The summer vibe was all about intentionality; getting out more, meeting new people and trying new things - which for me, meant… tennis lessons.
I got registered online for classes at the local community centre. In preparation for my new hobby, I purchased a few equipment items from Amazon, next day delivery. Although the program didn’t require participants to bring their own equipment, I wanted to show dedication to the sport, draw a distinction between myself and my fellow classmates.
I showed up to the community centre and confidently walked onto the tennis court, only to be greeted by a group of 6-8 year olds. Turns out, I had accidentally registered myself for a children’s tennis class. How embarrassing?!
I took a deep breath and turned around, heading towards the exit, then I heard you.
A subtle yet stern voice asking if I needed assistance. I glanced in your direction and nearly melted into my brand new tennis shoes.
6’2.
Broad shoulders.
Athletic build.
Hubba hubba, momma needs a glass of milk.
You introduced yourself as the head instructor and insisted that I stay to “learn the basics”.
Begrudgingly, I obliged. How could I say no to that face? Not to mention, your title as “the head instructor” had my imagination running wild. Standing with the rest of my classmates, I overheard one of the little boys ask another, “is that your mom?”.
I was mortified.
But willing to withstand it.
For you.
After class, you asked me to stick around so that you could issue a full refund, disclosing that you offer private lessons and would love to take me on as a student.
I fought back a smile and asked for your hourly rate.
“It’s on the house”, you said, looking me up and down. “I’ve got an open slot tomorrow at 11am in Glendale”, you added.
Sidenote: I LOVE a man with a plan, time, date, and location.
I would be a fool not to take you up on your offer.
The next day, on my way over, I was nervous. A nervousness fuelled by excitement and potential. You complimented my attire and well toned arms. I returned the favour, doting on your eyes, keeping the moment as wholesome as possible.
I picked up the racquet as you stood behind me, adjusting my form. All I could think about was the possibility of being adjusted by you in more ways than one. Gently stepping back, dragging your finger down my tricep and onto my funny bone, the tickle hit a little different *if you catch my drift*.
Watching the sweat drip from your body, I wanted to catch the droplets like rain on the tip of my tongue.
There was no way we were going to get through this lesson! Distraction and desire filled the air around us. You suggested that we go back to your place to restore electrolytes.
Standing at your kitchen island, we gulped down the supplements with an undertone of disgust, but the satisfaction of knowing we were doing our bodies good. Next, you handed me two boiled eggs, I juggled them romantically in one hand as you watched fervently. I shifted over to the cupboards in search of salt and pepper, they were on the top shelf, and despite my 5’7 stature, I could not reach. So you leaned over, your manhood grazing my leg through thin athleisure shorts.
Eager for direction, I slipped my hand into your pocket and asked, “how do you like to be handled?”
“Just like the base of the tennis racquet”, you whispered.
Apparently boiled eggs weren’t the only things being devoured that day.
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