Balance

“Running’s the warmup,” she argues.

“So, you mean to tell me that everyone here is in on… all of it?” You look over at the group, incredulous.

“Absolutely fucking everyone.”

You’re not entirely incredulous; it’s just hard to grasp. There’s at least twenty people standing in front of you both, most of them couples. She, however, was standing alone.

You hum. Muse. “Do you—” how do you really want to word this? “Are you like—fuck.”

She’s tilting her head, waiting; raises a brow. “Am I a good fuck?”

“Yes, that, actually,” you intone not-so-sarcastically, accepting the opportunity. “But also, are you single?”

“Is this how you hit on women?”

“Everyone’s paired up,” you try. “Who are you swinging with, I guess is what I’m asking.”

“Oh, none of those people. No orgies for me, either.” She takes a swig of her water bottle and begins to stretch: long legs—as long as her small frame allows for—crew socks, and shoes that look like they have not touched pavement until today. Pink runners because she's got chasing a runner's aesthetic, a runner's physique; everyone here is advertising the stamina, apparently. 

“There’s orgies.” You echo.

“Like once a month.” Every other stretch, her large, branded tee raises enough to get a peek at the compression shorts halfway up her slender thighs.

“Sundays after church, or?”

“That’s when we do brunch,” she says. “There’s a mailing list.”

You scoff. “Fuck off.”

You both laugh and stare at the gathered crowd again. They’re stretching, talking, mingling. It’s a group bonding experience, at its most innocent—little to no subtlety, otherwise. Half of them sport rings, the kind that refer to legal status, yet they’re all a little too cordial with one another. You can spot abnormally comfortable touching and greetings and there’s this general familiarity with some groups of four that really does scream that they’re fucking each other’s spouse.

(Perhaps the brunette spilling all the details gave you a biased narrative, but yes, this is how you find out that the neighborhood running club is a front. When were they planning to outright tell you, exactly?)

“So,” you say, “you’re actually here for the running?”

“I told you, that’s the warmup.”

You realize she’s playing a game, that the answer to your previous question is no, and ask openly: “then, who’s going home with you?”

“Stray dogs like me.” The sunrise hits her face with a strong, orange glow. “Like you.”

~~

The coincidence of convenience isn’t lost on you. Her apartment’s on the way back from the jog and her name is Minjeong; she says it through hurried breaths and it has you realizing that it’s a preview for when she’s on your lap, under your figure—a preview for just about every position and preposition you’ll find yourselves trying later.

You take note of the perspiration on her brow, the light sheen, really. Minjeong doesn’t break a sweat all that much. She doesn’t try to. You remember what she kept insisting on earlier: that the whole running club is a front and that the workout’s just the fucking pregame. It’s not like she needs any extra cardio, either. There’s not forty-five kilos on the woman. You surmise that rather quickly as you carry her through the door. 

“Where?” You ask, coming off of her lips, out of breath.

“Living room's got a sofa," she says, like that works for her, a coffee table and an ottoman too. The rug will be as good a spot as any, comes the implication. 

She has her arms wrapped around you since before you unlocked the door, flipping stray, brown locks out of the way as you step in while looking over her shoulder. It’s a spacious place—makes you wonder about rent, because you always do in this economy, before finding yourself in front of her furniture. Kiss her a little longer before deciding: single seater or sectional? She’d look fucking great in either, wouldn’t she? Flipped over—bent over? Folded. Anything.

Minjeong’s thighs softly fill your palms with their pale and svelte figure; it all feels so tight, toned, yet so, so soft. So nice. You get a thought that she might need a warning label, a sticker of sorts, because it feels like you could break her if you drop her on the couch too suddenly. You’d place it just about anywhere, and it’d say handle with care, and you could see yourself pressing it with your thumb onto that smooth skin of hers to make sure it says there through all the fucking she’s about to go through—that it doesn’t flutter off when it gets fast, sweaty, and the thrusting gets a little unkind for a frame like hers.

You get so lost in the possibilities that she has to grip the back of your hair and rip you off of her lips.

"I know what I look like," she says into your mouth, hand at your nape and lips turning cherry-red. Lets the next kiss extend for a delightful too-long and her eyebrows do this really arch thing when she pulls away. “But I didn’t bring you all the way here just to, like, makeout.” 

Flip a figurative coin. Sectional it is.

~~

(You do have to get back to the group after your little detour, but that’s not the reason it’s all in record time. See: you slot in, and it’s heaven—but don’t take your word for it. 

Her eyes roll back like she hasn’t been stretched like that in months. Minjeong’s pretty vocal about it, too, which you’re certainly not getting over until at least next year. “Oh my fucking god,” she’s barely saying, mumbling, all winded. “Don’t stop.”

And you oblige, obey—can’t really tell in which direction authority’s being exercised. It’s tip-to-base. Lethal for both. She’s been placed on nearly every surface that’s remotely hip-height and convenient and you’ll both agree later that the kitchen island’s probably your favorite.)

~~

The club meets at least twice a week, barring any extracurricular activities, and you're already halfway through your first month. 

That’s four times—you’ve had sex with Kim Minjeong four times.

But you’ve met five, today being the latest. She reads an invite from the club’s mailing list and you’re telling her to not say it so damn loudly. You’re at a restaurant; you’re on a date. To be fair, the wording isn’t explicit, but you’re elbow to elbow with other parties—families, couples, the like—laughing at the event’s theme and all of the innuendos.

Over appetizers, she tells you of all the times other couples have attempted to bring her back to theirs, how hot of a commodity she is. The hotshot twenty-five year old in a sea of marriages averaging over a decade her age.

“You like the attention.” You accuse.

“I—ok.” She’s nonplussed. Sits back. “No?”

“It’s vain.”

Her elbow goes on the counter, chin on the heel of her palm. She puffs her right cheek during the internal debate and you figure it’s a habit; confirm it somewhere down the line after you see it enough times. A cute, pensive pout. “It is.”

“Look at me,” you intone, mocking. “Young, pretty, and so unattainable.” And, credit where credit’s due, she does dress gorgeous. It’s the first time you don’t see her in workout-chic. Has this layered button-down under a polo with the sleeves rolled neatly-not above her elbows. There’s not a single piece of jewelry on her and that’s actually quite lovely. The modish simplicity takes you by surprise. There’s no better way to say it: you’re down bad. The sole leather shoulder bag to accessorize makes it feel like you’re the one tied up on the tanning rack, bound—already dead.

“Mmm, no.” She takes a fry off your plate. “I’m very much attainable.”

“To a select few.”

“To a very lucky few.” She reminds you.

“Lucky me.”

“Glad you’re clued in.”