Luis’ Running Life – A 20-Year-Old Kenyan Runner’s Daily Passion
- xero-one
- 3 days ago
- 3 min read
My name is Luis, I'm 20, and I live in Nairobi. Running is my religion. Every single morning the streets are full of us – young guys in shorts and singlets, pounding the red dirt roads before the sun gets too brutal. Black, white, mixed, doesn't matter – we all share the same rhythm. 15 km, 20 km, sometimes 30 km before breakfast. The air smells like dust and eucalyptus. Legs burning, lungs on fire, smile on my face. Running here isn't a hobby, it's who we are.
The heat makes everyone strip down fast. Tiny split shorts, soaked singlets that stick to every line of the chest and back. After 10 km the sweat is pouring – it runs down spines, collects at the waistband, makes the fabric almost see-through. You can't help but notice how hard everyone has worked for those bodies: tight calves, long hamstrings, round glutes that bounce with every stride. I tell myself I'm just admiring the athletic aesthetic… but sometimes my eyes follow one particular runner a little too long.
At night, when the city is finally quiet, I lie in bed replaying the morning run. One guy in particular – light brown skin, South African exchange student, the most perfect runner's ass I've ever seen. The way his shorts ride up just enough to show the bottom curve when he stretches… I can't unsee it. My hand slips under the sheet almost automatically. I grip myself tight, slow strokes, imagining I'm right behind him on an empty trail, feeling the heat coming off his skin, hearing him breathe hard for a completely different reason.
I've got a secret folder on my phone – artistic shots I collected from running groups all over the continent. Shirtless Kenyans mid-stride, sweat flying off dark skin in the golden sunrise. A pale Zimbabwean guy bending forward, shorts stretched so tight you can trace every muscle. I dim the lights, put lube on my palm, and wrap my fist exactly the way I imagine a hot, tight ass would feel. Slow, deep strokes at first, then faster while I stare at those round, sweaty cheeks. I edge for ages, whispering “fuck, yes” in Swahili until my legs shake and I finally let go, shooting hard across my abs thinking about sliding into one of those perfect runners under the acacia trees.
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