When you start writing a fiction story, it's fun to think about where to start. But when you're writing a true story, especially one with a lot of threads runnings through it, deciding where to start is really hard. There are so many strands involved in explaining the key event, and people won't understand you if you don't describe them well. They may even judge you.
I'll start with an introduction. My name is Kellie and I grew up in a small town not far from Indianapolis. I'm a petite, cute redhead with ivory skin, blue-green eyes, freckles, and a sweet smile. I'm 30 now but the events of this story concern my college years -- though I have to back up and tell you about high school first.
Back then, I was pretty popular - but this popularity left me confused. I had no shortage of boyfriends, and I dated some, with two serious boyfriends. But there was a slight problem: I liked girls. At least, I began to notice girls more and more and I was increasingly disappointed in the emotional immaturity I found in the boys I dated.
Growing up in a religious part of the country, though, it wasn't easy to explore my interest in the female body. My parents were themselves publicly religious, attending church every week, but they weren't nearly as 'churchy' as many of their friends and neighbors. My mother worked as a state attorney and my father was an athletic coach for a local university. I have an older brother Matt, and other relatives in town.
In high school, I was a good student and decent player on the tennis team. I did volunteer work in the community on behalf of the homeless, and was overall regarded as a good, normal, decent American girl. In my private moments, in my bedroom right before drifting off to sleep, or in the bath with the hot foamy water inching up my body, I let my imagination voyage to territories no one would have thought I explored. But in real life: I let my two boyfriends grope me and take my virginity, and I went off to college in Bloomington a committed, but mostly inexperienced, bisexual.
I was also a committed student, a double-major in French and Art History. My first girl was a friend of my roommate, an outspoken, brilliant brunette with perfect breasts who was from Russia and spoke perfect English with a very slight, very adorable accent. I wanted her to be my girlfriend, my coming-out lover, but she was like the most incorrigible tomcat when it came to sex: she just wanted pussy, not love.
Losing her was painful. I self-medicated through study, taking 21 credits my first semester of my sophomore year, sleeping around with a series of guys, drinking, and eating. The last two pursuits began to take a toll on my body, and my mood. Despite these setbacks, though, I did land my first serious girlfriend, an adorable and endearingly ditzy Asian girl, Bonnie, with soft skin, long thick hair, a round firm ass, and a pussy that got so wet so quickly that it flooded my mouth when I went down on her.
Our relationship was amazing but volatile. Bonnie confessed to sometimes missing men, and my weight gain began to put her off me, which she was too sweet to tell me directly. But her enthusiasm for getting naked with me clearly waned as the spring semester got into ful gear.
So. Depressed, out of shape, unhappy, I decided to leave school for spring break and spend it at home, assessing where my life was, doing some meditation and yoga, staying away from booze and potential lovers, and.....getting into shape.
Remember how I told you that my dad is an athletic coach? Specifically, he's a trainer for several of the college's varsity sports teams. The man knows his stuff, and his equipment. Our basement is a finished, fully-stocked gym. I asked Daddy if he would train me and coach me back into shape. And of course, the sweet man said yes.
He went the extra mile for me, too. Preparing my meals. Working out along with me. Encouraging me and pushing me a little, too. He was supportive - but he could be a mean scold when I acted lik a quitter, pushing the right buttons to keep me at it. "Come on, Kellie, get that ass moving or it'll only be fugly girls for you!"
That's another endearing thing about Daddy. He was the only one in the family who never said a critical word about my dating habits. From the very first inkling of what my sex life consisted of, he was unwavering in his support.
During our workouts, we'd talk about my dating life, and about how I could get Bonnie back. By the end of Spring Break, I hadn't lost much weight, but I felt stronger and more firm and more flexible. The foundation was set, and my workouts could only improve.
I visited home every weekend to continue working out with Daddy. We'd go jogging together and play tennis, and hit the gym downstairs once a day, too. We were jogging together when I asked Daddy why he never got Mom to work out with him; he was such a great coach.
"Well, you know, your mother is a workaholic. Keeping up her fitness stopped becoming a priority once she got this high-powered gig."
We picked up our pace as we ran down a hill - which I felt so much more confident about climbing upon our return loop. It hit me that I was getting into not just good shape - but damn good shape. And moreover, I noticed that my Dad's workout program for me sculpted a body that was feminine and sexy - my ass was super firm, my triceps solid without being muscular, my flexibility was gymnast-quality.
"It's a shame," I said between a couple of hard breaths, "that you're in such amazing shape and your partner is, well... "
Daddy was silent - he just shrugged his shoulders. Which made me study them. So muscular! God, I was checking my dad out. Such a solid guy, though. Stoic, faithful.
"Plus you must get hit on by a lot of coeds," I said, punching his arm, which was like stone.
"Well, naturally," he said, laughing.
The way back up the hill was next, and I didn't know where to go next, so... I focused on my breathing, and on meditating past the burning in my thighs.
* * *
Three weeks later, school was out, Bonnie and I had gotten back together and broke up again, and I was back in the gym, working out hard with Daddy. I was wearing IU running shorts, a white athletic bra, socks and sneakers. Daddy had his shirt off. I couldn't believe how distracting I found his hairy chest, with their fillets of firm muscle.
He was completely innocently asking me about my status with Bonnie. While I was leaning with one knee on a bench doing tricep kickouts, his hands on the small of my back, he said, "You are in crazy good shape, hon. And you're so young!" He said this with a hint of regret in his voice that I found really moving for some reason. Maybe it was because I felt emotionally vulnerable; maybe because this combined with my sympathy for his plight of being stuck in a marriage to a woman who'd grown, well, fat. And grumpy.
"Your butt is perfect, Kellie. I just have to say! Can't you consider dropping Bonnie altogether and date around a little? Explore your world. Date a few people. Find out what you like, what you don't like. There's no way you don't have a million offers."
I put the weight down. I brought my other knee on the bench, and laid my head down on its far end, as though I were really tired. But really I wanted to keep my ass high in the air.
"I know, Daddy. But listen to you talk - we're the same, in a way. Trapped. When's the last time you had sex?"
My dad blushed. "ha! I don't know what sex is. Get up and let's do some crunches," he said, slapping my ass.
"He says as he gropes a 'perfect butt," I joked, as I got down on the mat. Daddy rolled his eyes. He gently kept one hand on my feet and one on the lower part of my tummy as I rolled myself up the way he showed me.
