Running with G

My mate G came over to take me jogging.

"I'm just here to help out with your fitness," said G, bouncing on the balls of his feet on the front porch. "Are you smoking again?" Direct hit!

Singlet, hairy chest, white footy shorts, narrow waist, hairy legs, and how he fills out those two squares of white material? You have to see it. Yes, very clever, a Greek boy in small shorts running ahead of me, don't think I'm not awake up to you.

"What was that first question?"

"Just answer it?"

"Um..." it crossed my mind to lie... "Yes."

"Come on, that means we are going to have to run further."

"Um, remind me when did I asked you to do this?"

"What are friends for?"

"That was going to be my next question."

Still, it was a lovely day, the sun was shining the sky blue.

"Couldn't we go bike riding?"

"Bikes are for girls."

"I'm sure all those guys who compete in the Tour de F..."

"Nyr!" He held his hands up kind of like reverse jazz hands, not that he'd know what that was. "You're not in the Tour De France. Let's go."

"No bikes?"

"No fucken bikes!" He starts jogging away from me. He looks back. Cheeky smile. “You faggot.” He starts to sprint away from me.

“You in those shorts is queer bating, let me tell you.” I call out. He slows and wiggles his arse at me. "Nice," I say. I run after him. "You know what I'll be jerking off to tonight."

He looks back at me with pained expression. "Settle down, will ya."

"Don't wiggle it at me then."

"Less yap, more running. Jesus!"

“You love it.”

“In your dreams, Chriso.”