“No. Don’t do that.” I straighten up and tear myself away from him. My
legs are so shaky I fall back against him. Then I stand up straight and
turn off the shower. We towel ourselves dry, then go into the bed room to
complete what we’ve started. In the bedroom, I light a candle and turn
off the lamp as he spreads the spare quilt over the bed. As I turn
around, he takes me by the shoulders to kiss me, and, laughing, I throw
my arms around his waist and pull him onto the bed on top of me. He yelps
as he loses his balance and comes sprawling down in a jumble of arms and
legs. “Hey! Would you mi…” he begins. I shut him up with a kiss.
It’s so good to feel his warm weight on my body and his clean, bare skin
against mine. I savor the feeling, and enjoy a slow, hot kiss as well.

There I was, a 6 foot, 265 pound blob of 40 year old
insecurity and bruised ego, struggling to keep up with the rest
of the aerobics class. Sweat stung my eyes and pain radiated
from my bad knee — neither sensation was particularly noticable
compared to the pounding of my heart and the gasping sounds of my
labored breathing. Pride was the only thing which kept me on my
feet and moving.

I could tell that the instructor was watching me,
waiting for me to collapse — or perhaps trying to figure out
what I was doing in her class. It wasn’t an advanced aerobics
class, but it was more than what a beginner like me should have
been in. I signed up knowing only that I needed some structured
exercise — no one told me what I was getting into, or, more
probably, I wasn’t paying attention. Now, I was too proud to
admit that I was in a little over my head. Yes, the instructor,
a rather nicely put together brunette who appeared to be about 19
or 20, was definitely looking at me.