Some of the genetically gifted boys on the jogging track have to be seen. Thick thighs, solid arses, hairy legs, oh those hairy legs. I think I'm a bit of a legs man - all the way up, thanks. One two, one two. Straight boys bulges, some flop around. The sweat on their singlets, down their chests, the serious looks on their faces. The sheer beauty in their determination, as the sweat drips on their skin.
Tall, lean blond boys. Thick, hairy dark boys.
Yes, I'm taking myself in hand (no, not like that. Well, certainly not on the jogging track, although some of the boys I see might make me want to) and I'm back to riding every second day. I can't be this chubby person any longer. Always happens when I give up smoking, the tummy expands. Good thing it goes just as quick, if I exercise it properly.
Anyway, there are two places I stop at drinking taps to, um, er, drink - under the Punt Road Bridge and up Studley Park Drive. So, I'd just stopped up Studley Park, getting my breath before I had a drink, when this guy in lycra bike pants comes jogging down the hill towards me. Now, I thought boy's dicks shrank when they jogged and I don't know what he was thinking as he jogged down towards me, but I tell you... kind of bent to the right, like an inverted banana. Thick. Bouncing. He leant down for a drink in front of me, as I continued to pant, good legs, I thought, hot arse, before he jogged off, grunting as he went.
Nice, I thought.
I like guys to jog in black, the best, especially in summer, sets off their suntan and muscles. Thick legs, muscled arms. Singlet. Shorts. Sweat. Yum.
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