Huh. Well, this is a touch off-putting. You most definitely are looking directly at me right now.
Awkward.
Okay, I know what you must be thinking: "that handsome debauchee in Zubaz over there ducking behind the climbing wall has his erect penis out and appears to be vigorously shimmying his hand(s) in a rhythmic manner while shamelessly leering at me doing mile three on my elliptical."
Sure, I suppose that's one incurious way to look at what is happening. Touche, my elegantly perspiring Dame. Touche.
But Brad? (Note: I'm Brad.) He prefers to cast it as a tender exercise session founded on unilateral respect and adoration between one or more consenting adults likely ending in copious ejaculation.
Or perhaps a polite, well executed spank off extravaganza steeped in enthusiastic artistic appreciation?
How about a venerable, learned creator achieving Bacchanalian gratification while unleashing his hungry eyes upon a lycra-clad, camel-toed muse?
Or even a self-pleasuring impresario locked deep in Man-friction's sacred, warming embrace?
Semantics aside, I was simply tending to nature's sweet itch just as a less lonely and sociopathic gentleman might woo and romance a real lover.
Alright, I'll concede that I could have approached things differently, such as buying a membership to this gym, and wearing shorts over my engorged genitals while engaging in an actual workout near you on the chance that we could meet and then court in a more traditional manner.
But there's very little chance it would have allowed me the freedom to guiltlessly masturbate to your erstwhile blissfully unaware female form.
Oh, okay. You seem to be off somewhere in a bit of a hurry. I should probably be going, myself. Need to hit the grocery store on the way home.
But if it's all the same to you, would you mind leaving that sweaty towel behind? Thanks a load.
Best,
Brad
