Date: Wed, 18 Feb 1998 05:38:26 PST
From: BigRed One <redhead_812@hotmail.com>
Subject: Wednesday Morning Regime

Wednesday morning regime
by BigRed One

(This is an incident I experienced. The story has no embellishments, no 
exaggerations.) Would love to hear from guys about this story. 
redhead_812@hotmail.com

	A warm breeze blew across my bedroom from window to window. The hum of 
traffic, ever evident, was only lessened because it was 3:30 a.m., 
Wednesday morning. I stretched my six foot two frame in the bed; my 
heartbeat was already heightened. It was the second day of the week for 
my training; this morning I would run five miles. The pre-dawn running 
regime had grown on me. The quiet streets and city parks that I 
traversed for an hour and one-half, the lessened-but insistent-traffic, 
and the early morning air-cleaner than during the full force of the day, 
had all become beacons, searching for me to join them.
	I got out of bed and began my now automatic routines in preparation for 
the run. I slipped into the thin, parachute nylon running shorts that I 
had torn at the side hems all the way to the elastic waistband. The 
"floating" jock inside had long since been cut out, offering my body 
total freedom of movement. I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on my 
white socks and running shoes. I stood only to lift one leg, then the 
other, onto a nearby chair to begin the ritualistic stretching.

	In the lobby of the ten-story apartment building that I live in, I sat 
on the carpeted floor and continued stretching, before swinging open the 
double glass doors and taking in that first chest full of morning air. 
The slight chill only heightened the tingle that ran from head to toe. I 
began walking, slowly at first, then more deliberately and quicker for 
the first half mile. I also used that time to slowly have my eyes become 
adjusted to the dark, to the streetlights, and to the oncoming 
headlights.
	I quickened my pace to an easy run as I turned the first curve of the 
middle of the three city parks that dotted this thoroughfare through the 
south side of the city. No cars parked along the edge, no one out at all 
save for the occasional passing automobile. The first half of the run 
was the time during which I cleared my mind of mental debris and during 
which the muscles in my 190-pound frame would tighten and become 
accustomed to the three-time-a-week running schedule. The second park I 
circled was always the darkest of the three, and I immediately turned 
back to retrace my steps when I got to its far corner. Before I could 
think much about it, I was back passing by the front door of my 
apartment building, gliding as much as running, sweat falling off my 
forehead, streaming down my back, glistening in the streetlights as it 
beaded up on my red chest hair. A car passed, but slowed as it did.
	This third section of the run was my favorite. The flat terrain of the 
first two parks would quickly be replaced by low, rolling hills; a golf 
course to encircle; wooded and sleepy neighborhood streets; and the 
third park, a dug-out of the earth wonder where I always ended my run to 
warm down and stretch for twenty minutes.
	I always noticed that the traffic seemed to pick up as I simply passed 
the park on my way to the golf course, the hills, and the woods. .  . 
And that time in a long-distance run when those mind-erasing endorphins 
kicked in. Even as the first shade of day light could only be discerned 
at the horizon, the run became darker and darker, tree-lined streets 
made a black tunnel in which to run, in which to lose myself. As I 
neared those isolated and hilly neighborhoods, I really began to feel 
the impact this run had on my body, a feeling that often led me to pause 
but a few seconds and step out of the running shorts. But the run 
continued, virtually unchanged. It was just my body, its Irish-American 
length now streaming sweat from top to bottom and through every curve 
and joint, that changed. As my mind made way for the endorphins, my cock 
jumped to life, becoming half hard, swinging between my legs like a 
four-inch pendulum.
	The breezes in the air and the wind that my running produced seemed to 
envelope every inch of my body, cooling even the pink puckered hole 
between my white, hairless naturally bubbled butt. As I strode through 
the dark streets, looking at the houses-only a few of which even had 
left a nightlight on-I realized that I was high. Floating, it seemed, 
three days a week, on the physicality of the exercise and of my 
ever-muscling and toning body.
	The first visible streetlight brought me back to earth. Another pause, 
and the shorts that I had carried wadded up in one hand, were pulled 
back on to rest low on my hips. I began the hardest section of the run, 
the up and down hills. But with these hills so close to the vicinity of 
the dug out park, I was always entertained by the parade of cars that 
slowly circled and passed in what often seemed an endless stream. Upper 
torsos, darkened inside the vehicles, often peered out at me as they 
passed. I either ignored or simply smiled and nodded at the occasional 
comment.
	Close to the end of the run, I would circle around the park as many 
times as I could, knowing that I would soon slow to a walk, then stop 
and stretch on a park bench. I would then walk back into my apartment 
and luxuriate in a cool, then hot, steaming shower. Each time I circled 
the park it seemed that more cars were parked along the backside, the 
side where the park benches were. But I continued, by now drenched in my 
own sweat, my hair even beaded with drops that flew with each step.
	Slowing to a walk, I circled the park just one last time. "Hmm," I 
thought. "Lots of cars this morning." As I got out of site of the cars 
to finish the lap, I paused one last time and stepped out of the 
wringing wet shorts one more time. I smiled broadly, and to no one in 
particular, as I passed in front of the cars parked along the backside 
of the park, on my way to the park bench where I always stretched and 
warmed down. By now my cock had filled and grown out to its full 
eight-inch length and two-plus inch diameter. It hung angled down 
towards my knees, and literally slapped my thighs as I walked.
	At the bench, I set the shorts on the seat and lifted one leg to the 
top of the seatback, and began this round of stretching. I would often 
pick up the shorts and use them as a rag to wipe my forehead or my face. 
The morning breeze helped cool me down. The air around the park remained 
silent, still, even with five or six occupied cars parked along the way.
	SLAM. I looked up to see a dark figure closing a car door some 500 feet 
away. The figure disappeared into the dug out park. I continued by 
stretching, then sat down on the bench, leaving wet marks with my ample 
ass. I reached down and stroked my fully engorged cock. With no 
forethought or notion, I stood up-shorts in hand-and walked down into 
the park myself. I sat down on the top of a concrete picnic table and 
let my eyes readjust, again, to this darkness. Following several blinks 
and squints, I looked across the park to see the figure shadow standing 
against a tree directly in front of, but a few hundred feet away from, 
me. I got up and walked over to a nearby tree, one that was parallel to 
the one across the way. I assumed the same stance as the figure I could 
see.
	In what I would later describe to friends, and here as well, as a 
mirror performance, the figure exaggeratedly began to remove items of 
clothing, holding each up so I could discern their function, even in 
silhouette. I did not move through the strip show, but knew what was to 
happen when the figure turned profile to exhibit a full hard-on. I 
followed suit.
	Then in a blur of actions and reactions, both figures touched every 
portion of their bodies in turn. A chest fondle, a nipple pinch, a squat 
from the back, a bend over to show off ass cheeks, joined the continual 
manipulation of cocks. He started; I followed. I led; he responded. We 
touched and rubbed and fondled and stroked and watched for a wavy memory 
of a time frame.
	The backdrop of the trees became pivotal as each figure dug its back 
into the protruding bark, arched, then jerked as both of our gazes never 
left the other to see the only "negative" image of the performance: 
white, ropy streams of cum erupting from the darkness. As if to try and 
meet midway, each push and stream inevitably fell short of the goal. The 
goal, however, had been fully met. The silence was punctuated with 
stifled moans.
	With one scoop of a hand and arm, the discarded mound of clothes that 
less than a minute before had seemed superfluous were grasped around the 
figure's chest as he strode up the side of the hill towards the parked 
car. The only view of the figure came in a flash, and then the inside 
car light illuminated his face. The grinding of a starting engine, by 
the shifting of gears, and by rubber tires rolling away quickly followed 
a second slam of the car door.
	Another smile crept across my face. I fumbled around to find my shorts 
for the-what was it, the fourth time?- and strode across the floor of 
the park to the opposite side, rivulets of cum hanging from my piss slit 
and glistening in the now pre-dawn light. Mirroring, for the last time, 
my last few minutes, I took long strides up the side of the park hill to 
street level. 
	Exhilarated, winded, sweaty, and satisfied, I crossed the street 
buck-assed and walked in through the double glass doors of my apartment 
building.
	One last car, this one turning off its headlights in the light, passed 
me. I nodded in its direction. Friday was just one day away.