What the fuck is wrong with me?

For some twisted reason, my dick is swelling up in my pants, and I squeeze my legs until the pain makes it stop. I need to get out some of this tension—and fast. Pacing around my apartment is not doing the trick so I grab my bag by the door and skip changing into my workout clothes.

As I leave my apartment, I choose the stairs over the elevator this time—like she did. Why, I don’t know. Maybe for the same reason I’m going down to the gym, because I made her so mad she didn’t know what to do with herself. I hope she doesn’t sleep tonight because of it.

The gym is mine although technically anyone in the building can use it. I’m just the only one who does. Most of these rich assholes either have indoor spin bikes in their apartments or they run on the jogging paths by the water. Either way, I haven’t seen another soul in here in years. So I took the liberty of making some adjustments. A large hanging punching bag hangs in the middle of the room, greeting me with the promise that I can abuse the shit out of it and feel a whole lot better when I leave here.

Quickly, I strip out of the button up shirt until I’m down to nothing but my jeans. Then, I ignore the subtle thud of pain in my skull as I start taking quick punches of the bag. The first few always feel the worst, but I fall into a rhythm after a few strikes.

I think about her taking my aspirin. Walking into my apartment. Choosing to live next to me when she could live anywhere.

I punch the bag thinking about her kissing me all those years ago, fucking up every good thing I thought about her.

I think about the way her bottom lip quivered as I berated her and the way her eyes moistened when I threatened her about Ezra.

I punch the fear in her eyes. The hatred. The regret.

By the time I think about the way she froze in front of the door when I told her to, I’m breathless. Sweat drips from the top of my head, landing on my bare shoulders. My shoulders are crying in pain, and my head is now throbbing.

The tension is still lingering, like it always is, but it’s not as bad as before. It’s enough that I can pick up my shit and head upstairs. Hopefully this will help me sleep tonight because tomorrow I go back to work, which I sorely fucking need.

This little ritual of mine started when I was just a kid, when I had so much angst coursing through my body and no way to let it out that I found serving a good punch was downright therapeutic. Of course back then, I wasn’t using punching bags. I spent a lot of time in detention and threatened to be kicked out of school. My precious mom and dad found this to be typical boy behavior, so they never really punished me for it. It was the other stuff they found repulsive. The more natural parts of being a growing boy that I spent hours repenting for, kneeling on thorns and taking baths so hot my skin blistered.