My love life had been a disaster for the past year, but I didn’t want to sit around moping and brooding. I’ve always been a physical person, so I decided to run off my frustration.

I was a fit woman in my mid-20s with a lot of pent-up energy, and I poured all that into my run. There was a forest strip along the edge of town with a popular jogging path, and I hit that like a demon. The slap of my feet, the piston-like rhythm of my arms, the coursing of sweat like I was releasing bodily poisons — all that was clearing my mind and spirit. It also gave me time to think.

I came to a simple, stark conclusion: I was sick of relationships, or maybe it was just the concept of love. I’d had — in the preceding year and a half — six different serious boyfriends. Bona fide committed relationships with guys I, at some point, started to think might be THE ONE.

But each affair fell apart. Once, I’d caught the guy in question cheating. With others, there was some incompatibility that cropped up after a few weeks of seemingly blissful romance.

At long last, though, I was in a place where I could give up trying. For a while, at least.

I ran the long path — packed dirt underfoot, tree branches above — exerting myself in healthy, mindless physical activity.

On the fourth day of my new running regimen, I looked up and saw a man in running shorts and a sweatshirt just ahead of me. Mechanically, I noted his technique. He kept a steady pace, knees and elbows moving at a good tempo. He certainly looked in good shape from behind. And yes, I took note of the firm ass on him, but it was like I was admiring a sculpture with passing interest.

It was actually something of a relief not to get the automatic hots for a random guy. Nonetheless, I put on a little more speed, slowly catching up to him. I liked the camaraderie of joggers and sprinters on that trail, especially since it was little more than nods and smiles — and certainly no flirtations.

Because I was done with flirting, right?

I came up alongside the guy, whose athletic legs and build I was now also admiring. But still just in the abstract. He was nothing more than a fellow runner.

He glanced over, and I saw, in a sidelong casual way, that he had very handsome features. The shine of sweat on his face and forehead did nothing to detract from his general attractiveness. Some women might have even found that sexy.

He gave me a nod, and I returned it. That was all the introductions needed for us to continue on running side by side.

Our sneaker-shod feet struck the ground in sync. We were even breathing with same deep cadence. I looked over at him again, more than a glance this time, and he flashed me a smile. I gave him back one of my own, feeling a tingling zipping through me. If I didn’t know better, I would have said my pussy was getting slick with rising desire.

I told myself not to mistake my accelerated heart rate for anything more than the normal effects of my workout. I sought the zoned-out trance that came with running for mile after mile.

We came to an open area where a small parking lot abutted the trail. He came to a halt. I slowed, then stopped, looking back as if we were actual running partners and not two people who hadn’t said a word to each other.

“Giving up?” I asked.

He palmed his forehead, panting as he said, “That’s my car there. This is the end of my run.”

I’d parked at the other end of the trail. I must have caught up to him as he was doubling back to his vehicle.

This, then, was supposed to be our meet-cute, according to those romantic books and movies. Anytime in the previous year-plus I would have made some tentative flirtatious overture, maybe even asked him out on a date.

But I was done with that. Yet, there was no denying the physical desire swelling within me. He was a fine-looking man, and my body was making its needs known.

The stranger was still gazing at me. I thought I saw a growing glaze of lust in his eyes. Finally, he said, “So, you want to come back to my place? I find you very attractive. No strings.”

They weren’t words I was used to hearing. I have to admit I was shocked — by both his blunt proposal and my reaction.

I realized he wasn’t denigrating me. The look on his face was honest and open, and I sensed somehow that he, too, was one of the romantically walking wounded, that he’d had enough of the game. He only wanted to score.

I didn’t see anything wrong with that.

“Let’s do it,” I said.

As he drove us wordlessly to his apartment, excitement grew in me. Part of me couldn’t believe what I was doing, but a bigger part was awash in lust. The notion of romance left me as nauseous as before. But the thought of a serious fuck lit me on fire. I realized it had been too long since I’d simply gotten laid.

Once we were past his front door, he unceremoniously peeled off his sweatshirt and dropped it to the floor. His running shorts followed, and his half-hard cock dangled before him. He jerked his head for me to follow him.

I let myself be led into his bedroom. He turned and shot me an impatient look. That was my cue to undress, too. If this was something I genuinely wished to do, that is. And it sure was.

I dropped my sweat-dampened togs on his rug. My nipples were hard points, and my pussy was definitely slick with anticipation.

He came to me, and we pulled each other into a mutual, mauling embrace. His hands moved over me, and I found myself groping him unabashedly, ignoring all traditional preliminaries. I squeezed his ass and caressed his nice pecs. He cupped my breasts in his hands. I liked the strength of him.

His cock stood up fully stiff. I took him in my grip, and he grunted. It was an animalistic sound. I pumped him, feeling his shaft throb.

It was a completely primal moment. We were just two people who wanted to fuck, who weren’t in the mood for romance. We were both raring to cut to the fucking chase already!

We were right next to the bed, but he pushed me toward the wall, turning me away from him. I followed his lead; it was like we were dancing. I faced the wall, bracing my palms against it. Brazenly, I stuck out my ass and his growl of approval fired me up.

Soon, his hands were on my butt, parting my cheeks. He nudged the length of his cock into the valley of my ass and started rubbing up and down between my cheeks. The sensation was strangely arousing, and my pussy dripped. I felt him shifting behind me and heard him planting his feet.

His upper thighs moved against the backs of mine. Then the probing crown of his cock was sliding against my wet pussy lips from behind. With a growl of my own, I rocked back onto him, taking his rod inside me. He thrust upward as I reared back and energetically impaled myself on his glorious cock.

Pleasure radiated through me. His palms caressed me and settled on my hips, his fingers clutching me tightly. His erratic breath warmed my nape as he began stroking into me. He fucked me from behind as we stood there together, locked like two rutting beasts.

His upward plunges were nicely forceful. As I rocked my body, I also kept my ass thrust out, allowing him to penetrate me as deeply as possible. I gasped against the wallpaper. My body bucked, and the rhythmic smacks of his sweaty body against mine were a sweet music. Fuck, I’d needed this!

A blossoming joy swelled within me. It was a deep pleasure, down at the molecular level maybe. It spread through my body, igniting my nerve endings. It was all the carnal happiness I’d ever gotten from any of my slew of recent boyfriends. But it was without any of the tangles, the negotiations, the miscues. This was pure, mainlined sex!

He fucked me harder, faster. He was carrying me rapidly toward my ultimate ecstasy. My fingernails scratched at the wall, my mouth opening on a ragged cry that rose higher and higher.

My climax made me writhe wildly. At the same instant, he speared me deep, released a howl of his own and jetted his come into me. I felt every urgent hot spurt, and it added to my cresting elation.

Afterward, he staggered back to the bed and sat on the mattress. I turned to him with a grin on my face. I padded toward him, taking in the sight of his postcoital stupor. He looked up and grinned back.

I knelt on the rug before him, feeling bold and mischievous. His dick lay half-limp against his thigh. I took his cock in my hand, cradling him gently and noting how slick my juices had left him. I played with his shaft, letting my thumb trail over his length. Slowly, his rod stirred, reawakening at my touch.

To help him along, I lowered my head and sucked him into my mouth. He made a soft, appreciative murmur. I tasted his jizz and my own pussy juice. I swirled my tongue over him, and he swelled ever further. I was bobbing my head up and down, and soon he was fully hard again, with groans coming from deep in his throat.

I lifted my mouth off him, then climbed onto his lap. He was still sitting on the edge of the mattress, and that suited me. I lowered my pussy onto his rampant cock, wrapping my arms across his shoulders and planting my knees on either side of him.

This time, I took control. I rode up and down on his cock, choosing the tempo I desired. I started slow, then rapidly increased speed as my renewed passion spurred me on. I bounced wildly in his lap as he thrust up into me.

I slammed down on him, and a second wicked climax rattled me. I felt him racing along with me, like we were still on the path. Ecstasy continued to tear through me, and with another groan he shot more spunk up into me.

We never traded names or kissed. We weren’t in this for the long run. And that was perfect for me.