The Right Client Ch. 01 Pt. 02

It's the next morning, and you're in the bathroom, putting on your workout clothes. You're not gonna make the same baggy sweatpants mistake you did yesterday. This time, leggings: your cute pink and black number from Lululemon. They flare out a bit at the calves, and they make your beautiful butt even more heart-shaped and firm than usual. Underneath: some stretchy grey "hipster" style panties, hugging your ass tight. Up top, a breathable teal tank that "just happens" to stop short of your waist, keeping that butt in view.

"Daddy likey," I leer, as I wander into the bathroom searching for mouthwash. A goofy comment, yes, but you'll allow it, especially when I come up behind you and start rubbing up on your ass. You like that. After 15 years of marriage, our sex isn't quite as frequent as it used to be (honestly, it's down to maybe just once-a-month now, if that), so tiny unprompted moments of horniness like this are nice, and welcome.

"Wear this tonight," I purr into your ear as I grab a handful of butt. You mumble: huh? "Date night," I say. "I like this for date night."

That's right, you remember, today's Friday. Every Friday night is date night for us. It's one of the ways we stay connected, no matter how busy our lives get with kids, and the PTA, and my codemonkey gig, and the consultant work you do for non-profits, in addition to my breadmaking (not money... like, actual bread. How did your husband end up with breadmaking for a hobby?). It all piles up, but we always know: on Friday night, it's just you and me.

"Not quite sure this is museum attire," you say, "now git!" You shove me out of the room as you run a brush through your hair and put it up in a cute ponytail. Ready, you think, giving yourself one last look-over in the mirror. Ready for that Gym 68 place. Though just before turning away, you do wonder—for the most fleeting of milliseconds—if maybe you should put on a little makeup. Just a touch? But no, you immediately decide. That's stupid. You're not going to wear makeup to a gym.

***

The first thing you notice about Holly, at the gym, is her makeup. Particularly her lipstick. She's got the reddest, wettest lips you've ever seen in your life.

"Hi, welcome," she says to you from behind the counter with half a grin, that lasts for half a second. You can spot an insincere greeting when you get one, and that's what you just got from Holly. You know her name is Holly because her nametag says "Holly". It also says "'Candy Shop,' 50 Cent," which you've never before seen printed on a nametag. In any event, this Holly seems annoyed that you've made her look up from her phone. She's probably 22, this Holly, a college girl. And she's wearing mascara, eyeliner, and even a little bit of blush to go with the berry-red gloss on those lips of hers, this Holly is. Maybe the tiniest bit trashy, perhaps, but you're not gonna judge. Holly's got a dimple on her chin and darkish eyebrows, with long blonde hair (of the bleached variety) falling down over her barely-there jogging bra. Nestled between the cleavage of her breasts—which, there's no denying, are perfect—is a "68" pendant dangling from a gold chain, matching the "68" belly-button ring flashing from her sidewalk-flat stomach. If this Holly is NOT a professional model, you'd be fucking shocked.

"I'm here to see Quinten," you say. "Trainer will be right out," is her reply, striking you as kind of an odd choice of verbiage. You ask where you can get a towel, and she sighs, stepping away from the counter, revealing that she's wearing the shortest and tightest of short, tight booty shorts. A light lime green. She turns around to the towel rack and you notice (it's basically impossible not to) the lines of her g-string panty, pushing its way through her lycra. You can even make out the fabric design on the g-string: looks like a tiger print. "Trashy Touch Number 2," you might otherwise think, but again, you're not here to judge. You just wonder how Holly can possibly work out in that. But clearly she DOES work out. A lot. Because this bleach-blonde little college chick has a bubble butt that one normally only sees on—well, let's be blunt—only sees on black chicks. I mean, goddamn. If a team of lab-techs tried to scientifically generate the most-anatomically perfect round bubble ass ever grown on a white girl, they'd barely come close to what this Holly has on her.

Okay, you come to realize, it's not her receptionist demeanor that they keep her around for.

Anyway, Holly plops a towel into your hand, and immediately you discover Quinten at your side (how does a man this big keep sneaking up to you unseen?). He looks down at you through those frameless glasses of his. His green eyes claiming ownership of your gaze. Without much of a smile, Quinten gestures you into his gym. You walk in, as bidden.

"Holly's nice," you say.

Quinten shrugs.

"What's her nametag about?", you ask. Nervous chatter. You don't really need to talk, but you feel like you should talk, or at least that's what you're doing, is talking. Because: nervous. "It's an interesting nametag. Caught my eye." Quinten just shrugs again.

"'"Candy Shop", 50 Cent.' Right? That's what it said? What—what is that? What's that mean?"

Quinten sighs. He removes his glasses, rubbing them clean in his white workout top (which exposes, for a moment, his slate-hard abs). Finally, returning his glasses to his chiseled face, Quinten replies: "Know how, some movie theater workers, the nametag says their favorite movie? At Gym 68, the nametag says your favorite track to fuck to."

Quentin leads you to a padded wall, touches a spot down low.

"Now put your ass right here."

Um, okay. And do what?

"Just that. That's plenty, girl."

A wall-sit, this is called. You've done 'em before. Okay. No biggie. You nestle that cute ass of yours up against the wall.

"Get lower, baby."

Quinten grasps your hips in his hands—they're big enough to envelop your hips, his hands are, and then some. His hands are like catchers' mitts. And with those giant mitts, Quentin unapologetically pulls your hips down lower, lower... lower down the wall. Soooo low, 'til, okay, whoa, now this is a REAL squat.

"And put those shoulders back, girl."

He presses your shoulders back against the wall. The sweep of your frame leaves a hollow space behind the small of your back, the rest of your body curved, engaged, completely taut. Presented. Your breasts are now pushing forward tightly against the inside of your cute lycra tank. Down below your sports bra, your nipples involuntarily stiffen. It's kinda hot, but you genuinely don't notice that. You cannot. All you can notice right now is the full fucking burn that's beginning to rise in your thighs. And also you notice the sound and, frankly, the FEEL of the rap music in this gym—so loud, so bass-heavy—just thrumming and vibrating through the wall, and right into the cheeks of your ass.

"How long do I have to do this, Quinten?", you ask.

"In here, you can call me 'Trainer'."

That's a bit silly, you think, but you're not gonna argue with him... not when he's the one who gets to decide when you can quit this wall-sit. You ask again: "how long do I have to do this... Trainer?"

"'Til I come back and stop you." Quinten (er, "Trainer") strides off, leaving you there, which you're not thrilled about, but you don't really mind the view of him walking away: that sooooo-muscular ass and those strong, gorgeous thighs in his black lycra. It's not a body builder's physique, exactly... which is good, 'cause you're not really into body builders. Honestly, 15 years of marriage with me has you appreciating goofy thin guys with cute little beer guts (hey, like me!). But you can certainly find a way to appreciate that body on Quinten. That big body. That strong body. That... well, that MAN's body. A black man's body.

Meanwhile, YOUR body is really starting to feel it. Your thighs, especially. Fucking wall-sits! Never your favorite! Trying to take your mind off the burn, you look around.

You notice that—as was the case the first time you came to Gym 68—the place is full of black men, working out. Each one is more beautiful and toned than the last. There's a shirtless guy in baggy hoop shorts and tats. Over there's a stocky man in a hoodie and AirPods, with his dreads pulled up in a top knot. And so many more, all around you, Christy, and all so powerful. Confident. Cocky, even. And, well... just quintessentially black. Seriously, Christy, if you were into black guys, this... this'd definitely be the place. Just nothing but black men and, yup, white women. Almost all of the white women are working out in makeup. Almost all of the white women are wearing booty shorts. Tight, daring booty shorts. "Okay... well..." you manage to think to yourself, through the rising strain in your legs, "if... if they can pull it off, I guess..."

And yes, that strain continues to increase. The longer that wall-sit goes, the more that fire spreads to your quads and glutes, your calves and core, your inner thighs... everything. Everything hurts. You desperately try to not think about the pain. You look around some more.

There's Holly flirting with Quinten over there. Again, through her stupid light green booty shorts, you can see her stupid tiger stripe g-string panties plunging down between the cheeks of her stupid perfect bubble ass. And this time the g-string's not simply visible through her booty shorts... now there's a little spaghetti strap peeking up above the waistline of her shorts. So trashy! Yes, okay, THIS time you're judging. You're judging Holly and her tiny tiger-striped spaghetti strap that she's pretending not to notice as she smiles up at Quinten. Laughs at his jokes. Okay, so apparently this Holly chick DOES know how to be friendly??

Thighs of jello, spicy boiling jello. Your whole body vibrating. This is so hard. Please is Quinten coming back soon please?! No more wall sit pleaseplease????

Holly is just full-on touching Quinten everywhere now, up and down his chest, feeling Quinten's biceps (hey asshole, have you fucking forgotten about me?!). Now Holly's moving her hips a bit to the bass bump of the rap track, and now she's moving her lips—her shiny, wet red lips. She's idly rapping along to every lyric (which of course she would know by heart). Each mounted television in this place has a rap video playing... some of 'em synched with the music playing, others on mute, just moving images of shirtless rappers leering through the screen. Leering at you, Christy. Lurid. Carnal. Again, Christy, if you were into black guys...

Holy shit your body is REALLY quivering at this point. Sensation radiating outwards, down your calves and heels, up into your groin, abs and deeper. This is 1% great and 99% the worst feeling of your entire life. You truly can't do much more of this!! Outwardly, you whine and pant. Inwardly you fucking scream a prayer: pleasepleaseplease come back, Quinten!! Like: immediately!!

Now Holly is coquettishly close to Quinten. Standing below him. Dwarfed by him. But maintaining eye contact with him as she reapplies that whoreish-red gloss to her lips. And then—or are you just imagining this?—she sucks on her fingertip. Then—and you've GOT to be imagining this—she sucks on Quinten's fingertip?!?!

Down you tumble! Your legs have finally given out and you've fallen to the floor, Christy. Gasping. Sweating. Absolutely numb from your ribs to your pinky toe. Just a helpless heap, and now Holly's looking at you, and did she just laugh a little? Fucking bitch!!

And now Quinten's there above you: "Yo, what happened, girl?"

"You fucking left me is what happened, Quinten!", you shout from the floor.

Quinten glowers down at you. He's not happy. That's not how Quentin Borders is talked to. Plus you've addressed him improperly. "T—Trainer," you promptly correct yourself, "I—I'm sorry, Trainer, I just... I'm a klutz sometimes, and like—I get this inner-ear thing, and my stupid shoes—". Quinten cuts you off, casually scooping you up (your whole body, the way you'd lift a rolled-up bath mat. Truly, that's the size differential between you and this hulk of a man). The entirety of you rests like a doll in his arms as the feeling begins to slowly return to your limbs. You go quiet. You're speechless in the arms of this Adonis.

"C'mon, girl," he says, putting you back down on your feet. "I know you got more in you than that."

***

As the workout continues, you become less and less sure where Quinten's faith in you ever came from. And, worse, you increasingly fear that his faith may be on the wane.

You do bodyweight lunges until your inner thighs are screaming and you flop onto the nearest stool, resigned.

Quinten says: "C'mon now."

You do so many sets of barbell squats that your glutes feel like they're devouring themselves and you crumble to your knees in agony.

Quinten says: "That's all? F'real? Naw."

You do tricep dips until you swear that the muscles inside of your shoulders have ripped themselves free of your chest, and finally you lie down in abject surrender atop a press bench.

Quinten says: "Don't waste my time now."

You can only grunt. Moan. You're done. You have no more. This was all a huge mistake.

Quinten sighs. "Hang on. I got something for you."

You lie there, eyes closed. Your whole body is aching. Throbbing. Literally every particle within you painfully throbs in time with the rap beat that Gym 68 keeps bumping (I mean, really, does it HAVE to be this loud?!), and now your whole fucking head is throbbing too, and this will be your life now, a neverending throb of-

"Take this, girl."

It's Quinten. He's returned. And, as you open your eyes, you see that he's got something with him. It's a black squeeze bottle. Or maybe opal. Or dark-chocolate colored? Anyway, it's dark and it's thick and it's ribbed up the sides and it's tapered at the head.

"What's that?", you ask.

Not answering, Quinten inverts the ebony squeeze bottle. With a gentle pinch, the tiny puckered tip of the black bottle opens, expands, ejecting two small ounces of liquid into a small, clear plastic cup.

"What is that?", you ask again.

Your eyes are now fixed on the liquid. This fluid. It's white (or almost cream-colored, rather) and it's viscous (or almost slimy, rather), and... well, there's no reason to be coy about this, Christy, it looks like cum. What Quinten has squeezed out of that black squeeze bottle looks like a small, swirling, glistening cup of cum.

"What IS that, Quin- Trainer?"

"Supplement," he says. "To get you right. Something I've had my lab work on. Doesn't even have a real name yet, but we're calling it black pearl."

He hands it to you. You want no part of it.

"Swallow it."

It smells ungodly bad. An olfactory assault.

"Swallow it."

You reeeeally don't want to. But you also don't want to disappoint Quinten. You've disappointed him so much already today. Maybe if you take just the tiniest of tiny no-thank-you sips?

"Swallow it."

His voice has been even throughout, but Quinten is losing his patience, you can tell. You know he's not gonna say it again. You know this is your last chance to redeem yourself in his eyes. You know you've got no choice.

You bring the little plastic cup to your lips, and—GRAGGHHH!! FUCKING GROSS!! You've never tasted anything so disgusting! Salty and rancid! Gummy and bitter! Gelatenous! Metallic! Acrid! Fucking unfit for fucking human consumption! G'aaah!!

With a retch, you spit that shit out. How much of it got in your mouth? Not very much, really. But whatever got in there, you're now desperate to eject. Still, one tiny rivulet manages to dribble down the back of your throat, forcing you to gag. You heave. You fall to your knees in misery, gasping for breath, and cursing Quinten Borders.

"What the fuck is that fucking shit, Quinten—Trainer- whatever?! P-tah! G'ah! It's fucking disgusting! Holy fuck! Jesus Christ! No fucking way I'm drinking that, ever!!"

You spit again. Your stomach churns. Your head swims. But otherwise, all is silent. Like, completely silent. Even the rap music has somehow gone quiet. At last you look up to see Quinten scrutinizing you from above. No emotion. No reaction. Nothing whatsoever from Quinten Borders, save for the following sentence, declared as a simple statement of fact:

"Maybe you're not the right client."

***

You're at home in bed now, falling in and out of consciousness. Time slips. Becomes immaterial. The room darkens. Your head reels.

You hurt, Christy. There's not a muscle in your body that doesn't feel strained, pulled, ripped apart.

Your brain is convulsing, feels stabbed. Feels like a migraine, or actually like two migraines... a separate one behind each eye.

Your gut churns. Clearly some of that "black pearl" did indeed make it down your throat, and now your stomach is not the least bit happy about it. There's a chance you're gonna puke. There's a chance you already DID puke, maybe several times, you're honestly not sure. You're not sure of anything anymore.

Actually, there's one thing you are sure of: Quentin "Trainer" Borders is an asshole. Fuck that guy. "Maybe you're not the right client"? What the fuck is that even supposed to fucking mean? Fuuuuuuck you, Quentin Borders, and fuck your trashy gym.

"Happy Date Night," you hear. It's me, poking my head into the bedroom. Date night? Oh fuck, no, it's Friday isn't it? Fuck. Jesus. You groan. Friday night or not, your body is just in no shape to check out a museum, or for barhopping, or for drag queen bingo, or for any other date-type activity that requires you to somehow move your broken frame out of this darkened room. You try to decide how to break it to me that you just cannot go out tonight.

"I figured we could just stay in tonight," I say from the doorway. And you almost shed tears of gratitude. Thank you, Jesus, thank you. And now I enter the room with a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich for you, the latter on a buttery rosemary brioche that I just baked this afternoon ("A little something I've been experimenting with," I shrug). It's all on a tray with a lit candle, a glass of wine, and an origami dog (I can't do a swan).

In this moment, you love me more than you have in a decade.

"Looks like you're not feeling very well," I say. "Maybe tonight's date can just be Nurse Randy attending to your wounds."

And now, in this moment, you love me just that much more.

I spoon-feed you a few sips of that tomato soup. It's perfect. Smooth. Textbook feel-better food.

I break off small pieces of that grilled cheese sandwich and deposit them into your waiting mouth. It's crisp on the outside. There's a tangy melt within. It's so fucking good. Yeah, this is probably one of the top three sandwiches you've had in your life up to this point.

I hold the wine glass to your lips. Pinot grigio. The chill. The tang. It invigorates. You almost feel, with each tart sip, as though you're slowly returning from the grave.

"Now why don't you get some more rest?", I say, tucking you back in. I kiss your forehead and gather the dishes. But you reach out for me, soreness be damned, and you grab my forearm.

"I love you, Randy." You say. "You're the only man for me."

"Back atcha, m'lady," I respond, which was a goofy thing to say, but you clearly don't mind, because you pull me in for a kiss.

So that's what we do. We kiss, and we kiss some more. Your shoulders still burn, yet you reach both arms around my neck, and pull me closer, to kiss you harder, and then to join you down on the bed, down on top of your body... which hurts!

"OWWCH!", you bellow. I apologize. You wave it off. You kiss me some more.

"I want you, Randy," you say to me. "But I... it hurts. Like... down there. My thighs, you know? Inside my thighs?"