The Girl Who Likes to Get Physical

"Oh yes, Mrs. Robertson. She was such a trying client. Showed her like ten different houses, she had one hundred questions about each one, and finally ended up buying one from a different realtor who she called the day before she closed. I think that particular day she was asking about mortgage opp ---."

Katrina cut her off. "Yeah, see, I don't care about that. What I do care about is when Ryan slid your underwear down past your knees, set the camera down on the counter, slipped a couple of fingers in you while licking your clit. All the while, while poor old Mrs. Robertson is trying to figure out how best to occupy your time for no good reason."

"That sucked."

"But Ryan didn't. After a couple of minutes, he stood back up, unbuttoned his pants, whipped his hard cock out, picked up the camera, and aimed it on you as he slipped into your pussy, slowly fucking you all the while you kept right on going. Mrs. Robertson seemed to be doing more of the talking now, but your 'Uh-huhs' and 'Yeses' appeared to be right in line."

For some reason, Sarah found Katrina's retelling of the experience to be far more interesting than watching it ever could have been.

"Ryan kept trying to catch you mid-sentence by thrusting harder at inopportune moments, and one time he actually got you to screw up, which caused you to cover the phone's speaker and say "Knock it off, asshole!"

Sarah knew where this was going, but didn't want to interrupt.

"And as you were apologizing to dear old Mrs. Roberts,"

"Robertson," Sarah corrected.

"Whatever." Katrina continued. "Then Ryan whispers 'Oh, asshole? Why didn't you say so?' and pulls out of your pussy and slips the tip of his cock into your ass. You can see yourself jerk and twitch in the video as he slowly sides it in, but there's zero fucking resistance there. There's a long silent moan from you, and eventually you respond 'Oh yes, I'm here, Mrs. RobertSON.' Ryan keeps fucking you in the ass for several minutes, and I have to admit, I was impressed as hell, as you're doing one bang up job keeping up with the conversation."

"Thanks. I find it important to keep my professional composure at all times. Even when there's a dick in my ass."

Katrina laughed. "Naturally. And when you're finally making arrangements to be there the next day, you managed to time it so nicely. 'Yes, Mrs. Robertson. I'll be there at two o'clock. I promise. No, seriously, I won't stand you up. Yes, I will be there. I'm coming. No really, I'm coming!'

"And wham! Your orgasm hits right as you hang up the phone; Ryan follows seconds behind. He slumps back against the counter while you just lie there, bent over the couch with your skirt pulled up and your ass in the air. He focuses the camera on you while a drip of cum just works its way out of your ass and starts trickling downwards. Fade to black."

Sarah agreed. "It was pretty fucking hot. That was a particularly memorable one, and it worked well. I've tried to replicate that phone encounter once or twice, never had the same success. It's harder to script spontaneity."

Katrina nodded. "Oh, I almost forgot the one where you're pretending like you're showing him a house, going from room to room and slowly unbuttoning your blouse. At the end of it, you're like "So, Mr. Stark, is there anything else I can do to convince you to purchase this house? Then you end up blowing and fucking him in the living room of the house on the new carpet. Looks like there was a hot tub in the master bedroom, which didn't get any action in the video, but I'm guessing that was the same hot tub that Ryan told me about which allowed me to guess which 'Girl' you were last time."

"Good guess. In my defense, that was in my slutty realtor phase."

"Slutty realtors are the best kind of realtors. I should know; I recently had sex with one."

"Really?" Sarah was intrigued. "Who?"

Katrina arched an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

After a tick, Sarah blushed. "Oh right."

Katrina rolled her eyes. "Seriously. Although I was kidding about the slutty part. I think."

"No, that's OK, and it's at least somewhat accurate. If I thought you were passing judgment on me, I'd be pissed, but we did have sex within, like, an hour of meeting, so I can't really disagree with you. I guess I am kind of a slutty realtor."

"That's cool. I'm absolutely a slutty personal trainer / part time bartender."

"Not that there's anything wrong with that." Sarah tried her best Jerry Seinfeld impersonation.

Katrina either missed or ignored the reference. "Absolutely not! Sex is fun! The worst part of it is the social judgment that people pass on it. It's the most fun thing in life you can do with another person; the stigma associated with it is bullshit. I don't understand why people have to be in a committed relationship -- or, worse yet -- married to have sex. Be responsible about it, protect yourself physically and emotionally, and have a good fucking time. And a good time fucking!"

"I couldn't agree more." Sarah opined. "Since I started having regular sex in college, I've always felt a little pinned down by monogamy, even in a long-term relationship. If that's your thing, cool. If not, cool. I used to think this was a phase, but I'm starting to think it's just who I am, and whoever I end up with will just have to be OK with that."

"Hallelujah!" Katrina exclaimed. "Scott - the guy I moved up from San Diego with -wanted monogamy, which I tried to do, but it wasn't really sitting well with me. And turns out what he really wanted was for me to be monogamous and him to play the field."

"That's not fair."

"No. Not at all. If he'd been up front about it and been OK with both of us being non-exclusive, I would have at least considered it. But when he's going around behind my back while getting jealous of any social contact I had with guys? Done."

Sarah nodded in agreement while Katrina continued. "Since I've gotten out of that relationship, I have a couple of semi-regular guys, although it's mostly been Ryan. Plus, I have what amounts to an open bed policy with a number of female friends."

"Really?" Sarah pretended to look shocked. "And here I thought I was special!"

"Oh, you are special, babe. But it's not just because you have a vagina. I find sex with women to be much more casual, less likely to get complicated. The reduced risk of disease and zero risk of pregnancy is an added bonus. Sex with men just gets...complicated."

"So, are you ...a lesbian?"

"Well, no, I wouldn't use that term. I've never had a romantic relationship with a woman, and I've never even really felt that way towards one. I enjoy the hell out of their company, and I enjoy having sex with them, but I can't imagine ever marrying or even dating one, but anything is possible, I guess. I definitely find a much higher percentage of women attractive than men, at least from a sexual perspective. I guess that makes me bi, but...." Katrina shrugged. "Labels are increasingly unnecessary when it comes to sexuality these days, I think. Particularly here, where pansexual seems like the Official Portlandia Word of the Year. I don't feel the need to label myself; if I like you and you turn me on, I'll probably fuck you, regardless of your gender, sex, race, religion, or whatever."

"Seems fair."

"I know, right? Everyone has something to offer, why would I narrow it down just because? I like sex; I like sex with a bunch of different people. If that makes me a slut by some random close-minded person's definition, so fucking be it."

Sarah nodded enthusiastically. "Sounds to me like we have some pretty similar opinions on the matter. Although you've put a lot more thought into the specifics of it than I have."

"Glad to hear." Katrina raised her glass. "Here's to slutty real estate agents."

Sarah returned the toast. "And to slutty personal trainers."

Both women took a drink.

Katrina spoke up after a momentary silence. "That last video of yours in the house got me wondering, though. Have you ever actually been a slutty real estate agent and done anything like that to sell a house?"

Sarah paused, deep in thought, then tried to respond, explain, and protest all at once. Her words got jumbled in her mouth, and nothing came out. She eventually just settled for turning crimson.

"I knew it!" Katrina exclaimed. "Tell me all about it!"

"No, I couldn't, I...it's embarrassing. And kind of humiliating."

"But I bet it's also hot as hell, right?"

"Well, depends on your point of view, I guess. But if you ever fucked somebody for work in order to get a sale or to otherwise get ahead, wouldn't you feel a little weird about it? And would you really want to talk about it?"

"Maybe the first time I did it, it was weird. But I've had my share of extracurricular activities in that arena, which I have no problem talking about."

"Ok, then, talk!"

"Well, Sarah, I will make you a deal. I will tell you my favorite "fucking someone for work reasons" story if you tell me yours."

Sarah pretended to carefully consider her options for a few seconds, but it wasn't a difficult decision. "Deal. But you first."

"Sure thing. You want to just dance around the part where we were basically prostitutes for a day or so, or just own up to it?"

Sarah paused. She'd never really thought of it that way, but realized it wasn't too far from the truth. "I'll follow your lead."

"Fair enough." Katrina took a deep breath. "About two years ago...."

Katrina's Story

I was working as a personal trainer in a suburb of San Diego. I was still relatively new to the gym, but in that time, I had developed a small group of regular clientele. While most of them were relative short timers at this gym, others I had inherited from another trainer who had moved away a month or two after I started working there.

In that second group of clients was Dana. I was working the front desk one day when an attractive blonde in her mid-forties approached the counter. Her shoulder length hair had a few wisps of gray, but they were hard to notice since the rest of her hair was blonde.

"Good morning!"

"Hi," she said, "I'm Dana Donahue, and I would like to cancel my membership."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I frowned, "but I can help you with that." I took out the appropriate form from a drawer, and handed it to her, and she started filling it out. After a few seconds, I asked "Can I ask why you're leaving us? We're always sad to lose a client."

Dana paused and looked at me. "I trained with Irene, and she moved out of town. Seattle, I think. I've tried a few other trainers, and just haven't had the same connection with anyone else. There's a ladies' only gym that is a little closer to my house; I think I'm going to give that a shot." Dana went back to filling out the form.

"Well, that's too bad. I'm sorry it hasn't worked out for you."

Dana eventually finished and handed it across. I looked at it, and noticed something.

"You've been with us nine years? That's the entire time we've been open! We're losing an original client; that's terrible, we've only got a few of those left."

"Well, yeah, sorry, I guess I just had a really good rapport with Irene. And well, you know how it is."

I had an idea. "Tell you what, Mrs. Donahue. The owner's going to be really bummed to lose an original client. You said you've tried a couple of the other trainers here, but you haven't tried me."

"Well, that's true, but --"

"Irene and I have similar coaching techniques; we have a lot in common. I've got a proposal; give me one session. I'll do it off my regular shift, so it'll be free of charge. And if you think we have a good connection, I'll be your new trainer. If not, you're free to move on with no loss, and I can truthfully tell my boss that I did everything to keep you so I don't get in trouble."

Dana looked me up and down, almost as if she was seeing me for the first time. After a few seconds, she sighed. "I guess that's fair."

"Great! I'm Katrina!" We shook hands. "What time works for you?"

"I usually come in around 5 o'clock in the afternoon."

"I'm off tomorrow at 4. Can we do 5:00 tomorrow?"

Another sigh. "OK."

"Great! We'll see you then, Mrs. Donahue!"

"Call me Dana." And then she left.

I spent much of the next twenty-four hours second guessing myself, thinking she wasn't going to show up. I was worried I was going to waste an hour waiting for an unpaid appointment that wasn't going to show up.

To try and set my mind at ease, I tracked down Irene on Facebook through a mutual friend, and sent her a PM. "Hey, Irene, been a while. Sorry to bug you. Dana Donahue was going to end her membership, but I talked her into one more session with me tomorrow. She didn't seem super excited by the prospect. Is she a flake, or do you think she'll show?"

The response came back a few hours later. "Hi Katrina! Good to hear from you! I don't remember Dana ever flaking on appointments with me, although she called to cancel a couple times. Should be good to go, she's a real fun client. Let me know how it goes!" The response came with a Facebook friend request, which I accepted.

Irene was right. The next day, Dana showed up, ten minutes early. The workout went well enough that Dana decided not to cancel her membership, and started working out with me every Monday and Thursday. We quickly developed a comfortable and familiar, yet still very professional, relationship.

I quickly learned that Dana was very self-conscious about her body. She was in her forties, and had three children, meaning her bits and bobs didn't sit quite as neatly as they once did. While I thought Dana looked very good for someone in her circumstances, she obviously didn't feel the same. No matter what I did or said, there was no getting through to her.

After three months or so of regular workouts, she called me near the end of my shift. She complained that a couple of bodybuilder types had been snickering behind her back after her work out the previous session. She'd been stewing on it for a couple of days, and it was still bothering her. I said that I had noticed a couple of meathead types nearby, but hadn't seen anything remotely like that. I tried to deflect it, but Dana wasn't having it.

"How about this?" she said. "My husband bought an exercise gym a few years ago. It has a handful of different stations, an extensive set of weights, and a few other things that we could use to make a decent routine. I think I'd be more comfortable in my own home. Irene used to come over on a regular basis, and we did most of the sessions from my home."

I was hesitant. "Well, if she did it, it would probably work. But we probably aren't going to be able to do all of the same exercises; we'll be limited by the machines."

"That's not a problem. We can see what we have, develop the routine, and if we don't have enough, I'll just get my husband to buy whatever we need."

"There's also an increased fee. It's $60 for an hour here at the gym, but $150 outside, due to travel time and so forth."

"Also no problem."

"I have a 4:00, most days, so we'd probably need to move back to 5:30. Or even 6:00, depending on where you live."

Dana gave me the address; I looked at it, plugged it into my phone, and figured out roughly where it was. "Yeah, 5:30 works, unless traffic is truly terrible. I just won't schedule any clients for 6:00, as I'm off at 7 anyway."

"Great! See you tomorrow."

That night, I sent another PM to Irene. "Dana asked me to train her at her house. She said you guys used to do that. That work out for you OK?" I didn't get a response prior to heading to work the next day, nor was there a response before leaving the gym to go to the Donahue residence.

Dana lived in Torrey Pines, a particularly wealthy suburb of San Diego. While not the biggest mansion in the neighborhood, her house was still way out of my league. A Spanish style home, it had a gated driveway and a roundabout in the front yard, which surrounded a fancy fountain. Two oversized garage doors lined up one side of the roundabout, and a garden faced the other.

When I got there, I found the gate open, but I didn't really know where to park. I picked a spot as out of the way as I could, and hoped I wouldn't block anybody coming in (or going out). The front door was up a couple of steps and set back behind an iron wrought gate, which I had to open to reach the doorbell. I rung the bell and was expecting a standard ding-dong, but the speakers above the door loudly blared the crescendo of "Ride of the Valkyries," causing me to jump back in surprise, and I nearly fell backward off the top step.

After three or four "Dun-Dun-Dun-DUN-Duns", the door opened, and Dana poked her head out. "Oh, hi! Come on in." I noticed that Dana was wearing makeup, something she didn't normally wear to the gym. I followed her in while looking around and checking out the place. While the house was obviously very expensive, the décor was not the hoity-toity art that I had sort of expected. A variety of over-sized movie posters, album covers, and other pop culture associated paraphernalia decorated the walls. Dana (or her husband) was clearly a Hitchcock fan; oversized posters for Psycho and Rear Window adorned each wall of the entry hallway. Above the posters was a surveillance camera, panning back and forth at an automated pace, catching the entire entry foyer in its path.

Other movie posters lined one of the hallways that led away from the front door, probably towards a study or office area. That hallway appeared to be Kubrick oriented -- I recognized A Clockwork Orange, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and Eyes Wide Shut.

It wasn't until Dana called out "This way" that I turned back to follow her; only then did I notice what she was wearing. Dana had on the physical embodiment of a 1980's Aerobics class. She had on a pink leotard covering a pair of tan tights; a stripe designed to appear to be a white belt was part of the leotard. A pair of neon yellow striped tube socks rolled up just over the tops of her sneakers completed the ensemble. While she still filled out the outfit relatively nicely, it certainly wasn't what she regularly wore to the gym.

"That's quite the outfit. What's with the 80's gear?"

"Yeah, so, the washing machine broke down today, right as I was trying to wash all of my gym clothes. This was two hours ago, and I didn't have time to get to the store, so instead of 2013 Dana Donahue, you get 1982 Olivia Newton John in 'Physical'."

I didn't get that reference at the time, although I made a mental note to look it up on YouTube later. "So how many mothballs did you have to pull out of this thing?"

Dana burst out laughing. "None, actually. Richard and I went to an 80's themed Halloween party last year, so this thing's only been worn once. It was on a hanger in the closet; good enough for me. I guess I don't really need the socks, but it felt odd to leave them out."

"Fair enough. Got an extra headband for me? I only brought contemporary."

Dana laughed again. "Sure." She led me down a short flight of carpeted stairs into the basement, down a hallway, and pointed down yet another hall. "The gym's there, I'm going to go make a quick call, and I'll join you in a couple of minutes. There's a bathroom off the gym if you need it."

"Thanks!" I went down the hallway and found myself in a very well-equipped home gym. The centerpiece was a Body-Solid Strength Tech station, which was a fantastic all-purpose machine; a Nordic Track elliptical machine faced a wall, on which a 45" or so TV was mounted. Also in the room was a Valor Fitness press stand, a set of Rogue dumbbells, and a towel covered Montclair massage table. I was instantly impressed with the setup; she (or her husband) had spent a whole lot of money on it, and whoever had made the equipment decisions knew what they were doing (maybe Irene had provided some recommendations?). The floor under the equipment was padded, with the rest of the room covered in a beige carpet.