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Training Tristan Ch. 01

By: nageren



With much gratitude to GaiusPetronius for editing my work. The final product is always more readable!





I leaned over the counter, putting all my weight on my hands. Deep breaths, girl. Deeeep breaths. I looked down and saw the plate I had been carrying: thank God I hadn't dropped it. With one more deep breath, I picked up the plate, set it on the ledge and shouted, "Moira! Special 58!"

 From off in the distance I heard a faint "Thank you!" Turning around I walked back into the heart of the kitchen. I walked over to the array of sauce pans where Steve was mixing up a few different concoctions at the same time.

 "What the hell just happened?" I mumbled, stirring a few of the sauces to check their consistency. 

 "Busboy dropped a whole tray full of silverware on his way to the dishwasher," Steve muttered back.

 "Was I out long?"

 "Didn't notice, so probably not," he said, giving me a weak smile. "Where's you go, anyway?"

 Looking up at the scribbled notes from servers, I tried to decipher the next one. Sooner or later we'd have to get a digital system – most customer complaints could be traced back to an illegible word that the cook tried to guess. "Nowhere, really," I answered, squinting at something Gina had written. "Just spaced out." How do you explain to someone who's never been there what it's like to suddenly find yourself in the middle of a gunfight in the desert? I wasn't really there, of course, but for a few seconds my mind was there, and my emotions. All it took was a loud noise from behind.

 "Mona, you're not the spacing out type," Steve objected. "But whatever. It's your business what you tell people." Then he grabbed some mitts and moved one of the sauces to the side.

 Glad for the chance to move away from the topic, I took an interest in saucepans. "What is that orange one?" I asked. "I don't think I've ever seen that before. You're not getting all creative on me, are you?"

 "I don't get creative in the kitchen, Mona, you know that," he said distantly. Then looking up he explained, "Macy wants to make this a special for the next month, sort of a fall harvest theme. She hasn't told you yet?"

 "I haven't seen her in a week; we're working opposite shifts right now. Set aside a bite or two for me, OK?"

 "Ten-four, sarge," Steve said with a mock salute.

 "You OK for a few minutes?" I asked, halfway to the back door.

 "Yeah, yeah... I got it," he said, waving me off.

 I walked out the back door, stepped to the side to let the door shut, and leaned back against the stone wall. It was cold out, but the chill felt refreshing after a few hours in the kitchen. My fingers twitched and fidgeted. I tapped my foot and bit my lip. Damn, I wanted a smoke so bad! The doc had actually said smoking was probably helpful for dealing with the memories. The flashbacks. The short blackouts. The panic. 

 But I only smoked in the army. That's when I started and that's when it ended. I had felt like an outsider not grabbing one whenever they passed around a pack. That was probably my one big regret. The tattoos I had chosen for myself. Enlisting was my choice, too. The three guys I had taken to bed over the past eight years had all been my choice. But the cigarettes... That was a time I had caved in to someone else's opinion of what I should do, and I despised it.

 And yet I still wanted a smoke. 

 After a few minutes, it got better. Lizzy, the front manager, came out for her smoke break. She was considerate enough to stand about ten yards away as she lit up. After a few puffs, and just as I pushed away from the wall to head in, she said, "Got a new server... Starts tomorrow." Lizzy smiled at me in a way that meant there was more to her statement than what she'd said.

 "So?" Lizzy didn't bother me. We couldn't be more different, but she didn't bother me. I worked had at keeping my army body – solid, toned, and lean. Lizzy was tall and heavy and avoided activity. I was black, single, and in my late 20's. Lizzy was white, married, and in her 40's. But what made Lizzy OK in my book was that she was straightforward. She didn't give or take any bullshit. What you saw was what you got.

 "He's hot. Young, built, sexy, and hot." She was practically drooling.

 "What's it to you?" I chuckled. "You make sure we know how happy Hudson keeps you. Shit, girl, I could make money selling your stories."

 "Not for me, Mona... For you. Or somebody. I wanna have him vicariously through one of you." Her eyes gazed dreamily into space.

 I looked down the alley and crossed my arms. The cold wasn't feeling so good anymore. "Moira needs to get laid," I said, "or Gina."

 "Moira's got a boyfriend out of town. Maybe Gina..." she said, considering the idea. Then she shook her head and concluded, "but you know she doesn't really socialize."

 "Well, don't look at me."

 "I'm serious, Mona. He's the finest piece of sexy man meat I've seen walk through these doors. And he's got these blue-gray eyes that just... smolder."

 I put my hand on the door and said, "I'll let you and your imagination have some time alone."

 "Tristan!" She shouted after me. "His name is Tristan!"





******* 





I got my head back in the game and finished up the night without incident. Macy's new dish was delicious, though I added a little cilantro to the batch I made after Steve showed me what to do. I stayed until closing, made sure the clean-up crew was all set, then headed out to the cold night air. I leaned against my car and pulled out my phone. I looked at the list of names and gave it some thought. I had too much energy to just go home, and I was antsy. I found a name and hit the call button.

 "Hey Mo," a deep, friendly voice answered.

 "Hey Rollo, did I wake you?"

 "Nah. Can't sleep. You?"

 "Same. Can I come over?"

 "Of course."

 "You got a girl there?"

 He chuckled. "Nah."

 "See you soon," I said, then hung up. I got in my car and started it up. Rollo was the only army buddy I had in the area. I felt bad using him as a booty call, but I'd always been clear it was nothing more than that. Well, we were friends, too. Rollo was the sweetest guy. Half-Samoan, half Russian, he had this round, boyish face. Under strict discipline in the military, his body shaped up into a solid mountain of warrior. But in the two years since he'd gotten out, he'd gone soft and a little chubby. Genetics, I knew. He'd have to be running five miles a day to keep the weight off. But we didn't call him Rollo because of his roundness. We called him Rollo because, like the ad said, he was a whole roll of smiles. It worked out well that his real name was Roland. But I couldn't see anyone ever calling him that.

 We'd hooked up shortly after we got back to the States. Both of us were hurting, both us of had no community, and both of us needed to get laid. We'd met up again a few times since then, usually when I was stressed out and wanted to blow off some steam. And having a couple of flashbacks over the past few days was enough to stress me out. It was either cigarettes or sex. I wasn't going to pick up a nasty habit again just to numb myself, so off to Rollo's I went.





******* 





What bothered me about Rollo was that he just did whatever he was told. It made for a good vigorous fucking every now and then, as long as I asked for that specifically, but there was no heart behind it. He was made for the military, really. He just went along with whatever he was supposed to do. In bed, I could tell him just what to do, just what would get me off, and he would do it. But a girl doesn't want that every time. A girl wants a guy who wants her and who sometimes needs to tell her what to do. At least that's what this girl wanted. A partner, not a plaything.

 But until something better came along, I was content to use Rollo's body every other month or so, and he never complained. He wasn't complaining while he lay back and watched me ride him. I tried not to look at his face. He wasn't ugly or anything, but he would usually get this silly grin just watching my breasts bounce around. His thick hands gripped my waist but didn't guide my movements. He just wanted to touch something while I was working. I liked the feeling of calloused, heavy hands holding my body, and I wanted him to start pulling me down onto him. I wanted his strength to take over and guide me to my peak, knowing that he was delighting in my body.

 But that wasn't Rollo. He relaxed and enjoyed the show. I closed my eyes and imagined someone different. Maybe a spicy Latino lover, a passionate, sexy, aggressive man who would smile confidently, knowing what he was doing to me. Oh yeah, that would be nice. I kept my eyes closed and leaned over, shivering when I felt my nipples press against the chest of the man beneath me. I moved my shoulders, rubbing my breasts into the patch of hair on his chest. The light tickles and scratches gave me the chills and I sped up my hips.

 Rollo couldn't go deep, but he was thick. And with just the right angle, I could rub my clit around the mound of his pubic bone. I heard his breathing speed up – he didn't have much time left. Didn't matter: my imaginary lover was pushing me up to the edge. I pictured him liftinging his head up to my ear and whispering, "Cum for me, baby." I must have whispered it out loud as I imagined it, because Rollo grunted, "OK," and started thrusting up vigorously. 

 I whimpered... So close... so ready... so close...

 Rollo grunted and pushed as far up into me as he could. He groaned, filling the condom with pulse after pulse of his cum. Thankfully, when he held himself up like that, it gave me just the right position to grind myself to the end. He was just relaxing when I started clenching around his cock. I smacked a hand onto the bed and shouted. 

 "Fuuuuaaaahhhhhhk!" I dropped my weight onto Rollo, knowing he would barely notice it. The sound of his heavy breathing distantly registered in my ears past the ringing and throbbing of my own release. "Touch me," I managed to gasp, urging Rollo to do something. He moved his hands onto my back, slowly tracing them along my spine. I shivered and groaned in appreciation. This was way better than a smoke.

 I rolled onto my back and lay next to him for a few minutes, enjoying the afterglow. I had no desire to stick around much longer – it was late and I wanted to sleep in my own bed. Rollo was still and quiet, and I wondered if he had dozed off. But when I finally sat up and swung my feet over the edge of the bed, he said, "Hey Mo, there's this girl I'm starting to see."

 I froze for a second, not because I was jealous but because I didn't want to be some secret fling on the side. "You're not cheating on her, are you?"

 He laughed a little, "Nah. We just hung out a few times. It's nothing official yet. But I like her, and I think she likes me, too."

 "Really? Why do you think that?"

 "Well, she tries to sit near me when we hang out, and her eyes... Mo, her eyes just sparkle when we talk. She doesn't sparkle like that with other guys."

 I smiled, pulling a shirt over my head. He was smitten. "Well, good for you, man. I hope it works out. You know we can't do this if you and her..." I didn't finish my thought. He knew what I meant.

 "I know, Mo. That's why I'm telling you now. I'm gonna ask her out next weekend."

 "What's she like?"

 "She's like a little pixie – always hopping around. She moves fast and she laughs a lot. She loves to dance, and..."

 "I meant what does she look like, but I'm glad you answered that way. It makes me think you really like her."

 "I do, Mo. She's wonderful." He was still on his bed, looking up at the ceiling.

 "Well, bring her by Jackal's some time. I'll make sure dinner's good. But the rest of the date would be up to you."

 "Thanks, Mo."

 "Don't mention it. Hey, I'm gonna use your toilet then head out, alright?"

 "Yeah, that's fine. I'm gonna make a sandwich. You want one for the road?"

 "I'm good, thanks," I said, heading down his hallway. I shouted goodbye once I was on his porch, and I heard a full mouth yell something like, "See you later."

 I drove home, speeding down the almost abandoned starlit highway. I thought (correctly, it turned out) that I probably wouldn't be hooking up with Rollo again. Oh well. I could live without sex for a while, and maybe someone else would come along soon. Maybe I needed to start keeping my eyes open.





******* 





Late the next afternoon, I was prepping some dishes for the dinner rush when Lizzy walked into the kitchen. Right behind her was a new guy. I could only assume he was the one Lizzy had told me about. Trent? Terry? Didn't matter. Lizzy was right: he was hot. I guessed he was in his early 20's, maybe in college or just out of it. His body was perfect: broad shoulders angling down to a narrow waist, tight butt, solid arms, smooth face, short black hair with a little curl on top, and those eyes that just made you want to stare. Thank God he didn't notice me looking at him; he was scoping out the rest of the crew and hadn't seen me past the pots dangling from the ceiling.

 I heard Lizzy giving her usual spiel about being nice to the kitchen crew because we had ways of making servers lose tips. Macy was working that evening – the first time our schedules had overlapped in a few weeks – and she leaned towards me and mumbled, "I don't think he's going to have any problem with tips."

 "Especially if they give him the middle-age ladies," I muttered back.

 Macy giggled and said, "Like me?" She was so sweet and playful that I would forget that she was a good bit older than me. I stuttered a bit, not sure how to answer, but Macy said, "It's OK. I might be married, but I can still appreciate some eye candy."

 "That's probably all he is," I said, mostly to myself. 

 Just then Lizzy raised her voice and said, "Hey guys, this is our new server, Tristan. This is his first time as a server, so go easy on him, alright?"

 "Hell with that, Lizzy," I shouted, moving towards the fridge. "Only the strong survive!" As I spoke, I made eye contact with Tristan, who slowly gave me the cockiest, most self-assured smile I had ever seen. Then he winked at me. Oh God, this guy just reeked of sleazeball. Too bad he had the looks to get away with it. I rolled my eyes and went back to chopping.

 "You'll have to excuse Mona," I heard Lizzy saying as they walked away. "She's really a great girl, but she can come off as a bit abrasive."

 "I think he likes you," Macy teased me in a sing-song voice.

 "I bet he likes anything young and curvy," I replied. "I'm not interested in that type."

 "I know," Macy said, washing her hands, "And good for you. Don't ever settle for an asshole. There are some really good guys out there, and you tend to find them when you aren't even looking."

 "Well, maybe you just lucked out," I said, knowing that her husband really was one of the good guys.

 "Not at first," she grimaced, shaking her hands dry. "I was married to the king of the assholes for a while. Ernst was my second chance."

 "Hm," I grunted, not sure if I had already heard about her first husband. "Did you know he was an asshole when you married him?"

 "I was too young to know any better. The signs were all there, I just hadn't known anything different."

 "Macy, if you ever see me ignoring the signs, hit me with this pan," I said, holding up the wok I was about to use. Macy laughed and headed back to the freezer. Most people would call her cute. Her dark red hair had to be tied up at work, but when she let it loose, it flowed down her back. She was curvy with a little extra in the middle, and her white face seemed to glow. I knew she had at least three kids, maybe four, and yet she seemed to have so much energy. She was probably in her late 30's, so she was like a mom or older sister to most of us. Aside from the general manager and Lizzy, almost everyone else at Jackal's was in their early to mid-20's. Technically, Macy was training me as a chef. In reality, she was teaching me a lot more about life than about cooking.





******* 





A few days later, I was taking inventory in the fridge. I stepped out to ask Macy if she had any cilantro on order. She chided me for using too much of the stuff, then told me no, she hadn't ordered any. When I turned around to head back into the fridge, I almost walked right into him. Tristan was leaning against the walk-in fridge, hands in his pocket and a smirk on his face. 

 "Hey," he said, half-nodding his head in greeting. "You're Mona?"

 "Yeah," I said, "and you're in my way." He stepped to the side and let me open the door. 

 I was hoping he'd walk away, but instead I heard him say behind me, "So, Mona... how 'bout you give me a chance to really make you moan-ah?"

 I froze in my tracks. Oh God, that was awful. A half-dozen snarky responses came to mind. But then I did something really mean. I laughed. It wasn't a playful laugh, either. I turned around and had to lean back against the doorframe just to keep myself from falling. I laughed loudly, drawing attention to our conversation.

 "Did you really just say that?" I asked, louder than I needed to. I wanted to embarrass him. Tristan just looked around a little awkwardly, trying not to seem flustered. "Have you been working on that line since you got here?"

 "Hey, I'm just making conversation," he said defensively.

 "That's not conversation," I countered.

 Tristan's face went from white to red, and he held up his hands. "Whoa, whoa, whoa... I'm just... I didn't mean..." Nobody was watching anymore, except Macy, who was shaking her head and smiling. She could tell it wasn't a problem.

 I wasn't really angry, but this was fun. So I pressed the point, feigning agitation. "You didn't mean to walk up to me and make a blatantly sexual pun on my name? Did you tell Moira you'd have her 'begging for more-ah'?"

 Holy shit! I could tell from the look on his face and the way all the color drained away that he had already done exactly that. Not that Moira would care. She would tease and flirt right back but would never cheat on her boyfriend. 

 Tristan composed himself, took a step towards me, thought better of it and stepped back, then said in a hushed tone, "I'm sorry. Please... I'm sorry. That's just... It's just how I'm used to talking to girls. I don't mean to harass anyone."

 "Mmm-HM," I nodded, not wanting to let him off the hook so quickly. "Well around here, you need to know you're talking to women, not girls. And what you just did is not talking to, it's talking at. Show me respect and treat me like a person with dignity or else keep your distance. You got that?" 

 For a moment, it seemed like a real human emerged. Tristan relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief. "You're right," he said softly. "I'm really sorry." He paused like he was ready to say more, but instead he just backed up and walked back to the dining area.

 I went into the fridge and finished up my inventory. When I came back out and was starting to mix some sauces next to Macy, she said, "I didn't hear the last part of that conversation, but he sure walked out of here with his tail between his legs."

 "I was truthful and I was gentle," I replied, referring to two of Macy's three standards of when to speak and when to keep your trap shut. "And time will tell if it was helpful," I added, bringing up her third standard.

 Macy answered with only a general "hmmm..." and went on to talk about our specials for the night. My conversation with Tristan occupied my thoughts more than I wanted it to. Hell yes, he was attractive. But what about his personality? I couldn't judge him based on just one interaction, but it didn't look good so far. And yet it seemed like he had a moment of being teachable. What if he really didn't know better? What if he didn't know how to treat a woman – or people in general – with respect? What if someone could teach him how to be a real man – not a sex-driven macho machine but a caring, interesting, good man? If someone took the time to do that, then I might be interested. 


Training Tristan Ch. 01



*******





A couple of weeks went by. Tristan mostly avoided me, which was understandable. He was quite popular, both with the customers and with the other employees. I overheard a lot of banter, much of it sexual. Once or twice I thought he got out of line, but it was if he didn't realize he was making someone uncomfortable. Remembering some of my training from the service, I started a list that I kept at the back of one of the inventory clipboards. Just a few dates, names, and what exactly was said. If it ever came down to a sexual harassment case or even just grounds for dismissal, it helped to have details.

 But other than that, I was content to ignore his presence, which I usually found distasteful. 

 One day in mid-January, I showed up before we opened, and two of the newer waitresses (whose names I hadn't learned yet) were looking at a phone and giggling conspiratorially. 

 "It's him, I swear," one of them said in a hushed tone.

 "No way! Look it up. What was the guy's name?"

 I rolled my eyes and put my apron on, preparing to take stock of the freezer before the day began.

 "Oh my God, it is him!" the second one squealed. Just as I passed by them, one of them pushed the phone up to my face. "Look!" she demanded, beaming.

 It was a news article from years earlier. Tristan had achieved his fifteen minutes of fame after getting caught in a relationship with his physics professor during his freshman year of college. He had just turned eighteen. She was... more than twice his age. 

 Pulling the phone back, she swiped down the page. "He sent pictures of them in bed to some of his friends, and word got out. Oh my God, she got fired over it!"

 I rolled my eyes and went on my way. This fellow got worse and worse the more I learned about him.

 A few minutes later, I had to get some papers from the office. The girls were still wasting their time ogling the phone. This time, however, they were looking up at me, trying not to get caught staring. I was ready to give them a sharp "encouragement" to actually... you know... work while they were on the clock, but then they shoved the phone at me again.

 "That's the professor he got caught with," she said triumphantly. "Apparently they had been going at it for weeks."

 I sighed and took the phone. Maybe they would leave me alone after...

 O God, what the hell? She looked like a forty-five-year-old version of me. I only hoped I would look that good in my forties. Same facial structure, same hair, same skin color. I clenched my jaw and pretended not to react. Handing the phone back to its owner, I asked, "So what?"

 "She's like... your twin, or something," one of them insisted.

 "What if he's got a type? He'd probably be so into you!" the other one added giddily.

 "Oh, so all black women look the same to you?" I asked with a feigned tone of having been insulted, knowing how uncomfortable it would make them. They were right about the resemblance, but I'd rather put this issue to rest before it spread.

 "N-n-n-no! Not at all!" the shorter one said.

 "Or are you saying it should only matter to a guy what a woman looks like?"

 "That's not... We..." the taller one tried to explain, but kept looking from my face to the face on the screen, confused at how I didn't see the similarities.

 "Get back to work," I said with evident disgust. "And don't go wasting people's time with this bullshit." They hurried off and I went back to the freezer. Yeah, he has a type, I told myself. Any vagina that will give him the time of day. I let myself get too worked up and accidentally threw a bag of frozen chicken too roughly onto a shelf. It broke open and the contents scattered. I grimaced as I picked everything up, putting it in a pot and carrying it to the kitchen. Guess I'd be telling the servers to promote our chicken dishes today...





******* 





"And, aw, man! You should have heard her scream. She was like, 'Harder, baby, harder!' I was like, Holy shit, she's going to cum again! It was so awesome. And afterwards, she was all cool about it, like, 'No need to make this something it's not. I'll see you around.'" Tristan was in the break room bragging to our maintenance guy, George, who was hanging on his every word. I couldn't help but overhear them while I was prepping veggies just around the corner. Macy was a few feet farther down the counter, humming to herself as she mixed some sauces. I hoped she wasn't able to hear them. She seemed her usual pleasant self, anyways.

 "Who was this chica, man? She looking for some more action?" George asked.

 "I don't know. She was so into it, though. Loud and dirty, you know?"

 "What did she look like?" George pressed.

 "She was so hot, man. Perfect body, nice, round tits, perfect brown hair..."

 "Who was she, man? She from around here?" George obviously wanted a face to go with the story.

 "Yeah! She used to... I mean... nah. She's no one around here." Was Tristan uncomfortable naming names? That didn't seem right. Either way, I was about to go tell them to shut their filthy mouths. Nobody wanted to hear them talk like that.

 "Did you get a picture, man? Like at the bar, or... or after you fucked her?"

 "No, dude. Nothing like that," Tristan said quickly. "Hey, I think my break's over. I gotta run."

 I heard him stand up and push his chair back in. He walked quickly past me and seemed headed for the back door when Macy spoke up.

 "Hey Tristan, can you come here for a minute?" Her voice was sweet and friendly, as always.

 Tristan turned slowly around and walked over to Macy's station.

 "I'm mixing some new sauces and I need an honest take on some of them. Do you mind?"

 He looked anxiously my direction. I was looking at Macy, trying to determine her game. If it was me, I would have made the sauces unbearably spicy, just to punish his disrespectful tongue.

 Macy served him one spoonful after another, all variations on the same two or three themes. He tried to pick his favorite and explain why, but Tristan didn't have quite the language for flavors. But neither did most of our guests, so I saw why Macy asked him to help.

 Just as she was letting another spoonful cool off, she casually asked, "So Tristan, do you watch a lot of porn?"

 I had been focused on my cutting board, but when Macy threw that question out there, I didn't bother hiding my reaction. Eyes wide, I turned and stared at the two of them. 

 "Wh-wh-what?" he asked, glancing around and trying to smile. There was no one else in earshot.

 "Porn. I'm guessing you've watched a lot of it. Am I right?"

 Tristan tried to walk backwards out of the conversation. "Look... Macy... I don't know what you..."

 "It's just that I couldn't help but hear your conversation with George just now," Macy went on, as if this was a perfectly normal topic for them to discuss. "Here, taste," she said, giving him another spoonful. He tried it reluctantly and she waited for a response. 

 "I don't like the cilantro," he said cautiously. Macy turned to look at me and raised a triumphant eyebrow.

 "And it sounds to me that you think porn sex is realistic," Macy continued, stirring another bowl and sprinkling an unlabeled spice into the mix. Tristan continued to stand silently next to her, too stunned to reply.

 "But what I'm worried you don't realize is that sex in porn is like pro wrestling. It's fake, it's staged, and it really doesn't resemble the real thing at all."

 "Macy, I'm not sure if we should..." he tried to interrupt.

 "Hush," she said sternly. "You made us listen to your little story of conquest just now, so you can at least hear me out. Or maybe you'd rather Mona go add another incident to her list."

 "Her... list?" he choked out, glancing from Macy to me and back again.

 "Yes. Her list of your behaviors that could be considered sexual harassment. She didn't know that I know about it, I think." I had to hand it to Macy. She was way smarter and way stronger than most people gave her credit for.

 "Trust me, Tristan, you don't want the sexual equivalent of pro wrestling. You want the real thing," she said soothingly. "Now open up." Tristan opened his mouth and took another taste. He winced and shook his head as a reflex. 

 "Bitter," he said. Macy nodded and dumped out the bowl. She started a fresh mix. Taking a sip of water, Tristan finally replied, "I think I'm doing just fine, not that it's any of your business."

 "Well, you're not, from what I just heard," Macy said firmly. "That poor girl got no pleasure from you."

 "I beg to differ," Tristan said with a smirk, his confidence returning. "She was quite satisfied. Twice."

 Macy sighed and shook her head. "Mona?" 

 "Aw, hell. Leave me out of this, Macy," I pleaded.

 "Mona," she said, ignoring my request. "What does it mean when a girl sounds like a porn star during sex?"

 I paused from chopping and put my hands on the counter. "If she's not a porn star?" I asked. "Yep."

 "It means she's bored as hell and wants the whole thing to end quickly."

 Macy smiled. "Exactly. She's not into it and doesn't know what else to do, so she's thinking, 'Maybe this will speed him up.' Do you really think she would have ended it there if she had really enjoyed it so much?"

 "Bullshit," Tristan said, a little less convincingly than he had intended. I went back to my chopping, still listening intently and trying not to be too obvious when I looked up to watch them.

 "You don't want porn sex, Tristan, not really," Macy said gently.

 Shaking his head, Tristan said, "It feels pretty awesome to me, and like I said, it's none of your business anyway." He tried to walk away, but Macy grabbed his elbow. She looked down at the burner and stopped stirring.

 "You only say that because you don't know better," she stated softly, not looking up. "If you knew what it was like to really care about the person you were with, you wouldn't be able to go back to what you're doing now."

 Tristan pulled his elbow free, but before he walked away, Macy looked at him and said, "What you do really is none of my business, I guess. But for the sake of the girls you're hurting, I think I have a responsibility to say something." Tristan bit his lip and looked away. "I've experienced both. I was with a guy for years who tried to make our sex life just like a porn video. It was hell. When he left and I found someone who cared more about me than about his orgasms, it was a whole different world. Sex with him is great – for both of us. Open up." She pushed a spoon at his mouth, and Tristan took it reluctantly. His eyes instantly brightened.

 "That's..." he began.

 "That's what happens when you don't settle for what you have and keep trying for something better," Macy said, throwing the spoon in the sink and jotting down a few notes. She pinned the paper to the wall and said, "Mona, try a thin layer of this on top of the breaded shrimp, let me know what you think." Tristan and I watched her walk away, removing her apron and heading towards the sink to wash up. Tristan looked at me, then quickly turned and walked away. I chuckled and kept chopping.





******* 





Back in the desert it was hot and dry. It was night, but night was not cool here. The last patrol called in. Dead. Most of them dead. The next group went out. Not my group. We would be next. The end was coming. One group after another went out; no one came back. Bodies came back, but nothing more. My heart raced. We would be next, next to die. 

 I tried to object, to speak some sense into the situation, but my voice didn't work. Didn't they know this was utter madness? Stop it! Stop it all! I could hear the rumble, the explosion. The call would come soon: all dead. Rollo, Pritchard, Dewey, McConnell, Flip... all dead.

 He finds me sitting on my bed. I feel his weight as he sits next to me. Close. Those eyes! He's young, he's sexy. He feels the same desperation I do. We're next. 

 "You?" I croak into the shadows, frightened for so many reasons. "You're here?"

 He puts his hand on my cheek. His hand is so smooth, so much smoother than mine. I lean in and feel safe for a moment. When I look back in those steel-gray eyes, he says softly, "Ours is not to question why. Ours is but to do and die."

 I'm on my back. When did we lose our clothes? How did this bunk get so soft? His mouth is all over me. My breasts move up instinctively, trying to force more contact. Then his face is in front of mine. I'm lost again in those eyes. And ohhh, GOD! He's entering me. Slowly, with measured strokes inside me, he's rebelling against our death sentence. We will die, yes, but first we will live. I push against him, wanting this, thankful to have a moment with his body... with this bridge to another soul... 

 My heart is racing... 

 So close. I need this... 

 I need it so much... 

 His pale skin is reflecting the moonlight... like something angelic...

 So steady, so gentle, so firm...

 I grip him, wrapping my arms tight around his solid chest. It won't be long now. They're calling for us. I'm so close... Push harder, baby, push harder! I'm almost there! Alarms sounding. Crashing. Don't stop! Engines roaring.

Dammit!

 I looked at the clock. It was barely 5a.m. Stupid garbage truck. So loud and always so damn early in the morning! I had worked a closing shift, so I had only been in bed a few hours. I needed more sleep, but there was no way in hell I was getting back to sleep in this state. My pillow was wet from my sweat. I flexed my thighs. Wetness down there, too. Stupid fucking dream.

 It had been almost three months since I had gotten laid. Rollo was practically engaged to his little pixie. Good for him, but now I was without a 'sparring partner.' Not that it would have mattered at 5a.m., horny and in bed. 

 With a sigh, I slid my hand under the waistband of my boxers. I closed my eyes and tried to bring back the moment that had been disrupted. I tried to recall the feeling of that smooth motion in and out. The full-body contact of naked flesh writhing together. The look in those eyes. The perfect body. 

 And then it hit me. It was Tristan.

Fuck! Nothing could have derailed my O-train more quickly than that. I closed my eyes and growled in frustration. What I wouldn't have done for a cigarette in that moment.

 Why did the idea of Tristan repulse me so much? He was quite a fine specimen of manhood, at least the parts that I had seen. It wouldn't be the first time I had slept with a guy just because he was hot. Why not Tristan?

Because he's an asshole. Because you're older now than when you were twenty and just starting to explore sex. Because you have reason to believe he's a selfish and incompetent lover.

 I got out of bed. No point in lying there trying to fall back asleep. I poured some milk and pulled out my guitar. I was in the mood for some Clapton...

 My fingers were soon working along familiar paths, familiar enough that my mind could wander. I needed some release. I would prefer something longer-term, and I was starting to think about settling down. But that wasn't something you decided until you'd found someone you wanted to settle down with. For now, I was living the life I had, not another life I wanted. And I was (mostly) content.

 In the meantime, what were my options for sex with minimal complications? Rollo was out. Steve was... not my type. And we worked too closely together. There weren't any other single guys at work who didn't creep me out. And I really didn't get out enough to have a broader circle of friends. That would have to change.

 A thumping on the floor disrupted my thoughts. I guess I hadn't been paying attention to my guitar playing. It wasn't yet six in the morning and I was waking up my downstairs neighbor. Whoops. I put down the guitar, finished my second glass of milk, and instinctively looked for a cigarette. God, this horniness was going to be the end of me.

 I pulled off my tank top and replaced it with a sports bra. It was bitterly cold outside, I was sure, but four or five miles would warm me up... and work off some of that edge.





******* 





Valentine's Day was always busy at Jackal's. It was one of the few times Macy, Steve, and I all worked a full night at the same time. Every table was full from 5 until 11, and every server was scheduled to work at least a few hours.

 There was a lot of chatter around the kitchen that week about Valentine's plans. Most of us either did something the night before or the night after. Servers who worked the early shift usually had a date lined up for later. Tristan had an early shift and was suspiciously quiet and reserved. When Moira asked about his plans, he said he had a date later, but he didn't seem eager to talk more about it. Then again, he had been pretty quiet in the kitchen ever since Macy's little conversation with him a few weeks ago. There was something slightly encouraging in that. Perhaps what he really needed was a guiding hand. Maybe there was hope for him to become a decent human being after all.

 Anyway, being around all the romance didn't bother me much. Not as much as it did some people. Like I said, I'm mostly content with the life I have. That doesn't mean I don't hope for something more – my own version of a settled married life – but I'm not putting life on hold, waiting for things to change.

 The evening ended without a hitch. By closing time, we were all too exhausted to even chatter while we shut down the kitchen. I was the first one to finish, and I waved to Steve and Macy as I headed out the back door. Pausing to make sure the door shut behind me, I pulled my coat a little tighter around my chest and started walking to my car.

 "Hey... Mona," a soft voice startled me.

 I spun around to see Tristan leaning against the wall. The light over the back door illuminated only half his body, giving him a sinister look. 

 "Dammit, Tristan, what the hell are you doing sneaking around here?" I wasn't too worried about rape or anything. I could take care of myself against most guys. But I just didn't like being startled.

 "I... I wanted to ask you something," he said with a measure of uncertainty in his voice.

 "Aren't you supposed to be on a date or something?" I asked gruffly. Now I was just annoyed. "Or did you already get what you wanted from her?"

 "Hm? No... it was fine. We had a late dinner, that was all," he said, shuffling towards me cautiously.

 "If you're even considering trying to talk me into..."

 "No... it's not like that," he said. This didn't sound like the Tristan I was used to. "It's that... I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. The girl tonight was... she was great. And it probably wouldn't have taken much to... you know. But I didn't want to. I mean, she was hot and all... I mean, really hot. But... I think Macy... she might have been right. Girls don't stick around. It's like once we hook up, they're done. And... I know that's like a dream life for a guy – to just keep hooking up with a series of hot chicks – but I'm not happy. I feel like there's something wrong with me that keeps them from wanting more than sex."

 He paused, never making eye contact. He opened his mouth to say more but then stopped himself. 

 "And this concerns me... how?" I asked. I'm not anyone's therapist.

 He sighed, digging his hands deeper into his coat pockets. "You were honest with me, right from the start. You saw right through me and you called me out on my BS. It's like all the show and charm and facade make no impression on you."

 "Oh, it makes an impression alright," I said, nodding. Then shaking my head I added, "But not the impression you're wanting to make."




Training Tristan Ch. 01



"See, that's what I mean," he replied, gesturing at me with a bare hand. 

 "And what do you want me to do about it?" I asked, curious, but ready to get out of the cold.

 "Help me be the kind of guy you would like... the kind of guy you would want to be with."

 "Why me?" I shot back.

 He shifted nervously on his feet for a few seconds. "Because... you're hot... you're sexy... you..."

 "Nope," I stopped him. "We're done here." I turned around and walked towards my car.

 "Wait!" he pleaded, chasing after me. 

 "It's cold and I don't have time for this," I objected.

 "I respect you," he said, almost embarrassed to hear himself confess it. I paused with my hand on the car door. "I... trust you to tell me the truth," he continued. "And to not put up with all the fake stuff."

 I stood there thinking. I wondered if this was a stupid idea. Or maybe it was his super-devious way to try to get inside my pants. I guess it had been a minute or two that I stood there considering his request. He looked at me and said, "Please?"

 I gave him a stern, no-nonsense look and asked, "What do I get out of it?"

 His eyebrows went up and he looked suddenly sheepish. "I hadn't thought about that," he confessed. "This kind of just occurred to me this evening."

 I tried to find some way to justify saying yes. I could force him to buy me a few nice meals, take me out to a few nice places. Maybe... just maybe... if there was a decent guy there hiding under layers of bluster, I could find that nice guy and treat myself to his perfect body. But I couldn't let him think that just yet.

 "Well," I sighed, "I suppose I could consider this a charity case."

 "Charity?"

 "My good deed for all the women who would be spared having to encounter the Tristan I've seen so far. Maybe I could get some karmic reward for benefiting women everywhere."

 Tristan half-smiled, embarrassed yet finding the humor in what I said. Hey, he could almost laugh at himself! That was a good sign.

 "So..." he prompted.

 "Yeah, I'll do it." 





*******



Training Tristan Ch. 02



I went home and coaxed myself to a nice, gut-clenching climax with Tristan's body in mind. By the next day, my little agreement with Tristan seemed like a weird dream. After all, it had happened late at night on a dimly lit back parking lot. Had I really agreed to... wait, what exactly had I agreed to do? I pushed it to the back of my mind. He had probably been drunk or stoned or something and wouldn't remember any of it anyways.

 I didn't see him for the next few days; our shifts didn't line up, and neither did our days off. By the next week, I had nearly forgotten the conversation had ever happened. When our schedules lined up again, he seemed to be the same old Tristan, flirting with the newer waitresses who hadn't seen through his games, charming his way to bigger tips, using his smooth talk to convince Lizzy to give him some better shifts the next week. I was content to let the matter between us drop.

 I ducked into the break room halfway through my shift. Lizzy, George and a few others were all out back. They all smoked, and I knew I wasn't strong enough just then to resist that kind of social pressure. When I stepped into the small room, I saw Tristan occupying one of the only two chairs that were placed around the small card table. I nodded in greeting and went to get my drink from the fridge.

 "So, ah... Mona," he said awkwardly.

 "Hmm?" I responded, my mouth full of water.

 "About the other night..." At that point, I was expecting a complete backpedal. Didn't matter to me either way. But then he asked, "Where do you want to start?"

Start? Damn. He was serious.

 "Yeah," I said, "I'm not totally clear what you wanted. So how about start with that."

 Tristan sighed and slumped his shoulders a bit. He glanced at the doorway to make sure no one was nearby, then in a hushed tone he said, "I don't know. I just... was hoping you could help me to be more... likable, y'know?" I half nodded in understanding. I definitely knew he needed help on that front. "Like, I have no trouble picking up girls and even... you know... but it's like Macy said. I think I've been settling for that when something better might be out there."

 "And what do you think I could do for you that you can't do on your own?" As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I braced for the obvious sexual retort, realizing I had left myself wide open. To his credit Tristan didn't take the easy shot.

 "You can help me see myself the way other people see me, I guess? Teach me what women really want instead of what gets them into bed with me?"

 I had to give him credit, the kid was actually trying. He had a nice little introspective side to him. "I'm not your typical woman," I warned him. 

 "Even better," he said. "I know how to manipulate a typical woman. It doesn't work with you, though."

 "Yeah, your Jedi mind tricks are powerless on my kind," I deadpanned, accidentally letting some of my geek side show.

 Tristan stifled a laugh, then said, "So... what do you think?"

 Finishing off my water in one long chug, I tossed the bottle into the recycling bin and crossed my arms as I leaned back against the calendar . "Let me think about it, OK? And then we'll set some ground rules and I'll form a plan."

 "Sounds good," he agreed, getting up from his seat and tossing some trash into the bin. As he stepped back out he gave me a sad look and said, "Thanks, Mona."



******* 



 AsTristan sat across from me in a coffee shop, I pulled out a carelessly folded piece of paper and began to read. "Rule number one," I began, "no touching." I had taken a few days to think about it, and I wanted to start very simple. Sure, I could see myself eventually turning to Tristan for some release if nothing better came along, but it had to be on my terms and in my own time. And only once he was a little less... sleazy. 

 Tristan nodded silently. He didn't seem surprised by Rule #1.

 "Number two," I continued, "this is all on your dime. I'm giving my time, but I'm not paying for any of this."

 "Sounds fair," he said, looking nervously over my shoulder as he lifted a warm drink to his lips.

 "Rule three is..." I paused because Tristan couldn't seem to stop looking behind me. "Something going on back there?" I asked, a little annoyed.

 "I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head and leaning forward. "The barista," he explained softly, "she was my Valentine's date. The one I didn't..."

 My eyes flamed in anger, "You brought me here knowing the last girl you went out with..."

 "No, I didn't know! I swear! She was a blind date. You remember Gina, the chick who used to waitress at Jackal's back in the fall?" I nodded. I remembered Gina, even if I hadn't known her well. "Gina set us up, said we might be a good match."

 "She was wrong?"

 Tristan slumped back in his chair. "Yes and no. She was a good match for the guy I tend to be, the one Gina knew, but not the guy I think I'm wanting to be."

 I let that comment hang for a moment, then asked, "You went on a date with her and came away not even knowing where she worked?"

 He looked sheepishly at me.

 "Does she go to school? What are her future plans? What's her family like?"

 Tristan opened his mouth to attempt to answer, but nothing came out. He shook his head and shrugged.

 "God, you must be the worst date ever!" I chided him. "What do you do on a date? Count the minutes until you can get her in bed?"

 He gave a shrug and head nod that seemed to indicate that I wasn't too far off the mark.

 "OK, I've got a new rule to add," I said, making a note on my paper. "Rule number 4, when you say something stupid, you get a smack on the back of your head. Calling Gina, or any woman, a 'chick' qualifies as stupid. I'm giving you a pass this once, but head smacks begin now."

 Tristan winced, imagining the smacks that would follow. "And rule number three?" he asked through squinted eyes.

 "No dating, no hooking up, no flirting – it all stops now," I said, staring at him in a way that dared him to react. I wasn't disappointed.

 "Now hold on," he argued, straightening up in his seat. "You can't be serious about that. You want me to just..."

 I didn't bother letting him finish. "If what you're doing really is making you unhappy, as I'm sure it's making most of the women you meet unhappy, then you need to stop."

 "I can't just stop... I mean, what will I..." 

 I expected a lot of push back on that one. The strength of my bargaining position was that I had nothing to lose if he backed out. It would probably be easier on me if he did. And besides, I sort of liked watching him squirm. "It's too easy for you, Tristan. Sex is an easy thing, and we don't cherish what we don't have to work for." He slumped back in his chair and fiddled with his mug. "You can spend a little time experiencing what it's like for most people, people who actually spend time getting to know someone, people who can't... or won't... just walk into a bar and pick someone to take home for the night."

 He gave me an icy glare and said, "I do know what it's like. You don't know me like you think you do."

 Hmm. There was a story there – a story I would be curious to hear some other time. "Well, in any case, those are the ground rules. Take them or leave them."

 I could see him debating with himself. His face showed alternating resignation and resistance. He stared over my shoulder for almost a minute, perhaps reconsidering the barista. Finally he said with a slight scowl, "You better not just be yanking my chain."

 I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. People who are good at deceiving tend not to trust others, I guess. "You respect me for a reason," I argued. "I'm always going to be straight with you. You might not like it, but that's what you'll get."

 Tristan looked down into his mug and closed his eyes, and even without his best feature, his face was classically handsome. I smirked to myself. At least I could enjoy the view during our times together. 

 "OK," he said slowly. "I'll do it."



******* 



 The first step, I had decided, was for Tristan to take me on a date, letting me see what it was like for a girl to go out with him. However, it was almost another week before our schedules lined up again. Weekends were out of the question – you just had to get used to that in my line of work. So it was a Monday when I found myself waiting for him outside my apartment complex. I lived close enough to downtown that we could walk to a lot of places from there.

 Tristan arrived right on time, smiling proudly. We exchanged greetings, then I joined him as he continued walking down the street. 

 "So where are we headed?" I asked after a few dozen paces.

 "I don't know," he said with a shrug. "I thought we could stop when we saw something good."

 Without a word, I did a one-eighty and headed in the opposite direction, back to my place.

 "Hey! What's the deal?" he yelled, chasing after me.

 "We're done for tonight," I said, disinterestedly. 

 "Wha?... Why? I didn't even do anything!" he protested.

 Reaching my street, I spun around to face him. "Exactly," I said, not hiding my condescension. "When you ask a woman out and then don't do anything to prepare for the evening, it shows how little you think of her." 

 "No, it's not like that," he objected. 

 "Yeah. Yeah, it is. Or it is to me, at least," I said, turning towards my building. "Better luck next time."



******* 



 "So I don't think that was entirely fair," Tristan said the next afternoon. We were standing out back of the restaurant, sharing our break. "I don't want to force a girl to do what I want. What if she doesn't like it? I'm trying to keep the options open... for her sake. So really, what I did was more considerate."

 I looked at him and tried not to laugh. "If I thought you really intended it that way, I could give you some credit. But you and I both know that's not what was going on. You were just being lazy."

 "Maybe," he conceded, not willing to argue with me. "But I have a point, don't I? Isn't that more considerate?"

 "No," I told him. He wasn't the only one who had given this some thought. "It's fear."

 "Fear? Really?" he asked suspiciously.

 "Yes, fear," I said confidently. "Choosing somewhere to go or something to do reveals something about you – what you like, what appeals to you. A relationship can't just be about one person trying to do only what the other one likes. So especially on a first date, when you don't really know the woman, you're telling her something about who you are. You're taking a risk in being the first to show her something about yourself. But you're afraid to do that. Afraid she won't like what she learns."

 Tristan looked at me, surprised. 

 I sighed. "Tristan, is a date anything more to you than just a preamble to sex?"

 "Well, of course... I mean..." he hemmed and hawed but really couldn't deny that I'd hit the nail on the head.

 "I guess if that's all you want, then it doesn't matter what you do on a date," I shrugged, glancing at the time on my phone.

 Tristan clenched his jaw and kicked his foot backwards against the wall he was leaning against.

 "I've got Sunday off, if you want to try again," I said smugly as I went back inside.



******* 



 On Sunday evening, I followed the directions to Tristan's apartment. It was a small one-bedroom apartment on the top floor of a modest building. Tristan led me to a small dining area on an enclosed patio. He had set up a small table with candles and a meal. O God, I thought with some disgust. I hate candlelight dinners. Tristan had not even been trying before; now he was overdoing it. I reluctantly handed him my coat and sat down in the seat he offered me.

 "You don't seem impressed," he said, concerned. 

 "This... really isn't my thing," I said calmly as he took a seat across from me.

 "This is some romantic shit!" he argued.

 "Shit isn't romantic," I countered. "And I don't think this is your thing, either."

 "You don't know that," he pushed back.

 "Am I wrong?"

 He held his breath for a moment, then let it out loudly. "No, you're right."

 "So you're still not telling me anything about yourself..." I mused. "And you didn't even cook this, did you?"

 "You can tell?"

 "If you could cook like this, you wouldn't be working as a server," I stated. "Besides, some of these dishes have Macy written all over them. You got takeaway from Jackal's, didn't you?"

 He shrugged and smiled.

 "Whatever," I said, disappointed. "I can at least respect the effort you made this time. And I know the food's going to be good."

 "Thank you," he said, with a hint of sarcasm. "Now help yourself."

 The food was excellent. Unfortunately, the food was the only thing I enjoyed that evening. It would be generous to call the words that crossed the table a conversation. It was mostly a monologue about how great Tristan was. After all, he played sports, he had traveled, he had met interesting people, he had funny stories to tell about things he had done...

 I tuned out for a few minutes and just admired his face. It was... like something from a shaving commercial. Dark, smooth... sharp jawline, confident smile. 

 "...and that's how I ended up working at Jackal's," he concluded some story with a self-satisfied smile. He looked across the table at me, smiling and waiting for a reaction. I put my fork down. Part of me was looking forward to tearing him down a few pegs. I was ready to burst that smug bubble with just a few well-chosen words.

 But then I saw it. Somewhere behind that smile, somewhere... deep, I could sense him pleading for me to be impressed. He was craving acceptance. And then it felt like it would be too cruel to just humiliate him. 

 Those two forces both pulled at my will: the desire to squash him and the fear of breaking him. 

 "Tell me about your dad," I asked, trying not to sound like a shrink. 

 His smile faded and he leaned back, putting some food on his fork but neglecting to put the fork to his mouth. "Not much to tell. He's my dad, y'know. I guess we just didn't have a lot in common, so we never spent time together."

 "He's not around?"

 "Left. Years ago. We still keep in touch, but... like I said, not much in common."

 "Mom?" I asked, sensing his reluctance to go further.

 "Mom? She's great. Wishes I was around more, but a guy needs his space, right?"

 "Ri-i-i-ight..." I said, skeptically. "Brothers? Sisters?"

 He held out empty hands and said with a half-hearted smile, "Just me!"

 "Hm," I said, nodding and taking my last bite. I waited for something, knowing it would never come. After another minute of silence, with Tristan finishing off his wine, I said, "Well, Tristan, thanks for the dinner. I should be heading home now."

 Standing, I dropped my napkin onto the table and let him accompany me to the door. "It's kind of weird," he said.

 "What is?"

 "I'm not used to dates ending like this," he said.

 "We'll talk about that later."

 "Oh... OK."

 I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets. God, what was I doing? I thought this would be good for a laugh, maybe a chance to enjoy a little hot action later on. But this? I wasn't a therapist!



******* 



 Two days later, Tristan and I were on break together. Lizzy was just heading back inside after her smoke break, and she gave me a not-too-subtle thumbs up when Tristan and I walked out together.

 "Is that what a woman can expect on a date with you?" I asked, cutting to the chase.

 "Uh, pretty much," he said, not making eye contact. "I mean, it usually progresses from there, but, you know... rule number one and all."

 "Hmm... I thought so," I said quietly. "Let me ask you... what did I do before I worked at Jackal's?"

 "Uhh," he paused. "High school?"

 I shook my head in frustration. "What about my family? Not even asking for names, who's in my family?"

 He looked at me blankly and slowly shook his head.

 "What's my hobby? What kind of music do I like? What are my plans in life? What does my tattoo signify? Why did I become a chef?" The questions came rapid-fire, my voice rising with each one.

 Tristan hung his head in shame. I had made my point.

 "Not... one... single... question. The whole time, man, the whole fucking time, you didn't ask me one thing about myself. Man, you don't know me any better than that barista you went out with, or from any random woman on the street!" He looked up and away.

 "So what I think," I continued, softly, "is that for you, a date is just an interview for a sex partner. And you want to impress her pants off, literally. You don't need to know anything about her because, well, you can already see that she has what you want. You still wonder why girls don't stick around? They're clearly just a piece of meat to you, and honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if that's all you are to them, as well."

 I was holding back, really. I didn't want to throw everything at him at once. I stopped and waited for some kind of answer. Objection, argument, concession. Instead, he pushed himself away from the wall and walked past me, back into the restaurant. I guess that was answer enough.



******* 



 Tristan didn't speak to me again for a few weeks. I figured it was over. I had hit a nerve and he wasn't ready for it. Or, as my mom would sometimes point out to me, I had been an ass. "Even when you're right, you can still be wrong for being an ass," she would tell me, more often than I wanted to hear it. 

 Weeks became a month, then more than a month. I was working a few extra shifts, partly out of boredom and partly because Macy was pregnant and needed a little extra time off here and there. I started getting a little more introspective about my life. It wasn't just hormones, though I did need to change something about my dry spell. I realized I was hurting for a community – for a group of friends. Maybe that was why I snatched the whole paper off the public notice board when I saw someone looking for musicians to jam together. Rather than write down the number, I took the whole paper home with me (returning it to the board the next day, when I came to my senses). I called the guy who had posted the ad, a bass player named Russell. He said he'd let me know when there were enough people to get together. It was a start.

 As for sex, I was starting to think, for the first time in my life, that it might be a good idea to just go out and find some guy at a bar. No strings attached, no emotional complications, but also no guarantees. It could be a total waste of my time, leaving me no more satisfied than I was already.

 And so it was that the next Friday, with Steve and Macy covering the kitchen, I decided to head out to a place I had heard was popular with singles. I told myself I wasn't committed to doing anything, but that it wouldn't hurt to just see what was out there.

 The live band was halfway decent, which distracted me from actually checking guys out. I've gotten way past the point of wasting my time complaining about the lack of guys trying to pick me up. I know I've got a great body, but it's a few shades too dark for most, even for those who claim to like dark girls. Besides, it's no fun being with someone who's only interested in you because they think it's kinky. I've learned that if I pursue a guy, unless he's really turned off by dark skin, he'll usually respond pretty well, even if he wasn't interested enough to take the initiative.

 But that wasn't really on my mind as I watched the band and started to think I would enjoy getting some time to jam with other musicians. My mind was on stage somewhere when a bottle landed heavy next to me. 




Training Tristan Ch. 02



"Well," slurred a familiar voice, "looks like I'm not the only one sittin' alone tonight."

 I swiveled in my bar stool and rolled my head towards Tristan. I was buzzed. He was drunk. I motioned to the bartender for another round.

 "What brings you here?" he asked, putting his elbow on the bar and his chin in his hand. I almost laughed at the sleepy smile he gave me.

 "Just trying to get out," I said, pausing to guzzle half the contents of the bottle I had just been handed. "Bored," I said. Still not comfortable with my answer.

 "Yeah," he sighed, losing his smile and looking into his empty bottle. Unsatisfied with it, he slid it an arm's length away.

 "What's the matter?" I asked. "No one here you haven't already banged?"

 He smiled again and said, "Nah... not like that. I just..." He puffed his cheeks and widened his eyes, then shaking his head he said, "You know... right?"

 "No. No I don't," I said loudly as the band started up again.

 "I just... It doesn't feel right anymore. It's all empty and shit." Then reaching out to his bottle, he raised it and hollered to the bartender, "Hey! This is empty!" She walked over to us and with a naughty smile said, "Well, I didn't do it." She tossed a quick glance my way then turned her eyes back to Tristan, smiling as she handed him another beer. 

 We sat and listened to the band, and I drank my way through two more bottles. At one point, Tristan leaned towards me and asked, "So what do they mean?"

 "Huh?"

 "The tattoos. Your tattoos. What do they mean?"

 "Which one?"

 "I only seen the anchor. You navy?" Grammar and syntax had been sacrificed on the altar of booze.

 "No," I replied, rolling up my sleeve a little to reveal the art. Tristan moved closer and squinted to look. "It's my family. They anchor me. Everyone's names make up the border."

 "Oh," Tristan said, nodding. "Sweet. Family." He looked towards the band and seemed to listen sleepily for a minute. Then he leaned forward and half-turned towards me. "How... How d-d-d-do they anchor you?" he asked, surprising me not only with his question but with the unexpected stutter. I pretended I hadn't noticed.

 "I think of them and am reminded of who I am. I don't need to pretend to be anyone else. I don't need to go along with any crowd."

 "Oh," he said, gazing back at the band and seeming to actually consider my words. He started to point at me with his drink and opened his mouth wide to begin another question, then stopped, closed his mouth, and stared again.

 My head was feeling light. How many drinks was it now? Six? Seven? Shit, what was I doing?

 "My dad didn't think much of me. He was imbareussed," Tristan slurred. Then standing up he held out his arms and gestured towards his body. "I wasn't always this fine spessumin of manliness," he said proudly. Then sitting back down, his voice got soft, "I was always small, and... and... geeky. And I stuttered... and..." he smiled, "and oh man was Macy right! I watched a lot of porn!" He laughed at himself.

 I signaled behind his back for my tab. I pointed to Tristan and nodded. Might as well cover his night, too.

 "What happened?" I sighed, more interested than I sounded.

 "Growth spurt," he said, shaking his head. "Got to college and I was... like this." He tried to take a drink but his bottle was empty. He set it on its side on the bar. "And I didn't need porn anymore. I lived it."

 I stood up and put on my jacket. I nodded towards the door and Tristan looked at me confused.

 "Let me get you home," I said, a little woozy, but clearly in better shape than him. We each stopped in the restrooms on the way out, then staggered onto the sidewalk.

 "Anyway," he said, once we were outside, "Suddenly I had ev'thing I e'r wanted." He swept his hand across the air in a grandiose gesture. "Girls, pop'larity, ev'thing my dad had. He always had girls. I had ev'rything he said lil' punk-ass geeks like me could never get." 

 I winced. Poor kid. Dad was a womanizer, son didn't fit the mold, no love from daddy, then the kid grows up, gets all the girls and still no love. Sure, there were much sadder stories out there, but I was suddenly very thankful for my anchor. I found myself running the tips of my fingers across the sleeve that covered my tattoo.

 Tristan led us down a smaller street, stumbling here and there. I remembered where he lived, and it wasn't too much farther.

 "And it's not enough?" I suggested, startling Tristan out of a daze.

 "It's not that," he said very softly. He paused and bent over a little, putting his hand on a streetlamp to steady himself. Even though the crisp night air had shaken me out of some of my buzz, I still found myself leaning against a big blue mailbox, thankful for the steadiness it provided. The streets were spinning just a little bit...

 Tristan straightened up and started walking again. "It's just that I had... whatever... I wanted... and... now I'm thinking... I wanted the wrong things."

 "Yeah," I said. "It happens, I guess." I felt unable to formulate a more thoughtful response. I was sleepier than I expected to be at that hour.

 "Thanks, Mona," he said, arriving at the entrance to his building. "You're a... champ." He gave me a nudge on the arms with his fist.

 "Let me get you upstairs," I heard myself saying. What?

 Tristan shrugged and didn't object. He did nearly collapse when the elevator started, and we both laughed at that. "Elevator, wait for meeee..." he joked, and I found it much funnier than I should have. 

 I followed him to his door. We were both laughing.

 He unlocked his door and walked inside. There was no invitation for me to follow, though he left the door wide open in his drunken neglectfulness.

 I paused, then watched him taking off his jacket as he walked away from me. The door was still open, and I remained in the hall. He slipped off his shoes and pulled his sweater over his head. I could feel the heat of the room. I started feeling warmer, even in the hallway. It was the first time I'd seen Tristan's chest in just a t-shirt. His shoulders were naturally broad, and his arms were untoned muscle. I imagined for a moment what the military would do to sculpt that body. I imagined him in army briefs, laying out his uniform after a shower. I thought about how long it had been since I'd let myself enjoy a night like this. 

 I stepped inside and shut the door. The simple clicking sound of the lock made my heart flutter. I had crossed a line.



******* 



 I almost stumbled over his jeans as I walked into the bedroom. It was dark, and I could only barely make my way to the bed. I quickly disrobed, climbing onto the bed in only my panties and bra. I didn't even consider that Tristan might not want this.

 His soft breathing ended sharply when I crawled on top of him. 

 "Wha? Huh?" he mumbled, his head turning about in the darkness.

 "Tristan," I said, my mouth hot on his cheek. "I need to get laid tonight. You OK with that?"

 My eyes, adjusting to the low light, could make out his confused squint. "Mo...? uh... You need...?"

 "Can. I. Fuck. You. Now?" I articulated, the volume just slightly too loud for the quiet room.

 "Yeah," he nodded vigorously. "Yeah, of course."

 I smirked. What else would he have said? Reaching behind my back, I unhooked my bra and tossed it to the floor. Tristan lay there dumbly as I pulled his t-shirt up and off. Then rolling to my back, I slipped off my panties and watched him fumble with his boxers until they were at least down to his knees. Good enough for me, I thought.

 Taking his cock in my hand, I started pumping slowly, knowing the booze would be working against us. But soon enough he was rising to the occasion, and I slowed down, giving long, patient strokes. Tristan gasped lightly and his breathing was staggered. I hoped his girl troubles weren't because he was a two-minute man. I needed him to give me enough time to reach my goals for the night.

 Straddling his waist, I looked around. Where was my jacket? There was a condom in one of the pockets... somewhere.

 ""D-d-drawer," he said, turning his head to the right and looking at the nightstand. Without needing to leave my perch, I leaned over and opened the drawer. I felt a passing revulsion at the large number and assortment of condoms; apparently the drawer was full of them. Choosing one, I looked down at Tristan, who shrugged and gave me an embarrassed smile. 

 Once he was ready, I raised myself up and wiggled his tool around until it was safely seated at my entrance. "You don't have to just lie there," I chided him, breathlessly.

 As if he had been waiting for permission, Tristan raised his head to my chest and began kissing that neglected space between my breasts. I held still for a moment, enjoying the attention. Then, as his hands and lips moved along the generous curves that lead to my nipples, I started pushing down. 

MM! Ohhh God... he muttered, his mouth full. With a few persistent thrusts, I was completely engulfing his cock. I straightened up, rubbing my hands along Tristan's chest as his head fell back onto his pillow. 

Yessss, I thought. This is not a mistake... I gazed leisurely down at his broad, smooth chest, its paleness almost opalescent in the dark. Definitely the lightest-skinned lover I had ever had.

 "You work out?" I asked him softly, letting my fingers move down his tight abs until they nearly reached the point of our union.

 "Now and then," he said, hesitantly pushing his hips up a bit towards me.

 "Well, damn, boy, you sure did win the genetic lottery, then," I complimented, starting to undulate my hips. Very slow. Very, very slowly I moved forward and back.

 "I know," he grunted, his eyes fixed on the spot where my legs spread around him. 

 I maintained a frustratingly slow pace, not out of cruelty, but to let my body start to get into the game. My arousal had been mostly mental – I wanted to have sex. My body hadn't really been planning on this and was still catching up.

 Suddenly, Tristan bolted up into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around me and latching his mouth onto my nipples again. I groaned in pleasure, and his hips moved up in sync with my swaying. One of his hands traveled down my back, along my ass, and behind my thigh. He tugged behind my knee and moved my leg to wrap around behind him. I didn't need his guidance to do the same with the other leg until I was fully seated on his lap. 

 Tristan's kisses traveled up my chest to my neck, running along my jawline until it would have been natural for me to turn and lock lips with him. I almost did so, but both of us pulled back at the last second. It wasn't just the smell of alcohol on our breaths... Kissing wasn't what this was about. It didn't fit. I hadn't kissed a guy in... damn, it had been years.

 Thankfully, that fleeting awkward moment didn't derail the erotic atmosphere. His lips returned to my neck, and I leaned back to give him access. The tight skin around my throbbing blood vessels was extra sensitive, and his kisses there fueled a faster grinding of my pussy into his lap. I was enjoying this position – the first time I had ever tried it. Tristan was average-sized, but sitting like this, I felt him churning deep inside me. I felt my labia rubbing his wiry hairs. I felt my butt resting against his thighs and my legs rubbing along the sides of his body. 

 Our hands moved fluidly along our bodies, mostly caressing backs and hips. Our limbs were so entwined, it was hard to keep track of which belonged to whom. Sometimes my hand would slide down his body and I would find myself rubbing up my own leg. I started pushing harder against him, trying to make contact with my clitoris. I felt it hardening and aching to be touched. As much as I was enjoying that position, it wasn't going to do it for me.

 I shifted my legs so I was again kneeling astride him, and by leaning forward, I forced Tristan onto his back. But before I could stretch out and find a comfortable spot, Tristan pushed me to the side and rolled me onto my back. I started to protest, but he said, "Shhh, hang on." I decided to indulge him for just a minute, but I wasn't going to let my little fire die down. 

 "On your side," he whispered, kneeling between my legs. I rolled to my right side and Tristan lifted my left leg up. Straddling my right leg, he entered me again. I exhaled sharply at the sudden fullness. Then Tristan, God bless him, adjusted his leg so that it was right up against my clit. I looked up at him in surprise. He smiled confidently. "Will that work?" he asked.

 I moved my hips a little, rubbing my pussy against his thigh, which also succeeded in pumping his shaft. "Yeah," I grunted, not wishing to stop. "That'll work real well." 

 "Good," Tristan sighed, bending over me. His hands resumed exploring my upper body. The entirely new sensations of his entry into me ensured that my fire not only stayed lit but started roaring again. I rubbed against his leg, and the pressure it put on my clit made my gut tighten. I reached that marvelous moment when you know you're not about to cum, but you do know for sure you're going to get there. 

 Tristan, meanwhile, had stopped rubbing my skin and had instead taken a firm grip on my shoulders. One of his arms was behind me and one was in front. His grip on my shoulders kept me from moving away – not that I had any plans to do so – and gave him powerful leverage. He thrust persistently, deeply, firmly, holding himself inside me for a moment while I rubbed against him, then thrusting again for a few strokes. I could hear him grunting from exertion. Then he was grunting in desperation. He was close. He pushed so hard it almost hurt me. Almost.

 His breaths were raspy and wet. His legs trembled. I knew he was almost there. I wasn't as close, but I wasn't far. I put my hand over his thigh and gripped his ass. God, why hadn't I grabbed that earlier? I knew it was tight and firm. I knew I had wanted to get my hands on it. Why had I neglected it this whole time? Tristan seemed to like my hand there, and as I pulled him towards me in time with his thrusts, I finally felt his ass clench. He cried out a few times, then groaned as he pulsed inside me. 

 I kept up my own rubbing motion, which was aided in its efforts by my hand pulling his ass towards me. Tristan stayed hard and inside me for another minute or so as I called up the reserves. My imagination pictured my latest fantasy of choice – the brown-eyed Latino lover, hard-bodied and handsome, hovering over me, filling me with his cock, whispering in my ear and smiling as he drove me over the...

 "AhhhhffffffffffUCK!" I shouted. My body clenched up and my hands gripped whatever part of his body was nearby. I twisted up my face as convulsions shook me. Leaning my head back, I felt my throat tighten. Distantly, it seemed, Tristan was again kissing that spot under my ear, rubbing my breasts, teasing my nipples, adding pleasure to pleasure.

"MMMMmmm...MMMmmmm!...MMmmmm!!" I moaned in time with my thighs squeezing together. It felt good to have something hard in my depths while that happened. I felt that weightless freedom, like sledding down a mountain and floating in the air after each bump. Images swirling in my head slowed down, dissipating until I was again fully present in the bed. Tristan was pulling out of me, and I felt a sheet being pulled over me, its coolness extinguishing the flames of my orgasm and replacing them with a soft, warm glow.

Damn, I whispered, closing my eyes.



*******



 Nature woke me up. I heard soft snoring next to me and felt the weight of an arm on top of me. I slowly pushed it aside and got out of bed. I had to pee. Urgently. I stumbled around the unfamiliar setting, took care of my most pressing need, then turned my attention to the throbbing wooziness that was clouding my head.

Snap to! SNAP TO! It wasn't the first time I had needed to overcome a hangover at a moment's notice. Find my phone. Shine it on the floor. Gather up clothes, dress, and get the hell out of there. 

 I wasn't ashamed and was only a little embarrassed at having followed Tristan home. But I sure as hell didn't want to wake up next to him in the morning. Fully dressed, I slipped out of the apartment. The time read 4 a.m. I was starting to get hungry and was viciously thirsty. My craving for a cigarette nagged in the back of my mind, knowing I wouldn't succumb it but delighting in annoying me just the same. 

 The cool air outside helped restore my lucidity. I slipped into a convenience store and grabbed some things to satisfy my belly. Once I was no longer fighting thirst, I took stock of my state. 

 I felt... relieved. Man, it had been good to just get laid. And yes, Tristan's body was a fine choice for an hour's leisure. Emotionally, I felt a twinge of sadness, wishing I could for once wake up next to a guy after having spent some crazy intimate time together the night before. But I wasn't going to dwell on that. It would happen when it happened. The walk to my place took a half-hour, and by the time I got back, I felt pretty invigorated. I knew I'd need more sleep later, but in the meantime, no sense wasting the empty streets. I tossed aside my dirty clothes and pulled out my running shoes.



*******



Training Tristan Ch. 03



As always, thank you to GaiusPetronius for his helpful editing, which always improves the quality of my stories. 

***** 

The problem with running was that it gave me too much time to think and too little to distract my thoughts, which inevitably turned back to the night before. Everything was all mixed up. I didn't regret it, but I did. I enjoyed it, but I was sickened by it. I felt relieved and stressed. Then I started chiding myself for obsessing over it. I was embarrassed that I was letting it get to me. 

So I had sex with Tristan. So what? We both wanted it, we both enjoyed it, and... I felt like I had compromised something. Shit. 

There were clouds on the horizon, but in the breaks between them I could see the sun cresting over an empty parking lot on my street. I jogged back up to my apartment, downed a bottle of water and flopped back onto my bed. Draping a sweaty arm over my eyes, I sighed deeply and tried to plan out my day. It felt so good to lie down... 

The sound of my phone ringing woke me up. It was late morning. I could hear rain beating against my window. I rolled over and picked up my phone, pausing when I didn't recognize the number. 

"Hello?" 

"Hey, this is Russell," said a deep, gentle voice. 

"Russell?" 

"The bass player... Is this... Mona?" 

"Oh, shit, yeah... Sorry, I just woke up. Hey." 

"Yeah, hey. Well, some of us are getting together to jam today, if you're interested," he said with restrained excitement. "We've got me on bass, plus a girl on keyboard and a guy on drums." 

"Yeah, I'm in. Just give me an hour to collect myself and pack up." 

"Great! No problem. I'll, uh... I'll text you the details." 

"Sounds good. See you soon," I said, already making my way to the shower. 

"Yeah. Looking forward to it." 

I tossed my phone back on the bed and pulled my sports bra off. I shivered at the cold air on my nipples, and smiled as I recalled the physical sensations of the night before. Yes, I had my regrets about it, but I could still enjoy the memory of strong hands pulling me close, taking and giving pleasure. I stepped into the shower with a lighter heart than I had felt in a while. 

******* 

That was the day I met Russell. Russell Delavera, the bass player who was my age, who had his own landscaping business, and who was a very well-put-together Latino man. Though I came to the group only expecting to play some music and relax, I found my gaze turning his way again and again. I watched his thick fingers move lightly along the strings of the bass, and my eyes traveled up his arms and towards his broad chest. I loved the way he closed his eyes and sang along to some of the songs. He seemed lost in the music, happy to be carried away by the moment. I studied his face and committed his expressions to memory. 

But it wasn't just lust. I had taken care of my out-of-control hormones the night before. I was well-composed again. This was just... interesting. My only concern was that he seemed to have some connection to Claire, the piano player who hosted our quartet that day. I wasn't sure what the deal was, and I didn't see any rings. But they just seemed... connected. 

The jam session itself was a great time, and it was nice to simply meet some new people. Other than music, we didn't have much in common, but music was enough for us that afternoon. There were a few times I wanted to throw the drummer off the balcony - he was just a weird guy - but as long as he kept his mouth shut, we got along great. Claire was sweet, Russell was friendly and attractive, and we all agreed to get together again sometime. I genuinely looked forward to it. 

******* 

Weeks went by. Thanks to my tryst with Tristan, I felt better able to focus on work and life in general. Macy was having a hard time being on her feet for full shifts, so Steve and I upped our hours. We were helped by the hiring of a part-time cook, a retired, older Asian man named Alvin, who picked up on our recipes quicker than I expected. It was only because of him that Tristan was able to surprise me with some genuine progress. 

"So... how about another try at a date?" I jumped at the sudden voice behind me. 

Putting both hands flat on the counter, I closed my eyes and said with a controlled voice, "Tristan, don't just start talking behind a person with a knife." 

"Sorry," he said, unconvincingly, as I turned around to face him. "I mean, I know we haven't really talked since... whatever... but I have an idea, and I'd like to see what you think." 

"A real date?" 

"Well, real for us, I mean. For our little arrangement. The usual rules apply, I assume. Even after..." 

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," I said quickly, glancing around. I hadn't said anything to anyone about sleeping with Tristan, and judging by the fact that no one had mentioned it or had been giving me strange looks, I was guessing he had kept his mouth shut, too. Then in a lower voice, I said, "I'm game. I'm off Friday." 

"Saturday," he said. "It has to be Saturday. See if Alvin can work with Macy that night - Steve's off." 

"It has to be Saturday?" 

Tristan shrugged and nodded. 

"I'll let you know," I told him. 

That evening, I talked to Macy, and she said Alvin seemed ready to cover a Saturday night with just her around. That left me no excuse. Not that I was looking for one. I was genuinely curious what Tristan had planned. 

As Tristan walked past me near the end of his shift that night, I said casually, "Saturday's good." 

He paused, half-smiled, and said, "I'll give you details on Friday, then," and headed out the door. 

******* 

Saturday found me waiting for my "date" outside a little shop with an identity crisis. Part coffee shop, part cocktail lounge, part bakery, it defied easy categorization, as evidenced by the contrast between the early eveing crowd on its way out and the later evening crowd heading in. I saw a sign outside advertising an open mic night and cringed inwardly at the thought of hacks and wannabes assaulting my ears while I tried to have a simple conversation. I didn't realize how uncomfortable and tense I was getting until the squeal of brakes from a passing bus made me crouch down and pull the hood of my light jacket up over my head. I had my hands on my ears and could feel my heart thumping in my throat. 

It only took a few seconds, I think, for me to calm down and slowly stand up again. Just as I did, Tristan walked up and gave me a curious look. 

"Something wrong?" he asked. 

"Just startled," I said awkwardly, angry at myself for feeling exposed and weak. 

Tristan half-smiled and opened his mouth to speak. I braced for a snide comment, but then his expression changed, softening. He closed his mouth, shrugged, then opened the door for me. I followed him in, trying to relax, and maneuvered past chaotically arranged chairs and tables until we got to a booth along the wall. The room was half-full, and the waitress (server? barista?) snatched up a handwritten "Reserved" sign from our table before slipping away. 

"What's the game here?" I asked Tristan as we settled in our seats, the leather cushions making awkward noises as we adjusted. 

Sitting across from me and glancing at a half-page drink menu, Tristan said softly without making eye contact, "You'll seeee..." Then he looked up at me and smiled. "I'm not going to tell you what to get, but I hear this one is something special," he said, pointing to a description of a mixed drink with a cutesy name. 

"I'm not getting drunk tonight," I warned him, trying to hide suspicion from my voice. 

"Me neither," he agreed, rolling his eyes in genuine regret over the circumstances of our last encounter. "Not that... I mean... I just..." 

"Never mind," I interrupted him. "I'll just... try to take that in the best possible light." 

"Thanks," he said, embarrassed but smiling appreciatively. Just then, the server came back and took our orders. I took Tristan's suggestion, and as the server swayed out of sight, I felt the slightest twinge of jealousy at the way Tristan's eyes followed her ass. Then he shook his head, as if waking himself up, and turned his attention towards the stage, where a very slight young girl was plugging in a guitar. 

"You brought me here for the open mic night?" I asked skeptically. 

Tristan bobbed his head from shoulder to shoulder. "Eh, kinda. You'll see." Then he turned to face me. Asking about my week and a few other safe topics, he actually drew me into conversation. Still, it was Tristan, and he couldn't resist turning some topics into chances to boast about himself, but he seemed more aware of it now, or else my expressions cued him in to how lame he sounded. 

During one lull in the conversation, I got brave - or stupid (I was on my second hard drink, after all). "Tell me about your freshman year of college," I said, casually. 

"Freshman year?" he replied nervously. Staring me down for a few seconds, he knew it wasn't a simple question. "Oh... you kn-n-n-now about that," he concluded, letting slip the stutter that I had heard once or twice before. 

"I've heard rumors," I lied, not wanting him to know how much I might already have heard. 

Tristan looked away thoughtfully for a moment, then cringed as a cowboy with a guitar butchered a perfectly good love song. Why did he bring me to an open mic night in this dingy place? It was a perfectly nice spring evening: we could have been outside enjoying the fresh air... 

"So... like I told you before, by the time I got to college, I suddenly had the body of a stud but the personality of a... uh... I was pretty inexperienced." He looked at me for a response. I put some popcorn in my mouth and watched him silently.  

"I did OK academically, but I was struggling in physics. The professor had made a big deal out of being there to help us and how we should take advantage of her office hours..." I tried not to smirk when he said "take advantage." It felt childish, but I was loosening up. 

"So I went by her office one afternoon. She was really helpful, so I came back a week later. My scores started improving. A few days before midterms, I stopped by to ask her a quick question about an assignment, but she was packing up her briefcase to leave for the weekend. She said I should walk with her to her car and we could talk on the way. By the time we got to her car, she had answered my question and we were just chatting about college life. She offered me a ride back to my dorm. When we got there, she asked about my plans for that weekend. It was Friday night, and I told her my roommate had gone home for the weekend, so I was going to try to get all studied up for midterms. She was real quiet for a minute, then just leaned over and started kissing me. I was freaked out at first. I mean, girls were still kinda new to me, though not totally. But here was this older woman - my professor - and she was married..." 

Tristan's face was confused, almost a little frightened as he relived the encounter. It occurred to me that if the genders had been reversed, we would have been calling this a sexual assault. Tristan's expression slowly changed, though, and a hint of a smile accompanied the next part of his story. 

"But when a woman comes on to you like that, especially a hot woman, a guy's body starts to overrule whatever objections his mind has. She stopped kissing and asked me, 'Can you sneak a woman into your room?' I don't remember if I even answered her, but she sat back, put the car in gear, and sped around to the parking lot behind my dorm. I ran to the main entrance, then snuck her in through the computer lab in the basement. We were half undressed by the time we got to my room. She stayed all night and then some. I did pretty bad on all my midterms - except hers..." 

He stared over my shoulder into the past for a moment, and I heard an older man with long, hippie hair reciting poetry from the stage. 

"It lasted a month or so," he said, looking down at his drink and stirring it. "I wasn't a virgin when we started, but I might as well have been. Boy, did I learn some things." He chuckled nervously and shifted in his seat. "It didn't matter to me that she was older. She was still very... sexy. And eager. And... and... I mean, it was like she really enjoyed being with me. That was... that was so new and welcome." He smiled to himself, seeming to forget that I was there. "I still... I mean, she's still probably the memory that sticks with me the most... as far as... you know, fantasies and stuff like that." Then his face darkened in a moment of self-awareness. Maybe he was broken out of his trance by the sudden laughter that filled the room when an amateur comedian got the crowd worked up. He looked up at me and paled a little, either just realizing I was there or perhaps just now consciously noticing the resemblance between me and his professor. 

"Anyway, I screwed it up," he continued. "I had secretly taken some pictures of us in bed that first weekend, and a few weeks later, when an old high school friend was teasing me about how I was probably still a virgin in college, I sent a picture just to shut him up. But he sent the picture to another friend, and eventually it got back to someone at my college. And then it really spread. She got fired, and I felt horrible. Her name got dragged through the mud and she didn't talk to me again. I can't blame her: I was stupid, really, really stupid. It's not like it was love or anything, I mean... I was confused and was probably feeling something, but I knew it was just a fling for her... something to get back at her husband or something... She never really told me." He grimaced briefly, then shrugged and flashed a fake smile. "So anyway, that was my brush with being in the national news." 

Tristan was becoming more complicated than I wanted him to be. The story didn't make him look great, but he came off less as an asshole and more like a stupid kid who probably never meant to hurt anyone. I felt bad bringing it up and tried to think of some way to recover or redirect the conversation. I was saved by, of all people, Steve. 

Steve? Yes, it was Steve's voice I heard up on stage. Steve's awkward cuteness introducing a song as he pulled a banjo onto his lap. 

"Is that Steve?" I asked Tristan in amazement. "Did you know?..." 

Tristan smiled broadly, winked at me, then turned in his seat to face the stage. Well done, Tristan, well done. I had heard Steve talk about being a musician, but to my sudden shame, I had never heard him play. He was good. In the kitchen, he was an OK cook; he could get by. But he belonged on stage. The crowd seemed to know him - many of them sang along to some of his originals or requested covers that he seemed to know well. He played much longer than anyone else, but no one minded. Once he was done, it seemed like the open mic night was over. I noticed Tristan was paying our bill. 

"We should go say hi to..." I began, but then realized that I still did not want to be seen out with Tristan. 

"You should," he corrected me. "I'll uh, I'll just head out. Thanks for a fun evening, Mona." 

"Yeah," I said, feeling conflicted as I leaned over and gave him a friendly hug. He smelled nice. "Thank you, Tristan. I... I enjoyed this." 

He smiled broadly at that, then slipped through the crowd towards the door. I wormed my way towards the stage, finding Steve talking awkwardly with a few "fans." It was funny to think of Steve having fans, and I chuckled as I moved forward to stand among them. 

"Mona!" he cried out, moving towards me. As he leaned in for a hug, he mumbled in my ear, "Help me get outta here?" 

It wasn't the kind of extraction operation I was used to doing, but I managed to get him to safer ground pretty easily. Since my table had already been cleared (and I didn't want to have to explain why I had a table for two, anyway), I led us back out to the street. Steve and I chatted for a few minutes before I headed home, but not before telling him about a certain jam session that he would have to attend with me next time it happened. 

******* 

When Russell called to tell me about the next get-together, I felt something that I couldn't remember having felt in ages. It was a frightened and excited giddiness that made my stomach tingle. I told myself it was excitement over new friendships, excitement over being able to play music again, happiness that I was available that day, eagerness to bring Steve along. All of that was true, but I think most of the giddiness was my own desire to see Russell again. 

The "Rainy Day Band" (as our eccentric drummer Rusty called us) welcomed Steve, who was in turn completely infatuated with Claire, the keyboardist. I had to help him not to make a fool of himself. 

"She's not interested in me, though," Steve complained to me while we prepped dishes later that night. "And I can't say for sure, but I think she's a good bit older than me, too." 

"Well, in any case, you've made it clear you can't keep your eyes off her," I chided him in a big-sisterly way. "Good thing you tend to close your eyes when you play music, or it might have gotten awkward." 

"You're one to talk," he replied. 

"Excuse me?" 

"What, you think no one sees you staring down the bass player?" 

"What?" I gasped, caught by surprise, which is an unfamiliar position I hate to be in. "I didn't... I'm not..." 

"Yeah, go ahead. Let me know when you're ready to admit it." 

"He's handsome," I said, as if that was explanation enough. 

"And that's all it takes to interest you?" he said, tricking me into a reply. 

"No," I snapped defensively, taking the bait. "He's handsome and friendly and talented and runs his own business and..." 

"I get it, I get it," he cut me off with a triumphant smile. "You're totally into him. You could've just said so in the first place." 

I growled at Steve, frustrated that he had so easily turned the tables on me. "Anyway, despite what he said in the parking lot about them not dating, he seems to have something with Claire, don't you think?" 

"Nope," Steve said confidently. 

"You know something I don't?" 

"I overheard Rusty talking to Claire in the kitchen. He referred to Russell as 'the dude who is your friend but who is not and never will be your boyfriend,'" Steve said, using his best stoner voice to imitate Rusty. 

"Sounds like something Rusty would say," I said softly, trying to ignore the way my heart had begun racing. Then trying to turn the focus back to Steve, I joked, "Your act would sound great with a piano..." 

He stood looking thoughtful for a few seconds, then said, "Maybe, but too much trouble to transport. And Claire's a soprano. Give me an alto with a guitar and some real hips, and I'd put a ring on her finger." 

******* 

And so began the most interesting, unusual, confusing, and significant summer of my life. The Rainy Day Band continued to meet every few weeks, giving me time to learn more about Russell. Macy gave birth to an adorable baby girl and took a few months off (leaving me to train her temporary replacement). Rollo got married, and I stood somewhat awkwardly among his line of groomsmen. I had forgotten that I needed to be there a few days early and ended up backing out of a jam session at the last minute. In my haste, I told Steve to have Russell call me. I took a lot of teasing for that. But Russell did call... 

And Tristan continued his "training" to become a likable person. To be honest, he had already gotten pretty likable, though maybe that's because I had invested the time to dig below the assholeish exterior. I think he even knew that his public face was disgusting, but he had worn it for so long that it had ceased to be a conscious act. He just defaulted to schmooze and womanizing. I invokd Rule #4 at least once a week, and though I still kept my list of his more serious infractions, it was mostly just a threat.