there the tents sat, transforming the field into a brightly-colored base camp for some surrealist university war campaign, involving countless nations, the troops having lost their armaments and resorted to chasing each other around in flimsy shorts. But I met Sandra by one of her tents, the azure hue matching the deep blue warm-up gear of jacket and wind pants she wore, and she smirked after telling me her name, and asked if I wanted to have a cigarette before the race, and I heartily agreed.

Perhaps smoking tobacco (and countless additives) before a 3.1 mile run is not the most sensible course of action to take, but I had never been excessively sensible as a runner. I have no sense of pace. I can’t burst into a sprint for those glorious final meters. I had only begun running in high school because I’d had a crush on the senior captain of the team. My attentions were drawn to other girls before long, but I continued to run; I’ve never quite pieced together why. Perhaps it looked nice to have a sport on my college applications? Perhaps I liked following behind girls in small shorts? Perhaps I rather liked wearing small shorts myself, and had only subconsciously embraced the fact? Irregardless, I got my varsity letter and signed up again in those halls of higher learning and excessive consumption. There were pretty senior captains on this team too. But Sandra, all churlish grin and freckles, was something else.

“Um, I think I left my purse on the bus,” she said, the lie obvious to both of us, crouched between cars in the parking lot, “Could you loan me one?”

I only had one cigarette left. I smiled and pointed the filter toward her mouth, and she darted forward to grasp it between her lips. I lit it and she inhaled and smiled to me.

“Here, I’m not taking your last one. Not all of it anyway.”

She handed the cigarette back to me, and I inhaled as well. Her lip gloss was strawberry on the filter. I handed it back to her, and we shared the cigarette, staring at the sneakers and feet of runners and coaches passing through the lot. I look to her, smoking, and noticed that she wore the same kind of sneakers that I did.

“Yeah,” she giggled, “They’re boy shoes. I didn’t even notice until I’d raced in them, like, twice.”

We snorted and laughed, for very little reason. She took the last puff and tossed the butt down, stamping it under that white sole, those black laces.

A whistle blew, and the ground burbled with countless runners thundering toward the starting line.

“Uh oh. We’d better go over.”

We emerged from our shadowed parking space, and jogged over toward the crowd. She unzipped her jacket and flung it over her shoulder. She wore the standard runner’s tank top, also blue, with a dark purple sports bra visible where the uniform cut off above her ribs. Freckles were on her shoulders, dotting her creamy white skin, pale as milk, nourishing to behold. Her hair was a lovely cinnamon, down to her shoulder-blades, and her ears occasionally poked above the canopy. She was not a bad runner, having just enjoyed half a smoke. I could pace myself beside her without too much calamity. She appeared to have the same thoughts:

“Hey, try to stay with me in the race,” she said, her grin very toothy and very cute, “I want to show you something.”

My curiosity, as you can guess, was piqued.

We arrived at the shuddering mass of competition, several hundred strong (this being a larger meet), and fortunately encountered nobody possessed of sufficient authority to shout at us. Sandra quickly unzipped the sides of her wind pants, her legs peeping out of the gap, and swiftly pulled them down over her shoes. I did the same. As is often the case with runners, her legs were quite strong, very firm, if a little skinny. Only the occasional freckle. Mostly a long mass of white, silky muscle extending from the tips of her raspberry-colored socks (so adorable in the context of a sports event) and vanishing into her tiny blue running shorts, well above her knees. Men’s shorts are the same size, actually, and I wore longer spandex shorts under my regulation apparel. She did not turn away from me as she tucked her top into her pants, generously (accidentally?) giving me a look at her belly, but not enough to form any opinion. There was no need for such information, though, as Sandra was a beautiful girl, and I was certain then that each part of her body could only top the last in delicacy and warmth before my eyes.

We found our teams and lined up beside them; Davidson Bible was three teams down from my own school, Benjamin Point College, so I lost track of her for a second. I smiled and nodded to a teammate beside me, who grimaced and continued his rigorous stretches. I decided that staring forward into the haze would be more beneficial. Within the minute, the gun was fired.

It’s chaos, absolute anarchy in the first few seconds of a big race. The ground beneath you churns and there’s hundreds of bodies flinging themselves past you, and every law of decent peaceful living is suspended. Between the thrashings and hammerings of the crowd, I saw her hair flying, whipping in the wind off to my right. She looked awesome in action, her face not one of grimacing determination, but a gritted smirk, an air of amusement at this mad trial, at this physical torture circus. Her eyes are blue as her school colors, but glowing, not dead and wrinkly like the uniform so blessed to contain her body. I was not trampled as I rushed over to her side, and she huffed:

“Wait… one minute… we’re in the woods and… stay with me…”

The crowd thinned after the initial explosion, and the race was divided into informal castes, each runner’s spot at the finish nearly pre-determined, save for the occasional burst of sprinting power, foreign to me. By the time we entered the narrow trail through the trees, there were few competitors surrounding us. She looked at me, and grasped my arm, and dragged me whooping through an obscured passage off of the track. We could hear the thundering of the few runners who were somewhere behind us stamping across, as we delved deeper into the woods.

Soon we came to a clearing, and sat down on the grass. The rumblings of the race were still audible in the distance, but suddenly inconsequential, no more vexing than a flock of sparrows swooping across the sky. Sandra kicked off her boy shoes and groaned. She stretched forward to rub her toes through her socks. I smiled; the deep red cotton embracing her feet looked so odd, so silly contrasted with the blue utilitarianism of her uniform. She leaned back and pulled a brown bag from behind a tree. She removed a thermos from the bag, and rolled over onto her side to beam at me.

“Me and my friend Liz, you see, we do this at every race. We find a spot in the woods and hide some stuff. Then we sneak off during the race, and head back for the finish. We’re always dead last, almost, so nobody bothers to check. Liz got sick today, and you’re pretty cool, so here.”

I popped open the thermos and took a whiff. Peppermint schnapps. Very nice. I took a drink, and handed it back to her.

“All the good runners won’t be done for, like, sixteen minutes or something,” she said, between large gulps, “And I think the woods’ll take us back to near the finish.”

She flopped down onto her back, her hair spread out across the green. I took another drink and laid back too. She took her next swig from her prone position, and sniggered as a small stream of booze dribbled down her cheeks, watering the grass. I did the same, and the liquor was spent within five minutes. Both of us were quite buzzed. She lifted her foot, her socks a bit stained by the grass, and rested it on my naked leg. I smiled deeply as I absorbed her heat, and we said nothing for a while.

“Yeah,” she murmured, the liquor having taken hold, “This is a good spot. Our team comes here, like, every year. This one girl, Kathy, she told me this story, about this senior last year. Her name was Stacy. I met her once, I remember, when I visited the school last year to check out the team and all. I’ve always been running, like, and I wanted to see what it was about. She was really hot, really meaty and shit, like she had some meat on her bones, and big tits. Like my tits aren’t too big, but hers were always bunched up in her shirt all trying to pop out and stuff. Really long blonde hair, too. A little taller than me, so not too tall, y’know? Well she had this crush, this huge fucking crush on this Steve guy. He was a senior too, like 6’1 and real muscled, real sweet. And Kathy told me that Stacy really wanted to hook up with him, but he wouldn’t try anything and all. So she got this idea and Kathy could not fucking believe she’d try it but they did it right here, like in this clearing.”

She rubbed her foot up and down my leg, below my knee. I closed my eyes and listened to her voice. I had a huge erection, and made no attempt to hide it.

“Heh. Y’wanna here the story? It’s really dirty.”

I said that I would, my eyes glazing behind my eyelids.

“So the race is going on, and they get to where we just went through the path, and she’s been keeping up with him because she’s really fast and stuff, so they get here and she pulls him through the clearing. And he’s kinda mad but he’s, like, curious because she’s not even looking back at him, and I bet he wanted to follow her ass all bouncing around in her shorts anyway, cause he’s a horny guy no matter what he says, so anyway they run and run and reach this little area here. And he’s about to ask her what’s up and she spins around and kisses him really hard. I mean, he’s kinda struggling and she’s just on her tippy-toes to reach his face and she’s really working her tongue and stuff. She knows she’s gotta go quick because he’s gonna be real weird about it so she pulls up his shirt and starts licking him and shit. Like, just rolling her tongue across his belly and he’s all groaning and shit now, so she pulls his shorts right down to his knees and his cock’s rock solid already. All the girls had been talking about how he had the biggest dick on the team, y’know, and she told them he was, like, eight or nine inches, like really fucking big.”

She giggled and nuzzled her nose up against my face. I smelled her breath, sweet with mint and liquor, as she purred.

“Such a huge dick. So she starts sucking the head, cause it barely fits in her mouth and she can’t get much farther down, so she sucks on it really hard and he’s totally pre-cumming. So she pulls him out of her mouth and starts licking the whole thing from the bottom of his shaft right up to his head. And he’s all pulling on his pants, trying to get them back up, all while he’s moaning and stuff, and she’s pulling right back down on them while she’s licking at his dick, just teasing it with her tongue and his pre-cum’s all over her face, like her cheeks and shit are all sticky and she’s laughing. So finally he gives up and his pants are right off his legs. So she grabs his dick and rubs it all over her face like a honeycomb and licks it really hard and fast and sucks on it really slowly. Like, Stacy’s pretty promiscuous, she’s fucked a ton of guys at parties, and she knows how to suck really awesome dick. So he’s going crazy and he pulls her hair-tie out and whips his top over his head and it’s such a crazy scene, trying to picture it, like him standing right here ass-naked except for his sneakers and this short little big-titted blond girl blowing him in a full track suit, her hair all over and his pre-cum dripping off her chin, like there’s SO fucking much of it. And he’s rubbing her head and neck, and he, like picks her up, like pulls her off his dick and kisses her right on the mouth, and his own sticky stuff is getting all over his face but he’s slapping his tongue all around her mouth like he totally digs the taste, or just doesn’t care. And then he drops her and she starts sucking his dick again, and they do this, like, five or six more times until he’s gonna cum, so he pulls out of her mouth and pulls her tank-top up, cause she’s always wearing a t-shirt under it when she runs to keep her boobs in place, and he just soaks her t-shirt with jizz, just cums all over it. Kathy told me Stacy said that she’d never seen a guy cum so much in her life. Then when he’s done she takes his cock and rubs it all over her t-shirt, and they rub their faces off on it, and then she takes it off and tosses it right into the woods. Then she puts her tank-top back on over her sports bra while he’s getting his clothes back on. And, like, the whole team sees them jogging to the finish, her t-shirt totally missing and her tits bouncing everywhere and the biggest smile on her face.”

She sat up and stretched. I ask her what happened to them.

“Oh, not much. They didn’t talk for a while, cause he was kinda freaked, but then on the weekend he called her cell and told her, like…”

She started giggling uncontrollably and couldn’t stop for at least a minute.

“…like he couldn’t stop jerking off over her all week! So she told him to sneak into her dorm, and security’s shit there anyway, and he did and she said they didn’t stop fucking till, like, class on Monday. They never really went out or anything. She definitely had sex with him at parties all year, and at, like, every race too. Like they’d sneak away and toss their clothes off and sixty-nine in just their sneakers. They’re both engaged now, to different people, but Kathy just heard from her, like, last week, and she said she saw him at a club and they said ’hi’ and, like, couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and they went back to her apartment and fucked a lot. She’s totally, totally in love with her fiancée, but she said she felt so fucking good after that sex and she‘s gonna fuck him every time she runs into him no matter what, even at her fucking wedding, and like, her big goal now is to get him and her fiancée into bed with her at the same time… she’s weird, y’know. But she’s real happy, I‘ve never seen a girl so fucking happy ever.”

She slumped back down onto the grass.

“Yeah… yeah, she’d not weird. Aw man… man the whole team knew about those two fucking around during the races by the end. Shit… people really liked it. Everyone really liked it. We made some changes, you know? Changes. That‘s why I‘m on the fucking team now, those changes… yeah.”

Must have been the booze.

Such reverie cannot be eternal, and we heard the rumblings approach again from the other side of the woods. We struggled to our feet (no longer an easy task), and she slipped her shoes back on. She must have noticed my erection, but she said nothing. We hustled down to the edge of the woods; it took several minutes, and few runners were left by the time we snaked back into the flow. We were side by side, running surprisingly hard for the last half-mile or so, and we were very sweaty and exhausted as we crossed the finish line.

“Hey, c’mon to our tent!” she merrily huffed.

As we began to walk, she kicked her boy shoes off without undoing the laces, and peeled away her socks. She had bright green polish on her toenails, matching the grass we trudged though. Her breath came in deep puffs, and sweat dripped from her rusty bangs. We quickly came upon one of the four large tents that Davidson Bible had erected. Cradling her shoes and socks in her arms, she nodded me in.

It didn’t look very roomy from the outside, but there was quite a lot of space in the tent. A tarp had been laid out on the grass, blotting out the final intrusions of nature into the solid blue cocoon. There were foldout chairs and book bags laid all over, and several mats spread on the ground. Sandra tossed her shoes and socks into the corner.

“I’m really hot. I’m gonna lie down. Is that ok with you?”

I told her that it was certainly fine with me, and began to inquire as to exactly what purpose these tents could serve, when she silenced me with a grin, and pulled her tank top out of her pants, and right over her head, disheveling her hair in the process. She tossed it atop of her shoes and socks. I barely had time to muse that her sports bra was on awfully tight (as it should be), when she undid the snap in the back, which sent her snowy breasts bouncing free, her dark nipples like cherries atop vanilla ice cream. She bent down to unruffled her hair, and I was amazed at how muscular her belly was, so firm and lean. Her breasts were a counterpoint; springy and perfectly round, the softest part of her by far, with the exception of her lips, curved into a wider grin than ever as she straitened her hair. I wish I didn’t seem like such a letch staring at her nudity, but her chest was soaked with sweat, and tiny droplets formed on her nipples and dripped to the tarp below, and I’d never really noticed the unique way in which perspiration can work.

She straightened up and stretched, arms above her head, her back cracking in relief, her breasts seemingly inflating and reaching toward me. I was taken aback, and she chided me.

“Well? What did you think tents are for? They’re for cooling off.”

I tried to make some witty (or at least semi-coherent) response, but she checked my attempt by whipping her shorts to the ground, and swiftly stripping away her panties, cruelly robbing me of their pale yellow hue. She unceremoniously tossed them onto her pile, and stood before me, not moving.

“Oh, c’mon. You’ve seen a naked girl before, right?”

My eyes were sadly trapped on her newly revealed areas; it was possible now to appreciate how her whole body was moist from running, her chest pumping steadily with breath still in need of replacement. Droplets collected on her deep red pubic hair, a small, trimmed forest. She giggled madly.

“You never seen a girl’s butt either?”

She spun around and wiggled her rear at me, her cheeks small and round and jiggling with her movement. Her shorts had never left much of her legs to the imagination, but seeing them melt right into her cheeks was magic enough, and as she turned around, I admired how those same legs so smoothly curved up into her hips and belly. I had indeed seen naked girls before (who does not these days?), but never in this manner, with the stampings of hundreds just outside the flimsy walls, with no effort to hide or dim the lights or slip under the covers or anything.

“What?” she asked, sitting down on a mat, her legs crossed, her tummy scrunching a bit, “I’m hot. I have to cool off. I want to take a rest.” Her smile never faded.

I stammered and asked her if it bothered her that all these people were around.

“Why? This is the girls’ tent. It says outside the flap. We all do this. Every girl on the team. They’ll be here soon, actually, and I dunno if they’ll like you here…”

Another fit of giggles.

“…but maybe they will. I like you here. I mean, look. Your face is sooooo cute. You’re cuter than you were when I saw you before the race. That’s cool… that’s a… a feat. Yeah.”