I cried and cried and he was just dad, looked after me, never judged, there for me as he’d always been. ~~~ So there I was, single again. A few months later the tenant left the flat that I’d rented out when I’d moved in with Olivia and, needless to say, my time was occupied in cleaning it, painting, mending. The tenant hadn’t been bad but people don’t look after rented properties as owner-occupiers do and I enjoyed the physical work, the catharsis. I had financial independence, thanks to a wealthy and loving grandmother, which meant I didn’t have to work so I could indulge my attempts at writing for the theatre and I fitted this in between painting rooms, refurbishing the flat, tidying my secluded garden. I barely wore a skirt for six months and was somehow sorry when it was all done. I threw away clothes ruined with paint, torn by saws and screwdrivers and indulged myself shopping for a new wardrobe, my ‘after Livi’ wardrobe. And fuck her. My maxim was if I saw something I knew. I do admire a fit woman in Lycra particularly when you can just make out the line of their vagina or the hard nipple that gives its position away occasionally fulfilling the shape of her breasts you had imagined in your mind’s eye, all of which makes me hot under the collar and very horny. I also admire a fit man and didn’t realise just how much till I caught myself staring at the shape of a guy’s cock through his white Lycra shorts. I was sat down doing bicep curls in my usual vantage point where I can see most of the floor area when he started warming up in front of me. I could see the clear definition of his phallus shaft along with the shape of his gland and tight sack which all moved from side to side with the rhythm of his movement. I realised I was staring and tried to tare my gaze away and it wasn’t until I noticed he was looking at me staring at his cock that I put my weight down and left to go the men’s room. When I entered I could see the changing area was empty and I.
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