The Pursuit: Burn

NYC is different. In any city, you lounge on a couch for an afternoon, and this horniness slowly builds from the inside. You are so relaxed that all these horny feelings and thoughts bubble up until they drive you crazy to want some men flesh all around you and inside you. New York on the other hand is so intense. You are constantly being stimulated by a million people in the streets, maniac bicyclist shooting through red lights and into the middle of crowds in blind faith that pedestrians will jump out of their way, and you have maniac work schedules. Your mind is simply raw and you are ready to jump on the next thing. And thus sex happens the same way, an opportunity happens and you jump on it. Before you know it's over, you are already frantically hopping in one pant leg trying to get the other one up because (A) you always wear too tight clothes and (B) the subway is going to have a delay and make you late unless you hustle right now.

The other thing is that NYC is a slut city. I put it out there plain as that. In any city with a surplus of men, women rule the sexual life. They will put the prude rule on everyone. They will lock force their rule onto the men to be chaste. But in NYC, there are three single women for every man. That's intense competition. At least one of those three needs some release and is willing to lower the prude rules. So if the rest want to get any men, they have to follow suit. While in public, we NYC women are dressed well hustle in business suits and sneakers - sneakers because we have to walk a lot and our heels are in our handbags, in private, we fuck relentless like bunnies with multiple guys.

It's plain as that. It's an intensity that not everyone can handle. Many people both men and women quit Manhattan after three years because they can't handle it anymore. They move to the suburb to get a quiet life, sit in their SUVs, and ponder life while they spend it sitting at red traffic lights or plain traffic. Me, I'm still hungry. I finished graduate school about a year ago. I finally make money. I want to kick in some doors, corporate doors that is. I admit that I'm a little excited to wear my black business skirt, my D&G blouse, and the thing that I'm most proud Christian Louboutin heels. Their skinny stiletto pointers lift me up six inches. The platform sole gives me another inch and a half. I'm right there at what I call eye level zone. I talk straight and fierce into your face as I pitch my social media marketing campaigns. However, when I step out of them, I feel naked and helpless like a little girl that doesn't get to sit at the adult table yet. I'm okay kicking them off around my friends, where I feel safe. But otherwise, it scares me. I feel like people won't notice me and don't pay me attention.

I do have a skinny body. I work out hard. When I'm naked in front of my full body mirror in the bathroom that my roommates and I share, I'm contoured. Every muscle - calves, back of the shoulders, abs - is there clear as day. I'm not a body builder bitch. I've got lean, long muscles everywhere. However, being that short and that trim makes me pretty small. The guys in the conference room with their bellies and ill-fitting suits that are at least a size too large take up two or three times the space. And when their frat boy voices boom like they are still drunk from late night drinking, they command attention without saying anything. I've had man say pretty much only "hm, yeah, hm, alright" and the company execs nodded in approval, while I was sitting in a chair that was so much larger than me that I get lost in it. I'd have all the market points researched, but they didn't even hear my voice. They talked over me. And when I yelled to get their attention, they smiled smugly for how chivalrous they were to let the woman in the room talk. I could see on their faces that they were too busy patting themselves on the back for letting the woman speak to not pay attention to me. And they'd go straight back to agreeing to go with that campaign that the doofus had pitched. So yes, those super high Louboutins feel like they lift me into the conversation and are my power platform. They raise me to a level from where I can spew my hard hitting facts, pitches, and counter proposal. When I step out of them, I feel like that teenage girl that I was - girly, cute, and eager to please.

Part of that life style is that I can afford a fancy Equinox membership. They go for $250 per months now. That's how much my roommate share rent was as a grad student to sleep on a couch where my roommates would burst in for about any reason while I slept simply because the couch was in the living room. Anytime one of them needed to shower to go out or even only grab a glass of water from the kitchen, they'd have to pass the sleeping little me, Nicole. But now that I'm working in a fancy Hudson Yards office, I can spend that much money on a gym membership alone.

I love the Pursuit:Burn class. It's intense - just like I like it. An instructor, who has the cred to do so - hard body, hot face, and Bandier yoga pants, yells at us on stationary bikes for an hour to push those peddles harder and harder. I'm a small girl. We are often stepped on. It gives us a strength that makes us crave pressure, even abuse. When I get a massage, I pick the biggest guy I get and tell him to go full pressure with his elbow. That pressure that's pain to others is what gives me the release. It's the same with cycling. I need to fill that all out beating on the pedals. I need to feel my muscles screaming, my lungs exploding like I can't get enough air, and my heart pounding so hard that I can hear it in my ears like the bass drop at a rave party.

There was this one day - and this is where my confession to you reader starts - where my standby location at the High Line was closed. Their plumbing had been toast. They sent out an e-mail to everyone to go to an alternative location. Of course, they sent out the e-mail so late that almost every class was already booked up. You might not know. Equinox classes require advance reservations in their app. Reservation opens 24 hours in advance. Every member sets their alarm to be reserve the class right as it opens because if you wait only five minutes for a popular instructor, it's filled up. That day, I still remember the day. It was a little rainy. It felt like the start of fall. The pavement was dark from wetness, but there was no rain coming down. So that day, there was only a pursuit class with open spots at the Bond Street location. That mean that I had to hustle from the 7 to the R train in the midst of rush hour. Subway rush hour means that my nose will be buried into a finance guys back while a little kid will relentlessly kick me in the heels. Good Lord! But we small women are tough. We can handle it.

I rushed into class. The cycle room was a dark cave with colorful strobe lights to flash when the pace got more intense. The teacher was somewhere up front with her headset. I could barely see her in the darkness and tangle of black body silhouettes in the dark room. It was a good and intense workout. The instructor told us to sit up to do some arm stretches while peddling at a cool down pace. That was my cue. The class packed fifty people. They would all be rushing out and clogging the locker room - forget about finding place in the shower. So I unclipped from the pedals, slid of the bike seat, and slipped out of class. I hurried down the stairs barefoot with my bike shoes in hand. I still vividly remember how I held onto the railing to pull myself around the corners fast.

As usual, I turned right into the locker room. Ah - what a refreshing sight! It was completely empty because everyone was in class. My damn locker, number 157, didn't open. The locker combination locks are often broken. It simply meant that I had to find a locker room attendant with the master key later. There was no time for that now. I ripped the sweaty clothes of my body, sleeves inside out any way they came off, and threw them on a pile on a bench. I quickly walked the stone tiled floor with my bare feet towards the steam room. I grabbed a large white towel from the shelf on the way. I entered the white cloud of steam. I sighed in relief as the heat hit my face. I found a seat on the highest railing to get the most heat burning on my skin.

I sighed again in relief. I had beaten the after class rush. The moisture was collecting on my skin in drops. The tension in my muscles that I had been holding all day in the office began to dissipate. I couldn't see anybody in the thick steam cloud. Those ten minutes in the steam room are literally the only moments in the day when I feel alone. My office has desks packed tightly because Manhattan real estate is so expensive. The subway is like a rat cage. I live in an overcrowded roommate situation to afford the high rents in Tribeca. But here in the steam room, even though people would be sitting right next to me any moment, I felt like I was alone. Alone at last!

The steam room door opened. Based on the foot step sounds, a big fat girl must have walked in. A cold draft touched my feet in an unwanted way. The door opened again. A gaggle of also three rather big, probably more tall than fat, girls walked in. The draft each time was annoying. But I knew we'd soon be at capacity. There was the shuffling of the girls that had to stand. I thought the voice of a girl asking the other to step to the side so that she could step fully in was a little dark. Maybe, she was a comedian. NYC has a thriving comedy scene. Those women don't seem to care but actually relish as coming off rough.

One girl whispered something to another. It sounded very masculine. I don't know why it set me on edge. I usually am fine with butch girls. But my spine felt a razor sharpness. I set up more straight. I was suddenly pins and needles to listen very carefully. There was quiet for a minute. A girl said that something mundane: "I'll head to the shower now." I was startled. I felt frozen. My heart was racing. I told myself to calm the fuck down. It can't be. The voice sounded like a thirty year old man.

I tried to look around but I couldn't even make out hazy silhouettes. All I saw was pure, hazy white. "Fucking feels good," said what I was definitely sure was a man. Terror overcame me. I was in the men's steam room. All around me within literally arm's reach, there were naked men with hopefully towels wrapped around their loins. I freaked out. I tried to hold my breath to keep the squeals in. Oh my god! What if I squealed!? All these men would be searching the steam cloud for the woman hiding among them! I had to be quiet. I pressed my hands on my mouth. I was shaking from adrenaline.

I could visualize the expanse of the locker room, now filled with guys. It was going to be a long walk to get out. It seemed like an insurmountable distance. There were probably a hundred naked guys between me and the women's locker room. I was in the Bond Street location. I had never worked out here before. I had blindly turned right from memory of my Highline location. I had never checked the gender sign on the locker room.

My entire body was covered thick in sweat from holding out in the steam room. I had to make it out for health reasons. I couldn't simply wait it out. The steam room had already lowered to half capacity as the rush of the other pursuit cyclists had left to get changed. How was I supposed to do it? I have long blond hair that goes down to the middle of my back. I have perky boobs from an augmentation surgery that are perfectly round to give me that great cleavage and attention that I had been craving. I was definitely female and could not be mistaken for a boyish man.

I gathered my courage. I slipped down the top bench to the middle bench, and the floor. The floor was wet from the condensed steam. Everything was still white. But as I rested my hand on the metal door handle, I knew that was about to change drastically like thunder and lightning in a moment. I pulled the door open. I came face to face with an Indian guy who had his hair cut more American than Indian. His styled hair was white. His eyes popped into perfect circles. He froze for a moment in horror before he lost his balance and slipped. In a quick reflex, he held on to the towel around his hips to keep it from dropping. He caught himself both from falling and composure as he quickly hurried his way to where the sinks are. I swallowed hard. It felt like my throat was going to constrict to where I couldn't breathe. The after image of his bare shoulder muscles was burned onto my mind. They were medium big, a little fatty but some good muscle underneath. The soft brown skin color looked so rich.

The path to my escape was down the shower hall. Left and right where shower stall with semitransparent glass. I couldn't see anyone naked, but I could make out their bodies - their naked bodies. One guy was washing his penis. Another shower door was partially open. I got a fully naked view of a tight butt and towel rigorously rubbing over a back. All the imagination about all those naked men around me was pummeling my mind.

From here, I had to make a left turn. There was counter space. A guy with long hair and tattoos all over his arms, back, and legs was blow drying his hair. He seemed completely leisurely about it, like he was simply hanging out. Another guy had dropped the towel to his feet. He was completely naked. He was smearing lotion all over his body. His medium sized penis was simply hanging out there so innocently like happiness in the middle of a wild flower meadow. Wow, I was in the middle of a man sanctuary. I had the towel wrapped around me. My eyes were feasting. I saw beautiful biceps. I saw perfected abs. I saw a black guy who looked like a professional athlete. I saw a Jewish guy who looked like one of those religiously dressed guys in the street. I finally got to see one of those naked. He had curly hair on his belly. He decided to struggle to put socks onto his feet before he put his briefs on. There was a lanky Asian guy, who seemed very embarrassed and was struggling to put on his underwear underneath the towel while facing his locker with a slightly blushed face.

Then they started noticing me. It was my time to blush hard. The guy at the sink stopped mid-shave. His head was cocked back so that he could get the razor under his chin. He was wearing a set of silver dog rosa-blanca.ru and little else. He stared at me. His eyes crawled up and down my body from my legs up to pause on my chest under the towel. My mouth must have dropped open as I held my breath. I braced myself from him to yell alarm to his compadres and the whole locker room of men would come at me, the intruder. He looked me directly into the eyes. We both have blue eyes. Then he nodded to me and pulled his lip in a way to signal: "Respect to you. You have balls. I admire it." Then he went back to shaving.

I made it to the first cove of lockers. Guys were busy changing. They were in different states of distress. This one guy was a business man with his top bare. He sharply hit his elbow into his body next to him, who was already down to pulling on his white socks. Both looked straight at me. They leered. I could tell that they were afraid of me but viciously soaked up all the images of me and would use it for a beat fest in bed later that night. Both of them caused, the young guy with the runner body to turn around as well to see what they were looking at. The whole group of five men were staring at me. There was a bit of surprise, but mostly they looked at me with hunger. I felt like I was walking past a pride of lions who wanted to devour me. But they knew that me, the gazelle, was at a safe distance and would easily outrun them. But they still feasted on my body. Me being in their locker room, they felt unabashed about staring at me. I could tell who the foot fetishist, leg lover, and boob man was. I held my head high and kept walking.

The next locker room cove was mine. My sweat soaked clothes were still in a pile on the bench. My panties were right on top. The guys must have wondered. There was a guy who looked like your happy bear IT guy buttoning his shirt up. Another guy was rushing to get his workout clothes off. He was struggling hunched over because the wet t-shirt clung to his back. A sudden burst of devil overcame me. I had the urge to help him out - simply to see his surprised face. I dunno. Maybe, it was being so close to the exit that I started feeling bold.

I squeezed myself past the two guys as if it were nothing. I do have an exhibitionist streak. And I told you how New Yorkers snap to the attention. I let the towel drop down like it was normal. I was stark naked. My boob orbs were grazing the locker room air - a mix of man sweat, eau de cologne, and eucalyptus air freshener. My clean shaved pussy was on display. My butt was there to be checked out. I felt and to this day feel very proud of my body. I stood there with perfect posture.

I grabbed my sweaty panties and rolled them back on. Yuck! My bra was cold and clamy. I had to go through with it now. Right as I was reaching back to clasp my bra, a locker room attendant pushed a cart with towels past my locker cove. He stopped in his tracks and stared straight at me with a little anger in his voice. "Miss, are you a woman?" he asked me.

I froze. Were they going to kick me out and cancel my membership? I hadn't thought about the consequences beyond the humiliation and becoming jerk off material, both of which I secretly enjoy. I hadn't prepared what to say. I had been so focused on getting through quietly.

The guy in shiny black leather shoes, who looked like a lawyer with his tie, turned to the locker room attendant and told with a quiet yet booming sound. I so admire how man have huge chests that can let out these sounds that seem low but carry through the whole room. I remember the words punctuated individually. "You can get fired on the spot for questioning the gender identity of a customer."

Everyone turned around to look at me still in my thong holding my bra snaps behind my back and the locker room attendant. He seemed like a friendly guy. He didn't seem to work out. He seemed to need the job and definitely had a different lifestyle than any of us working out here. More men came from the rest of the locker room. They craned their heads around the lockers to see what was happening.

The locker room attendant was feverishly thinking about what to do. The lawyer type quietly stared him down with a certainty like anything the locker room attendant would say, he would job off with words sharp as steal. The locker room attendant blushed for words: "I'm sorry, ma'am... mister?"

"Simply use 'they' as a pronoun," said the lawyer type calmly.

"I apologize to them," said the locker room attendant looking at the dirty towels on the floor. I could tell that he was very happy to push his cart away from the scene.

With that, everyone turned around and went back to disrobing, getting dressed, or smearing lotion over their bodies. It was like I had been accepted into the pack. I was a little surprised. And I felt this rush of pride, to be one of them, to be an upstanding member of the group. I had held my body at a perfect posture to cover my fear. But now I could feel myself standing taller from the inside up. I slipped back into my shorts. I took a last look around the locker room to soak in the men penises, chests, legs, butts, and the wild variety of body shapes, skin colors, and personality in their faces. Then I stepped out into neutral territory and into the women's locker room.

The way how it felt to be so exposed still gives me the feelings that I need to flick my bean after a rushed night. The exposed and naked feeling. The fear of being deep in man territory. The opulent views of naked male bodies. The smell of the place. The range of emotions that I went through. My daring towel drop to expose myself. The terror of being caught. The strange elation of feeling like being part of the man pack - different but one of them. All of that is such a rich horny stimulation for when I quietly circle my clit without rousing attention from my roommates at night.