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But as each day passed, I thought about it less. Nothing was happening at home either, still no intimacy. So cycling became my new sex, and my two wheels were my lover. Together we traveled on our journey each day. And sex itself became a fond memory.August 14 , 2010. A Saturday morning. The sun rose and I arose too. No need to shower before I rode, since I’d work up a good sweat in a couple of miles anyway. Brushed my teeth and put on my gear. A red cycling jersey that made my upper body look defined, even though the truth is that I had a bit of a belly still, though much less than when I started a few months before. Cycling shoes to clip on to the pedals. A helmet. My shades. Cycling gloves. A water bottle.Oh, and the shorts. Those wonderfully stretchy black shorts. With the padding inside for your butt. The ones you wear commando, since the padding is absorbent. And since they are stretchy, and since you are commando, not much is left to the imagination, especially when. Just like everybody else, one who would choose to assuage his urges in any manner he could. Sharp disappointment speared her.As the cloying odour dissipated, she turned to the other side and made herself fall asleep.Samuel threw his shirt at the furthest corner of his chamber, eager to get rid of the stench clinging to it. And sat on the bed while his large hands rubbed his face and spiked his hair.He should not have set his foot in that place. That he did filled him with disgust and loathe. Guilt ripped him apart, for the defeated women he met there and for the sense of betrayal to his inner wishes. He wanted not a nameless woman, not a harlot, not a clan lass, not a debutante. He exclusively craved Harriet, only her.Never would he cheat himself, his feelings again. Never. Or come so close to it. The moment Amelie touched him, revulsion took over poignantly. Not for her specifically, but for her not being whom he dreamed. The very opposite to arousal had erupted in his guts. His.
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