I dislike exercise. Too much work for my body, too little to engage my mind. Tedious routine, enormous effort for tiny increments of gain, all that work and unfulfilling discomfort, all that time and effort spent pursuing a state which requires constant exertion to maintain. Fitness, in my head, is the very definition of running forever just to stay in the same place, expending energy I need to reserve for just getting through each day, keeping my job, running a household. It’s all just too much work.
And yet… I wish I had the strength in my legs and back to kneel for more than five minutes. There are sex positions I’d like to be able to manage without breaking myself, poses I’d like to hold for taking nudes. I love to dance (despite being pretty rubbish at it) but dare not for fear of dislocating, straining, spraining or tearing. If I had better muscle condition, I could do those things. If I want better muscle condition, it’s going to take Serious Work.
I’ve been carrying more weight than my weak, damaged joints can cope with for too many years, and I’m fed up with the gap between my preferred self-image and my reflection. You’d think that would be enough to get me off my well-padded arse and into the gym or Pilates class, but apparently not. There’s just this big mental gym-horse between my nagging desire to be fitter and the mental strength required to make arrangements, get myself moving, not just once but every single time. I’ve always been shit at PE, so that tall, solid barrier; dull with years of scrambling handprints and carrying a miasma of miserable sweat, has turned into a wall for me to hide behind, slumping, smoking and stuffing my face in teen-sullen rebellion.
I think maybe the only thing that could get me up and moving over the barrier, is if I were being led, firmly but kindly, by collar and leash. I need to rely on a will stronger than my own, patiently inexorable in the face of my excuses and prevarications. Incentives. Rewards. Encouragement.
Maybe I could endure exercise if it were disguised as kink.
I might do sit-ups if, at the top of my arc a hard dick was poised to plunge into my mouth
I could hold a plank for longer and longer, counting along with slaps on my bare arse from a doubled-up belt.
I would – gladly – do squats over a chair-suctioned dildo if I could have my wrists cuffed behind me and occasional tapping from a riding crop to correct my posture.
I’d wear nothing but my collar and willingly perform daily stretches, just for the reward of being assessed, inspected, titillated while doing so.
I’d need help though. Someone to watch, to make sure I was putting enough effort in. To keep me interested, mind engaged, focused on obedience. To counter the drudgery and frustration of working my grinding joints and creaking sinews.
If exercise were an act of submission and devotion, rather than boring, boring, self-maintenance where the timescale of benefits delivered stretches far beyond my gratification threshold; I might have a chance of getting over my hurdles, because kink doesn’t feel like work. Kink is its own reward.