Jamal's Friday Night

I had just wrapped up a two-hour training session with one of my favorite clients, a stay-at-home mom of three whose husband was a high-ranking executive in the local financial sector. I had been working with Angie for about two years, and her hard work and dedication to fitness always impressed me.

It was about eight o'clock on a Friday night, and most Friday evenings found me doing paperwork and bookkeeping for my personal training business or, if I was lucky, either watching some sports on TV or catching up on my Netflix queue.

But tonight, as I was walking back to my car after the session with Angie, my phone dinged with a new text message. It was from Spencer, one of my workout buddies who was always bragging about how much more he could bench and deadlift than I could. Luckily, I'm a far superior racquetball and squash player, and you can bet I never let him forget that.

'Hey Jamal, you up for clubbing tonight? Need to let off some steam.'

Now I'm not a regular clubber by any means, at least I haven't been one since my college days. I might go a few times a year, usually with Spencer or one of my other guy friends, have a couple of beers, dance for a bit, and call it a night. If I'm lucky, I might meet a nice woman or two and get a phone number or e-mail address. It had been a while, though, and I felt like unwinding a bit; bookkeeping could wait.

I texted Spencer back. 'Sure, meet you at the usual spot around 10?'

'Great, see you there @ 10', he responded.

That gave me enough time to go home, eat a quick dinner, take a shower, and get dressed. I drove from the gym in Northwest Portland where I had met Angie back to my apartment just west of Downtown.

My name is Jamal Thomas. I'm twenty-six and I'm a self-employed personal trainer. It's a one-man show, but I've built up a great reputation by word of mouth, and many of my clients run in Portland's higher social circles. Angie is a typical client of mine, young to middle-aged, either a successful local businessperson or married to one. I grew up in New York City - in the Bronx, Baychester to be exact - but I moved out to Oregon after I graduated from college looking for a fresh start. I've managed to not only start a successful business, but also to make a wide and diverse circle of friends; while I do stand out as a tall, athletic African-American man in a city that's three-fourths white, I can honestly say I love it here. I always tell people it's the best move I ever made.

Back at my apartment, I fixed myself a quick dinner. After that, I took a long, hot shower, gave myself a fresh shave, and dressed casually but sharply in a light-blue button-down shirt, tan khakis, and black loafers. I brushed my teeth and lightly applied some cologne in a few strategic locations. I was ready to head out.

I met Spencer at the nightclub downtown that we usually go to, a pretty classy place and one of Portland's more upscale clubs. The beer selection is great - I'm not really a hard liquor guy - and the music isn't bad. The ladies are a cut above a lot of the other clubs in town - think young professional women instead of sorority girls. I ordered a bottle of Stella Artois while Spencer went for a gin and tonic, and we caught up on the day. Spencer works for a local TV station selling advertising, and it's been pretty stressful for him lately.

At about ten thirty, we finished our drinks and hit the dance floor. We started by dancing solo, almost side-by-side but not together. The EDM that was playing had an infectious beat, perfect for unwinding and, as Spencer put it, letting off steam. I danced with a few young ladies, including this one cute redhead who'd obviously had a few cocktails. Her name was Natalie, and she was sweet and friendly - a bit too friendly, as she couldn't keep her hands off me - but I let it go at that. In my book, taking advantage of a drunk woman is not cool under any circumstances.

I checked in with Spencer back at the bar and ordered myself another Stella, while Spencer chose a locally-brewed pale ale this time. We finished our second drinks around midnight and headed back out to dance. After a few minutes on the floor, my attention was captured by a striking young woman a few feet away. I discreetly moved in her direction so I could get a better look, and I'm glad I did.

I saw her from the back at first. She was dancing with a group of three other ladies who appeared to be her friends. And boy, could she move. She was on the taller-than-average side, maybe five-foot-seven or five-foot-eight, and she had a body that wouldn't quit. She was clearly a gym rat with an affinity for weights - her traps, delts, and biceps practically popped out of her white tank top. I also caught a glimpse of a tattoo by her left shoulder blade, though it was partly obscured by her long, silky black hair. Her ass was tight and toned in her red miniskirt and her legs were long and shapely, as buff as the rest of her. She didn't have the exaggerated muscles of a bodybuilder - she was just firm and fit all over, pretty much perfect in my eyes.

She started to turn around to face in my direction, and my heart began to race as I got my first look at her face. Not only did she have a smoldering hot body, she was easy on the eyes as well. She was the textbook definition of a beautiful Asian woman: delicate almond-shaped dark brown eyes; a skin tone somewhere around golden tan; that incredible black hair that hung about to her chest and had a slight waviness to it. Her delectable lips were highlighted by lipstick in a Maraschino cherry shade of red, matched by red teardrop earrings dangling from her ears. I wanted to catch her eye eventually, but I wasn't ready yet.

Now, I might not seem like the kind of guy who would have trouble approaching a beautiful woman. I'm six-foot-three and I keep myself in top-notch shape as a personal trainer; I'm successful at what I do, and I feel like I usually come off as confident and self-assured. So I could have any woman I desire, right? Well, not so much - around women I'm attracted to, I'm not the same man. I get nervous and sweaty, I'm self-conscious, and I lose the ability to speak English coherently, coming across as a mealy-mouthed idiot. Sure, I've had my share of hookups and flings and relationships, but they often started with the woman taking the initiative.

I knew I couldn't just stand there, though, and hope this luscious Asian beauty would notice me first. I had to be bold and willing to go outside of my comfort zone. I moved a few steps in her direction, watching her eyes closely. When I saw her attention momentarily switch away from her group of girlfriends, I moved a few steps closer still, until I was standing almost directly across from her. My heart was nearly beating out of my chest at this point as I got a closer look at her amazing body and her stunning face.

And then, before I was ready, before I'd had a chance to collect my thoughts - eye contact! I froze up momentarily, transfixed by those deep brown eyes. Her red lips parted in a smile, revealing a row of perfect, gleaming white teeth. I smiled back in the least awkward way I could, and we began dancing together - nothing suggestive, just two people having fun. After a couple of songs, there was enough of a break in the noise that I could hear myself think. I leaned in toward her to introduce myself.

"Hi, my name's Jamal," I said, extending my right hand toward hers.

"Hi, Jamal, I'm Ivy," she replied with a genuine warmth. "It's nice to meet you." She shook my hand gently but firmly.

Before we had a chance to move beyond pleasantries, the music started up again. Ivy - I was pretty sure I'd never met anyone called Ivy before, but somehow the name suited her perfectly. Ivy and I danced together for a good while, and I could swear that she seemed to inch closer to me as the night went along. At some point I offered to buy her a drink, but she politely declined, saying she'd finished three drinks already and that was her limit. I was relieved that she was the kind of person who was mindful of her consumption and not just out to get wasted.

By the last couple of songs of the night, Ivy was dancing just a few inches from me. Her moves and her energy were just crazy - she didn't let up the whole time. A few times she actually brushed against me, and I'm not sure if it was incidental or deliberate. Either way, I wasn't complaining! Ivy was close enough for me to smell, and her scent was intoxicating - a sultry mix of vanilla, lavender, and pure woman. Of course, I spent much of the night just mesmerized by her body. God, what I wouldn't give to get an up-close look at what was underneath that tank top and miniskirt. As closing time neared and the party atmosphere started to wind down, Ivy looked around and caught the eye of one of her friends, who made a motion toward the exit.

I leaned in to hear Ivy over the music. "I think my friends are ready to leave, so I have to go. But I had fun and it was nice to meet you. Good night!" she nearly shouted into my ear.

Ivy paused for a few seconds, as if to give me a chance to ask for her contact information. Like a complete fool, I let my nerves get the best of me and I couldn't bring myself to speak, so Ivy smiled and began to walk toward her group of friends. I was on the verge of letting her go, of letting another opportunity slip away, when I decided that this time, I would not let that happen. I caught up with Ivy by the exit and placed my hand gently on her shoulder. She turned around, seeming almost surprised to see me. "Oh, hey, Jamal!" she said with a smile.

"Hey, Ivy, I had a great time tonight. I'd love to talk sometime. Can I give you my number?" I asked her, my heartbeat racing.

"Sure, why not?" she responded. I searched my wallet for a business card, but I had unfortunately run out. I told her my contact information, which she hastily scribbled on the inside of her left hand with a pen. I took out my phone and created a contact for Ivy, and I listened intently above the din of the nightclub as she sounded out her phone number.

We bid one another good night once more, and she was on her way. I found Spencer back at the bar, having another beer, and I couldn't help but share my good fortune. I pointed out Ivy to him as she and her friends left the club.

"Oh, wow. She's something else!" he exclaimed. "My God, Asian women are so beautiful, aren't they? You're a lucky guy."

"She seemed to be into me. Maybe I'll send her a message later. Or I could sell you her number for a hundred bucks!" I joked.

Spencer pulled his wallet from his pocket. "Dude, I was just kidding," I laughed.

"Man, if I had the cash I might just be willing to pay you," he said. "Seriously, though, good for you. And if she was into you? Make sure you do something about it, that's all I'm saying."

We hung out at the bar for a bit longer - I had a Diet Coke since I was driving home. Spencer is a big, burly guy - he used to play football, offensive and defensive line - so he can handle a few more drinks than I can.

Spencer and I left around one thirty, just as the club was closing. We went our separate ways; he called and Uber and I made my way back to my car. By the time I drove up to my apartment building, it was nearly two o'clock. I was ready to head up to my place and get to bed, but something stopped me. 'Make sure you do something about it', Spencer had said.

I took out my phone and started a text message to Ivy, hoping I had heard her well enough to have her number right! Again I hesitated, afraid of rejection, afraid of coming off as too aggressive. But I reminded myself to 'do something about it', to stay determined and grab the moment. This was no time to get cold feet.

My hands were trembling in excitement as I tapped out a quick text. 'Hey Ivy, it's Jamal, from the club. You still up?'

Before I had a chance to analyze and overthink the situation, I'd hit 'Send'. I sat in the car for a moment, nervously awaiting a response. After about three minutes, I had given up on hearing back and once again I prepared to head up to my apartment. Oh well - I tried, I thought. She probably already went to bed. I can try her again another time, right? Or maybe it just wasn't meant to be.

Then, once I had made up my mind to move on: Ding!

It was from Ivy. 'Sure, you thinking what I'm thinking? My place OK?'

Now, if she meant a hookup, I'm not sure that's exactly what I had in mind - but when someone as mind-blowingly gorgeous as Ivy even hints at the prospect, you don't turn it down! 'Great! Where do you live?' I wrote back. She sent me her address, which I plugged into my phone for driving directions. Ivy lived in the Pearl District, north of Downtown, less than ten minutes away. Now feeling confident and exhilarated, I made my way through the nearly empty city streets to her building, which was a newer high-rise in a nice part of the city. I parked my car across the street and sat for a minute, attempting to calm my nerves and summon my courage. There was no way I could let her see how nervous I really was.

I sent her a text letting her know I'd arrived, but as I approached the front door of her building, I saw that it wasn't necessary. She was already waiting in the lobby to let me in.

Ivy opened the door for me. "Hey," I greeted her with a smile, trying my best to seem cool, even a bit flirtatious.

"Hey yourself," she responded, giving me a mischievous bat of her eyelashes. I think I know what she's thinking, I told myself. I could feel the nervous excitement welling up inside me and a rise forming in my pants at the mere idea of getting intimate with Ivy.

Ivy had changed out of her clubbing outfit into soft lavender pajamas and matching slippers, but she was no less alluring. Her eyes and her smile were still radiant, and her fit, athletic body was still very much in evidence! Peeking down into her pajama top, I could just catch the outline of a pair of small, firm, tan breasts. I got just a little harder, and it was starting to show through my khakis!

Even though the sexual tension was palpable, we managed to make some small talk as we rode the elevator up to her fifth-floor apartment. "So, what do you do?" I asked her, genuinely curious.

"Me? I'm a musician," she replied. "A classical musician. I play the viola in the Oregon Symphony."

"The viola? Is that anything like the violin?" I inquired, betraying my complete ignorance of anything related to classical music.

"Yeah, it's similar, but slightly bigger and a little deeper in pitch," she explained. "It's more complicated than this, but without getting too technical, think of it this way: the violins play the melody and the cellos and double basses play the bass line, so the viola fills in the middle. It may not sound exciting, but it's actually really interesting. How about you?"

"I'm a personal trainer, kind of a freelancer. I have my own business and about fifteen to twenty regular clients," I said.

"That's really cool," Ivy responded. "I'm a total fitness nerd!"

"I can tell, it definitely shows," I said, once again admiring her impressive build. "What are your workouts like?"

"Well, I do CrossFit three times a week and I try to run or bike on most of the other days," she said. "I also love to hike and rock climb when I can, and right now I'm taking a mountaineering class."

We stepped off the elevator and walked down the hall toward her apartment. "Wow, that's great! I haven't tried CrossFit myself, but I do like what it's about. Especially the focus on strength training. Too many programs are all about cardio and nothing else." Not wanting to get lost in an in-depth discussion on fitness, I changed the subject. "Are you from around here? I mean, did you grow up in Portland?"

"I'm from outside of Chicago originally. I was actually born in South Korea, but an American family adopted me when I was a baby," she answered. "I moved to Portland about seven years ago when I joined the Symphony. Yourself?"

"I grew up in New York - the Bronx - and I moved here after college. I needed a fresh start, so I switched coasts. I absolutely love it here," I said.

"Me too. It's amazing city and there's so much natural beauty around here. I couldn't imagine living anywhere else," she said with a sweet smile.

Ivy unlocked the front door of her apartment and guided me in. The place was neat and tidy, tastefully furnished, but still intimate and cozy.

I was uneasy about the next question, but I wanted to ask it anyway. There's a stereotype - which I often find to be true - that Asian women age amazingly well, so Ivy could be in her forties for all I knew. "You say you've been out here seven years. Do you mind my asking how old you are? I turned twenty-six last month," I said with some apprehension in my voice, hoping that offering my own age would make her more likely to reveal hers.

"Oh, don't worry. Age is just a number, right?" she laughed. "I'm twenty-nine and proud of every one of those years." Knowing she was fairly close to my age made Ivy seem just a bit less intimidating.

I followed Ivy into her darkened bedroom, where she turned on a bedside lamp. I was beginning to feel more at ease after our conversation. So many beautiful women can be pretentious and arrogant, but Ivy seemed friendly and down to earth. A small white dog - a Maltese, I think - was asleep in the middle of her bed. "This is Pixie, my little cuddle bug," she said with a hearty laugh. "Excuse me for just a moment." Careful not to wake Pixie, Ivy gingerly scooped her up and carried her out to the living room.

Waiting anxiously for Ivy to return, I removed my shoes but, not wanting to seem intrusive or presumptuous, I remained clothed and standing by the bedside. I was nearly quivering with anticipation.

Ivy finally reappeared, and she did not waste any time making her intentions clear. She walked up to me and gave me a playful, seductive look with her big brown eyes, then started unbuttoning my shirt. Once all the buttons were undone, she carefully pulled the shirt down over my arms and let it fall to the floor.

"Wow, look at you," she purred, running her soft hands over every inch of my well-defined chest muscles and my stomach, from shoulders to waist.

Following her lead, I unbuttoned Ivy's luxuriously soft pajama top. She helped by pulling her arms out and letting it drop next to my shirt. She was every bit the goddess I had imagined and more. Her chest and shoulders looked like they were chiseled from stone, firm and toned but not bulky, and her abdominal muscles had the beginnings of a six-pack shape. In between were those breasts I had caught sight of earlier under her pajamas, two perfectly shaped light bronze mounds, probably A-cup sized, with taut reddish-brown nipples that just begged for attention.

"And look at you!" I said excitedly. I gently rubbed Ivy's upper body, from her neck outward, taking the chance to feel those rippling muscles I had been admiring all night. This woman was in as good a shape as I was - and I do it for a living! I slowly slid my hands down her sides, careful not to touch those delicious breasts just yet.

By now my cock, which before had slowly been working its way to full arousal, had snapped to attention and wanted nothing more than to escape the confines of my pants. Ivy obligingly unhooked my belt and removed it, then she unbuttoned and unzipped my slacks and started to pull them down. I lightly wiggled my thighs and my pants slid effortlessly to the floor. My erection was ready to explode out of my red tartan boxers. Ivy brushed it from outside my boxers at first, then began to stroke it lightly, finally grabbing it and giving it a playful squeeze. "I can't wait to see what you do with this," she said mischievously.

"Mmmm," I responded with a smile, not quite knowing the right words to say. I reached over and placed my hands on her shapely waist, then slipped my thumbs inside the waistband of her pajama pants. I eased them down over her hips, where they glided down her legs and joined my khakis on the floor. Feeling emboldened, I reached my hands inside the back of her white lace panties, cupping my hands around the succulent booty that first caught my attention at the club inside that skin-tight red miniskirt. Even her glute muscles were well defined, though the cheeks themselves were firm but pliant with just the right amount of give.