I really should have written about this when it was hot off the press. Albeit late, here we go.
My spinning instructor is really effing sexy. Hot. Droolworthy. The babe to rule them all.
My heart rate is through the roof before I even get on the bike, and after every weekly class, the pool of drool I have to wipe away is a testament to his hotness.
Every week I have a run through of 50 Shades of Naked on the Floor in Spinning Class in my head. It’s amazing.
I’ve never been the kind of girl to have crazy sex fantasies about random guys I meet. Nor have I been the kind of girl to objectify men and reduce them to just a body. (My very proper English girl side can’t even believe I’m writing all this and putting it out there for the world, or at least the blogosphere, to read.) But, that was before I met my samurai.
And the best thing was, he wasn’t just the sex, he was also a sweetheart.
Following a nasty bout of food poisoning, a text from him saying “I’m worried,” had me clutching my smartphone and rolling around in my futon for the next 20 minutes.
This lasted six glorious months – the longest I’ve ever been dedicated to any sort of exercise program at the gym. That is quite a feat on his part.
Sadly, the honeymoon period came to an end, as it inevitably does.
I got bored of spinning eventually, and not even his cute-as-hell bum in those extra tight cycling shorts could make me keep going.
I stopped two months ago and haven’t seen him since. Such is life.
But, I do have some very fond memories of my time in his class.