Trying Something New

Sometimes, a man just has to start over. He's cruising along, enjoying life, and suddenly he's face down in the mud. That kind of thing changes a guy. If he's lucky, things turn out for the best.

* * * * *

Frank, the division manager, called me into his office. He and I had gotten fairly close over the years. My wife, Julia, and I had gone out to dinner with him and his wife a few times, and we had been to parties at each other's houses.

"Shut the door," he said. "Come, sit down."

I did, and he just stared at his desk. This wasn't good.

"Frank, what's ...." I began.

"Look, Mike, I don't know how else to tell you this. I just got off a conference call with corporate. Those shit-heads are closing down the Michigan operation, and moving other stuff around. 'Cost-cutting and efficiency measures' they called it. Apparently, they've been planing this for months. They told me that you and your entire department are done. I'm sorry."

"I have to transfer?" I asked.

"They said re-location of employees is expensive, especially in a shitty real estate market. The damn bean-counters call the shots in this company, so very few people are going to move from one operation to another. Every facility is having one or more departments eliminated, and only a few guys are getting offered transfers. You're not one of them."

"What the fuck? I'm getting canned?"

Frank wouldn't look at me, but he nodded his head.

"Effective when?"

"The end of the month. Mike, I'm so sorry. None of us division managers saw it coming."

"The end of the month? That's less than three weeks away! What the hell am I supposed to tell my people?"

"We'll work on that tomorrow. Right now, I want you to go home. I'll tell your secretary there was a family emergency or something. I don't know what else to say, Mike. I wish there was something I could do."

It took me a while, but finally I said, "I know you do. I'm going to take you up on that offer of the afternoon off. Tell Sandy my lunch didn't agree with me. She and the gang can take care of stuff for the rest of the day."

"Okay," Frank said. The poor bastard looked like he wanted to cry.

It's a good thing there are no windows on the side of the building where I parked. People would have called the guys with the very long sleeved jacket to come and get me if they had seen me sitting in my car, cursing like a raging madman, and pounding my fists on the steering wheel. Sixteen fucking years I gave to this company, pretty much my entire adult life, and they're throwing me out like a used tampon!

After a while, I got myself calmed down enough to drive home. I needed a drink and some good loving.

Julia would be home doing the same thing she always did on nice afternoons when she didn't teach a class at the university. She'd be out back by the pool, working on her all-over tan.

"Yeah, that's it!" I thought. "I'll park on the street and sneak into the house. I'll make us drinks, strip, and go out and surprise her. We'll see where things go from there."

In the kitchen, I had just gotten some glasses out of the cabinet when I heard something from outside. It sounded like Julia. I couldn't imagine who she was talking to, so I thought it would be a good idea to see who was out there before I dropped my pants. I walked to the patio door.

Things hadn't been at their best between us lately, but marriages go through periods like that. Maybe I'm not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. I was completely unprepared to hear my wife moaning to my older brother, "Fuck me harder!"

I have no idea how long I stood there watching him pound her, but for some reason I didn't move or make a sound until it was obvious they had both cum. Then, I opened the door.

Grabbing for his clothes, my brother stammered, "Mike! Holy shit! Look, man, it's not what you think!"

My naked wife sat up, my brother's cum oozing out of her. "Be quiet, Sean, of course it's what he thinks." Turning to face me, she said, "I'm in love with him. What should we do about that?"

For a second, I seriously considered which kitchen knives I was going to use on them, but then I decided that wouldn't be such a good idea. Instead, I said, "This is the icing on the fucking cake! The shit-heads at corporate down-sized me out of my damn career today, along with my entire staff. I come home and find my goddamn brother fucking my wife. What's next?"

"I didn't want to do it this way, but I want a divorce," the woman I learned about love with in high school twenty years earlier said.

"Good idea! I'll call you this weekend and maybe come over so we can start working out the details. I'm gonna go pack some clothes. Oh, and Sean? Fuck you. Don't make the mistake of being here when I come downstairs," I said, walking back into the house.

I spent the rest of the month in a motel, going to the office to finish projects and transfer files to the division that would be taking over our workload. At night, I e-mailed resumes and drank. It wasn't pretty.

When my job ended, I looked for a less temporary place to live. "Loft efficiency apartment," the listing said. Yeah, well, it was basically a room above someone's garage. Two burner stove, tiny fridge, ridiculous bathroom (when I sat on the toilet, my one knee was against the tub and the other against the sink), and a price I couldn't pass up. There was enough room, if I did it just right, to bring all my clothes here, if I was willing to move boxes and suitcases around a couple of times a week. It was a monthly rental, and I was sure I'd get a good job and be able to afford a decent place in no time.

That didn't happen.

Severance pay doesn't last forever, and I sure as hell didn't want to think about having to live on unemployment while paying my blood-sucking divorce lawyer. After spending two months running to interviews, I started working through a temp agency.

That's how I met Yazhi. The first time I worked with her, I spent a lot of time trying not to stare. It wasn't that she was wearing slutty, revealing clothes. We were doing office temp work, and she was dressed appropriately, in a crisp white blouse and a charcoal gray skirt. Maybe it was her hair that first attracted me. It was coal black, waist length, and held back from her face with a large turquoise and silver clip. This exotic-looking girl was a perfect specimen of Native American womanhood.

The second time I worked with her, we took our morning break at the same time. "I remember you from that job a few weeks ago, don't I?" she asked.

"Yeah, how are you doing?"

"Pretty good for a temp worker," she laughed, holding out her hand. "I'm Yazhi. Yazhi Sullivan. What's your name?"

"Mike O'Connor. Irish as you can get."

"Yeah, I kinda though so with the curly red hair and freckles." she grinned.

"The kids in school called me Ronald McDonald."

"Oh, childhood nicknames! I was the only Native American in my class in elementary school. They called me Pocahontas. But she was Algonquin. I'm Navajo."

"With a name like Sullivan?"

"I'm divorced. I married outside the tribe."

"What did you do before you signed up with the temp service?" I asked.

"My last real job was as a middle-school English teacher. That was almost two years ago. I'm not going back to teaching. What about you?"

"I was a quality-control engineer. My company down-sized."

"Are you married?" she asked.

"Almost divorced. The day I got canned, I came home to find my wife having sex with my brother."

"Ouch!" Yazhi exclaimed.

"Yeah, well, you have to move on."

"Speaking of moving, we'd better move our asses back to work," she said.

It was fun watching hers, following her out of the lunch room.

Yazhi and I took our breaks together for the rest of the week. By Friday, I had worked up the courage to ask her out. "Wanna get a drink after work?" I offered.

"Sure, but I don't drink and drive."

"I don't really either," I said.

"Come to my place. My housemate will be at work. We can just hang out until you think you're legal to drive. I make damn good coffee."

"Okay." We exchanged numbers and addresses, and agreed that I would pick up a pizza on the way to her place.

She lived in an area of the city that I didn't know very well, so when I turned onto her street, I was surprised to see that it was an area of upscale condos and single homes -- much nicer than I had expected. Her house was one of the smaller ones, but it still looked expensive. I checked the address again.

Yep, this was the place. Interesting. I knew she must be earning about the same wage I was, but even without lawyer fees, I could never have afforded something like this, even with a housemate.

Yazhi opened the door as I was coming up the walk. She looked magnificent, dressed in a cropped orange tank top and tight, high-waisted white shorts. The bright bits of cloth contrasted beautifully with her rich, sun-darkened skin. Her nearly straight black hair was hanging loose, wisps of it falling carelessly around her face.

"Hey, Big Red!" she called.

I felt a slight rush of blood to my cheeks. "Big Red" was the other nickname some of the kids started calling me when I got to middle school. I had always been a large child, the tallest and bulkiest in my class. The football coach took one look at me and demanded that I sign up for the team. Most people assumed my nickname was because of my stature. For some, I'm sure it was, but the name started the first day I changed in the gym locker room in front of my teammates. I'm one of those ninety-ninth percentile guys.

That actually presented some problems for me. Even though my physical development was always a couple of years ahead of the rest of the guys, I was the last one in my group to lose my virginity. Why? The girls I got to touch me were scared of the damned thing.

"Come on in," Yazhi said, holding the door for me. As I walked past her, I caught a hint of desert flowers and spice. I'm used to women wearing cologne of some sort, but this aroma was heady, even though it was very light. She smelled as exotic as she looked.

Her living room was furnished with an eclectic mix of modern and American primitive furniture. There was a large Navajo rug displayed over the sofa, a bison skull on the wall over the fireplace, and a traditional ceremonial headdress in a large display case in one corner of the room.

"Let's eat in the kitchen," she said. "Follow me." Her slender brown legs were topped by a taut, athletic looking little ass that didn't jiggle a bit as she moved gracefully away.

The kitchen was a sharp contrast to the living room. The rich, earthy colors there were replaced here by stark white walls, dark granite counter-tops, and stainless steel and black glass appliances. There was no color anywhere -- just shades of gray. There were a few black-and-white nature photos in black frames on the walls. Even the table was chrome and smoked glass, with chrome and black leather chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows displayed a lush garden beyond the deck.

"Beer or wine?" she asked as she put slices of pizza on plates and carried them to the table.

"Beer, please."

"Oh good. I know some people like wine with their pizza, trying to act Italian, but I'm about as American as a girl can get. Beer it is," she said with a smile.

"This is a terrific place," I said, between bites of my second slice.

"Thanks. My housemate let me take charge of decorating the common areas. She has no taste in decor," Yazhi laughed. "But I have to give her credit. She was the one who found the place. The back yard was what got us to sign the papers Look at the privacy fence! We tan out there all the time."

"What does your housemate do?" I asked. I was still wondering how these women could afford this house.

"She's a model. Does some acting and stuff."

"Really?"

"Wanna see her picture?"

"Sure."

Yazhi grabbed her phone off the counter and pulled up an image. "Here she is," she said, handing the phone to me. The screen showed a stunning blond, her long wavy hair arranged to just barely cover the nipples on a pair of naked, large, firm-looking breasts.

"Whoa," I breathed. I don't have a very good poker face.

"She's pretty, isn't she?" Yazhi asked.

"Yeah."

"You can look at the next picture too."

I swiped my finger over the screen, and was greeted by a picture of Yazhi, her back turned toward the camera, completely nude and smiling over her shoulder while her housemate, equally naked, stood with her hand on the Navajo girl's slender ass. Some care had gone into this pose. Arms, hands, and hair were positioned in such a way that the camera only caught large expanses of beautiful pale or bronze skin, almost, but not quite, exposing either girls' nipples or genitals. It looked like the picture was taken on the back deck of this house.

"Holy shit," I muttered.

"I thought you might like that one," Yazhi giggled, grabbing her phone away.

"Uh, yeah! You ladies are both stunning. She's a model, huh? What does she do? Swimwear?"

"Some, and lingerie. And other stuff."

"Other stuff?"

"Yeah."

"What other stuff?" I asked.

"Nude. Adult photos."

"Really?"

"Does that bother you?" Yazhi asked.

"Should it?"

"No, it shouldn't, but some people don't approve."

"Screw that" I said. "If a girl has been blessed with a beautiful body, I think it's great if she's willing to show it. I guess it pays pretty well," I said, gesturing around the room.

"Most of the money comes from acting."

"What kind of stuff does she do? TV?" I asked.

"No, movies," Yazhi answered.

"Oh yeah? I don't think I recognize her. What has she done?"

"Some indie films, and some other stuff. More pizza?"

"I'm good. Those were big slices."

"Are you kidding me? You're a big guy. Hell, I ate two slices!" Yazhi laughed. "Oh well, I'll have to do an extra five minutes each on the treadmill and the Bow-flex tomorrow."

"You have a Bow-flex?" I asked.

"It was my housemate, Ingrid's idea, but once I read up on it, I agreed to go halves with her. I'll show it to you later. Want another beer?"

I glanced at my watch. "Yeah, I guess I can have one more."

"So can I. I'll just do my penance tomorrow," she said ruefully. "We can take our beer into the living room. The plates will wait."

She grabbed two beers from the fridge and walked back into the living room. When I followed her, she said, "Let's sit on the couch." She kicked off her sandals, and sat with her legs tucked under her, facing me. "So who is Big Red, really?"

"I was born about twenty miles from here, went to the State University's local campus, and got a job near where we've been working. My high school sweetheart went to the same University, and we got married right after graduation. She went on and got her PhD, and teaches there now. I had a good job until I got canned. I told you what else happened that day."

"That sucks, Mike. So you've been doing temp work ever since?"

"Yup. I have a bachelor's degree in manufacturing engineering, but the few jobs that are out there that don't require advanced degrees go to whiz-kids with wet ink on their diplomas. There aren't any jobs for middle-aged quality-control managers."

"You're not middle-aged! How old are you?"

"How old do you think I am?"

"Maybe I should put you on the treadmill and the Bow-flex to find out," she teased.

"I never tried a Bow-flex. I used to go to the gym every day on my way home from work. Now it's just running in the park and free-weights in the apartment."

"It's paid off," she said, giving me the once-over. "Okay, the body is saying late-twenties, but the things you've said tell me you're older."

"I'm thirty-eight. If I live to be seventy-six, that's middle-aged. That's too old for an entry-level job, which is all I'm qualified for."

"Age discrimination is illegal. Trust me, I know all about discrimination," Yazhi said.

"I've heard some horror stories about the reservations," I replied.

"Reservations are a lot like white-trash trailer parks or black ghettos. I never lived on one. Neither did my parents. My father is a surgeon and Mom is an orthodontist. They both do pretty well."

"So, tell me more about Yazhi Sullivan."

"Okay. We'll start with age. I'll be thirty in a couple of months."

"I don't believe it," I said.

"Thank you, but it's true. I have a bachelor's in secondary English education, and was working on my master's when I lost my job. Since I can't go back to teaching, I've been working through that temp service. I know what you mean about the job market."

"You said you're divorced?"

"Yes," Yazhi answered. "I got married right out of high school, which pissed my parents off properly. They didn't like him at all. Dad used to call him 'the stupid white boy.' They wouldn't have liked him regardless of his race though, because he was trash, but I was too young to see it. When I figured it out, I divorced him and went to college."

"How long have you known your housemate?" I asked.

"Ingrid? It seems like forever. We were friends in school, but she hated the guy I married. We lost touch, and then we ran into each other again a few years ago."

"You said she does some acting?" I asked.

"Yeah, but also some still photo glamor shot stuff. That's where she is tonight."

"You must be really good friends," I said.

"We are."

"I mean, to let you live here and decorate the place."

"Both our names are on the mortgage, and we split all the bills fifty-fifty."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Mike, temp work is what I do to keep myself active in the mainstream job market. It's my "mad money" not my only source of income. Ingrid and I do some work together."

"You're a model?"

"Yeah. I started as a toddler. I was the perfect little Indian kid to dress up in traditional costume and pose with some sun-dried old guy for tourist postcards. As I got older, I did some fashion shoots for teen clothing catalogs that were trying to be racially inclusive. Being Native American got me some jobs, and kept me from others."

"I still can't get over the idea that you're twenty-nine years old," I said.

"I was a small baby, and I've always been kind of small-statured. That's even what my name means: 'little one.' It's actually been a blessing. I kept working with those teen catalogs until I was twenty. Then I finally filled out a little and got into some swimsuit modeling and other work."

As she was talking, I imagined what she might look like in a nice little micro-bikini.

"You wanna see the rest of the place? I'll show you the Bow-flex"

I followed her out of the living room and up the steps. The wide stairwell repeated the primitive/native theme of the living room.

"That's Ingrid's room." Yazhi pointed through an open door into a huge bedroom decorated in pastel shades, dominated by a king-size canopy bed. "And this is the fitness room," she said, opening the door to a smaller room with a tanning bed, treadmill, and the fancy exercise machine. "This is where I'll be tomorrow, undoing the damage of pizza and beer. Let me show you how the Bow-flex works."

"Okay."

She made some adjustments to the machine and did a few repetitions of an exercise that was intended to tone her abs, but that also had the effect of causing the hem of her top to rise. I wasn't sure where to look -- at the delicious-looking camel-toe displayed in her tight shorts or the exposed curve of the bottom of her breasts. The bright orange fabric was pulled taut over her nipples, which became more prominent with her every movement.

This woman had a phenomenal body. She knew it, I knew it, and my cock sure as hell knew it. I wondered how long I would be able to stare at her before my erection became too noticeable.

She jumped up and made some changes to the equipment, and then lay down on her belly to do some leg work. Hooking her heels under a padded bar, she worked the healthy-looking muscles of her calves, thighs, and ass. Her ass. God!. With the position she was in, her shorts strained to contain those flexing curves, and the cleft between her lips was obvious.