The Magic Bean

I wasn't kidding when I said I'd trained a few people before. I've found it's best to establish some underpinnings before moving on to the routines. After Ethan arrived, I handed him a small, inexpensive notebook; one of my spares. "You can use this as a workout journal. It will help you keep track of your progress."

I spent the first 15 minutes or so giving him the basics he needed to know in order to be smart about the way he ate and exercised. Of course, the old adage regarding the inability to outrun or out lift a bad diet was mentioned. With his trim waist and flat abs, it didn't look like that was going to be a problem. You never know, though; he might be one of those young fellas who can eat heedlessly and get away with it due to a fast metabo. So I warned him that if this were the case, it wouldn't last forever. Best to establish good habits now rather than struggle to change them later and undo the damage they've wrought.

The importance of attention to good form and why he should view his fitness goals in the long term were also subjects I raised.

I showed him my own workout journal and explained the reasoning behind the particular sequence I'd chosen: big muscles----glutes, quads, and hams----early in the routine before the body is exhausted, alternating between pushing and pulling manoeuvres, and moving back and forth between upper and lower body exercises.

I spelled out how critical it was to allow muscles to recover after a hard workout, which was my reason for following weight lifting days with high intensity interval training.

To his credit, he paid close attention and even, bless his heart, took notes. Hottie or not, I wasn't inclined to waste time, energy and expertise on someone who wasn't genuinely interested.

During that initial week, I also noticed his willingness to check his ego when I had him perform the first few workouts with light weights so that he could pay attention to technique. He asked intelligent questions and followed instructions well. I don't need to tell you ladies that a fella who can comply with directions is worth his weight in platinum.

People who aren't into fitness to the degree that I am probably have no idea how much education and training it takes to be a good personal trainer; emphasis on the word 'good'. Hen's teeth are no rarer.

I've often thought if I ever tire of teaching I would consider becoming certified as a trainer. So it was particularly gratifying, at the end of our fifth workout together, to hear Ethan say, "You're amazing."

"How so?"

He towelled the sweat from his face and throat. Once again I was entranced by the sight of his gleaming muscles in motion. I'm grateful to say, he seemed not to notice as he answered, "I never had a clue there was so much to learn about exercise."

"I love research, so when something interests me, my reflexive response is to do a deep dive into it. The human body is an incredibly complex machine and there's still so much we don't understand about it. I sometimes forget that not everyone is as obsessive as I am. I can always dial it back if it seems daunting."

"No, not all. I think it's fascinating. I was just expressing my admiration, that's all."

"Oh." I wasn't expecting that. I have occasionally been criticised, by lovers and friends, for being 'too intense'. It was a lovely turnabout to have that same quality reap praise. "Thank you, Ethan."

We walked together towards the cubbies to gather our things for the showers. It turned out he wasn't done with the compliments: "I appreciate how generous you've been with your time and your learning. You've got a real knack for communicating in a way that makes the subject engaging for the pupil. If you're like this in the classroom, I hope your students realise how lucky they are."

Those sentiments moved me deeply, as did his earnestness in articulating them. When I could be sure of my voice, I said, "At the risk of repeating myself, thank you, Ethan. That means a lot."

He pulled a towel, toiletries and a change of clothing from his backpack. "I'm the one who should be thanking you. I wonder if you'd let me do that by treating you to lunch or dinner as a small token of gratitude."

"That's kind of you, Ethan, but if my daughter's experience is any indication, waiting tables doesn't usually result in an excess of cash. I have a counter-proposal: why don't you cook dinner for me instead?"

Ethan shifted from one foot to another and began to do that head scratching thing, which I was coming to realise was an indicator he was feeling sheepish. And yeah, I was once again agog at the flexing of his bicep while he pacified his phantom itch. "Um, it would be a better expression of my gratitude if I stayed out of the kitchen. You'll be grateful too."

That got a chuckle out of me as I gathered my shower things together. "No worries. Cooking is another passion of mine. Come to my place and I'll show you what to do. And, no fear, you'll do all the work; I'm just going to supervise."

Ethan pushed open the door to one of the shower rooms and grinned over his shoulder at me. "So, in other words, now I get a free cooking lesson?"

I smiled back. "I like the way you think; always looking for the positive in any situation. Yes, Ethan, if you choose to consider it that way, you'll have a culinary tutorial. And, if you're as commendable a student in the kitchen as you are in the gym, I'll get a tasty meal out of it." My seemingly one-track mind couldn't help but wonder if he'd be as quick a study in the bedroom too. He certainly is in my fantasy life.

Under the shower's spray, I visualised Ethan lathering himself in the room next to mine. I spread soap over my body slowly, as my mind's eye presented Ethan's hands sliding across the suds on his powerful chest. His fingers lingered on a stiffened nipple, leaving a trail of tiny bubbles. My hands made the same journey. Rounded breast, sensitive areola and hardened nipple thrilled, not only to my touch, but to the sybaritic spectacle in my head.

Down, down his palm sleeked over those taut abs, until it reached the jutting adamancy below. The vision was so vivid, it was as if he were in the shower with me. Do I need to say that figment-Ethan is generously endowed? His fist wrapped around the girth of him, then corskrewed up the veined and pulsing length. Back down, then up again, his fist moved from stem to tip in a hypnotic rhythm echoed by my own fingers gliding over my sex.

On one of the upstrokes of Ethan's grip, a fat globule blossomed on his cocktip, and I'd almost swear I heard him groan. I made a similar sound in response and hoped it didn't escape the shower room. It was only a fleeting worry, because the exhibitionist Ethan-in-my-head was putting on too seductive a show to allow for distraction. His eyes were closed and his beautiful features were tense with concentration. The muscles in his arm and buttocks clenched in cadence with his pumping. His fist smeared the gathering cream around his glans, forcing him to tremble at the sensitivity. I shuddered too, as I slathered wetness on my clit at an accelerating clip.

As the phantasmic Ethan moved with the urgency of his onrushing orgasm, I plunged into my swollen, sodden folds. Found my g-spot and really cut loose. When the imaginary Mr. Gorgeous spunked his load all over the tiled shower wall, my entire body spasmed and stiffened. I bit back screams of ecstasy while my own ejaculate spattered my hand and wrist. I had to use my free hand to prop myself up as my knees threatened to buckle.

When my quivering wouldn't abate, I lowered myself to my knees and let the still-warm spray from above wash over me. Once I possessed the wherewithal to stand again, I washed myself and pondered. These escalating flights of imagination were all well and good inside the privacy of my own head, but I needed to be mindful they didn't influence my behaviour with Ethan. I know I'm fit for my age, but a 52-year-old woman is an unlikely object of a twenty-something man's desire. I'd hate to do anything to embarrass myself or him.

**********

The curtains over the kitchen sink were stirred by a late afternoon breeze. A currawong's haunting, melodious song wafted through that window too, along with the sounds of children playing in the distance. The vibrant colours of the veggies on the bench augured culinary gratification while dust motes danced in slanted, golden rays with the promise of sunset not far off. I had the company of a sweet-tempered, remarkably lovely young man and I was delighting in all of it.

The cookbook was open to the relevant page when I handed it to Ethan. "We're going to make a vegetarian mole. Before you begin cooking, it's always good to check the fridge and the pantry to make sure you have all the necessary ingredients. Since you don't know your way around my kitchen, I've put everything you need on the benchtop."

It was mildly amusing to see this strapping young bloke looking down at the gathered makings with an expression of mild concern. Suppressing a giggle, I said, "You'll be fine, Ethan. It's just a matter of following the recipe. Besides, I'll be here to guide you through any uncertainty." As I spoke, I unconsciously put my hand on his shoulder to reinforce the comforting intent of my words. A thrill went through me at the feel of chiselled muscle beneath my palm. I quickly removed my fingers and reminded myself to steer clear of dangerous waters.

"I find it's best to get all the chopping and dicing out of the way first, so that you're ready to put each ingredient in the pot when the recipe calls for it."

"How big or small do you want it cut?"

"It doesn't have to be exact, but I'll do a small portion of the capsicum, the onion and the sweet potatoes, to give you a rough idea." When I was done, I handed the knife to Ethan. "Since I'm covering the basics, I should point out that it's important to sharpen your knife often. Using a dull blade not only makes your job harder, it's likely to cause an accident. With something dense like sweet potatoes, you have to apply too much pressure with a blunt edge to make the cut. A slip with that much force behind it... well, let's just say it wouldn't be pretty."

Just as he was about to dice the onion, he asked, "Is that chocolate I see with the ingredients? Is this going to be a sweet dish?"

"Ah, no, not really. This is a Mexican recipe. The indigenous people of Mexico thought chocolate was a gift from the gods, so they used it in all sorts of food and drink, both savoury and sweet. This one happens to be savoury."

Ethan went about the cutting, chopping and mincing with care and attentiveness. I was conscious of and somewhat fascinated by my reaction to the nearness of him. I couldn't ever recall anyone having quite this effect on me before. I had masturbated to thoughts of him only yesterday and yet I was stirred once again. I've already admitted to myself how much he turns me on. To be honest though, the sexual reaction aside, I could revel aesthetically in his splendour all day and not tire of it.

Once again, I needed to get my mind off that particular track. Time enough to indulge in that after Ethan had left. "You mentioned that you got a kick out of my running commentary while we were working out. Would you like me to do the same while you're cooking?"

Ethan beamed with evident enthusiasm. "Absolutely. I can remember the information more easily if I have a context for it all."

"Exactly. And, just as happens at the gym, the doing while learning provides a kinaesthetic reinforcement to the lesson." Huh. Bad enough the way I practically drool over the boy; now he's simultaneously pushing my nerd-girl and pedagogic buttons.

I explained why I usually cooked with extra virgin olive oil and then told him why we were using peanut oil for this particular recipe. This led to a discussion of relative smoke points (and of course the meaning of 'smoke point').

When the instructions directed us to pour the diced tomatoes into the pot, I stopped him. "I love this cookbook and use it quite often. In fact, I'm particularly fond of this specific dish, but... there's a mistake in the recipe."

"Oh?"

"Mmm-hmm", I pointed to a spot on the cookbook page we were using, "You see here where it says to, 'add the sweet potatoes, tomatoes, beans, chili sauce and water and bring to a boil. Cover and simmer over gentle heat for 30 minutes'? Well, if we did that, we'd be waiting all evening for the potatoes to cook."

"Howcum?"

"The high acid content of the tomatoes prevents root veggies like potatoes and carrots from softening. The simple solution is to add whatever the acidic food is----in this case, tomatoes----towards the end of the cooking process. I'm just surprised the authors of this cookbook didn't know that."

Ethan poured the remaining ingredients, barring the tomatoes, into the pot and put the lid into place. "This almost reminds me of my high school chem class."

"That's exactly what cooking is: chemistry. Heating, freezing and mixing are all operations we perform in the kitchen and the lab. When food is cooked, a whole host of various chemical processes happen at once to transform the ingredients, which are composed of chemicals, of course; everything is."

"Fascinating. I guess I never thought of it that way."

While we waited for the food to cook, our discussion continued in a lively, discursive fashion. At the gym, I had been impressed by the wit of his remarks and the perceptiveness of his questions. That was further borne out by our conversation in the kitchen. I was even more taken with his easy, gentle demeanour and bright-eyed curiosity.

Once we were seated at the table, I asked Ethan something I wondered ever since he so eagerly accepted my proposal to help him cook a meal. "Did you never ask your mother to show you how to cook?"

The progress of his fork halted halfway to his mouth and I thought I saw a passing look of discomfort in his face. "I did mention before that I came from a farming family, right?"

"You did."

"I don't mean to make a blanket statement or anything, but I'm betting you're aware that some of those folks can hold pretty conservative views."

I nodded my understanding.

Ethan lowered the untouched fork back to his plate. "Whenever I'd ask my mum to teach me to cook, she'd brush me off. 'You just need to find a nice girl to cook for you. The kitchen's not really the place for a man.' I tried to argue that this was archaic and sexist, but she was adamant. Kinda hard to believe someone still thinks that way in 2022, but there you are."

Ethan's gaze was cast down on his plate and his embarrassment was palpable. Without thinking, I reached across the table and took his free hand in mine. It wasn't premeditated; I just wanted to comfort him. Despite his formidable stature, there was a vulnerability in Ethan that inspired protectiveness. "Sweetie, there's no reason to be embarrassed about that. I certainly don't hold you responsible for your family's views. No reasonable person would." That 'sweetie' rolled off my tongue unconsciously too. I was doing a less-than-commendable job on the self-monitoring front this evening. It was becoming clear that Ethan had the unconscious ability to affect me in ways that went beyond the carnal. I was beginning to wonder if this dinner had been a good idea.

Ethan squeezed my hand and smiled hesitantly. At least the aim of comfort seemed to have been accomplished.

After that brief hiccough, the rest of the meal went well. When it was over, Ethan rose from the table, collected the dinner things and began to gather everything at the sink. As he rolled up his sleeves, I asked, "What are you doing?"

"Cleaning up the mess I made."

"Oh no, you're not. You did all the work of making the dinner. You don't think I'm gonna let you do the cleanup as well, do you?"

He started to run the water in the sink. "It's the least I can do. You've been so generous with your time and know-how at the gym and now here in your home. You've gotta let me have some way of showing my appreciation."

I could see he really wanted to do this, so I simply said, "Fine. But I'm drying, since I know where everything belongs."

We burbled and laughed while we worked and the time passed quickly. After the last utensil and dish had been stowed away, Ethan brandished a DVD that he'd brought with him: Cary Grant and Irene Dunne in 'My Favourite Wife'. "I know I've taken up enough of your time this evening----hell, this whole week, really----and I totally get it if you're tired or you have something else to do. Since it's a Saturday, I figured it couldn't hurt to ask. Would you like to watch a movie with me?"

Two impressions flitted through my head on the heels of that brief monologue: the first was the way he quickly piled one sentence on top of another as if to verbally brace himself for rejection. The second was to wonder how a young man with his looks and intelligence ever got into the habit of doing such a thing.

"I saw that movie years ago and I remember that it was entertaining. I can't recall many details at this point though, so sure, it would be fun to watch it again. Irene Dunne is a particular favourite of mine." I saw no need to mention that the last time I viewed it would've been before he was born.

I thought our movie watching would be enhanced by some freshly made popcorn; Ethan agreed. A generous coating of butter and grated parmesan made it an indulgent treat. I noticed how attentively Ethan paid attention to the process.

I've had a soft spot for screwball comedies since I was a teenager, and 'My Favourite Wife' was one of the better examples of the genre. The crisp photography, snappy patter and impeccable timing----particularly on the part of Ms. Dunne----conjured a charming little oasis that Ethan and I inhabited for an hour and a half. Neither of us put an arm around the other, nor did we hold hands, or touch in any way, for that matter. There was no hint of romance or sexuality other than that which we witnessed onscreen; we simply laughed together and shared a piquant delicacy redolent of another time and place.

I was, I admit, quite conscious of his nearness on the loveseat. We were so close, it seemed I could feel his body heat, but that was probably my over-active imagination having its way with me. I won't deny I partook of a couple of sidelong peeks at him as he watched the film. I was especially smitten with the way the light from the screen limned his features, but I was also pleased to note his evident delight in the movie.

When the credits rolled, Ethan stood and stretched. I was gratified once again by his penchant for wearing close-fitting t-shirts. I could see just about every exquisitely proportioned muscle. He yawned and said, "I guess I ought to get out of your hair now, but thank you for a lovely evening."

"It was fun for me too, Ethan. I really enjoyed your company. Any time you'd like another cooking lesson, you let me know."

His pleasure at this shone clearly in his face. He looked as if he were going to say something, then thought better of it. Instead, we wished each other a good night. After I closed the door behind him, I was surprised and unsettled by the pang of longing I felt at his departure.

Better be careful, girlie.

Here there be dragons.

**********

The next day, Sunday, was usually my day off from the gym, so I didn't expect to see Ethan. I had finished a late brekkie, done the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen when I heard a knock on the door. I peered out the window to see Mr. Gorgeous standing on my porch with his bike beside him.

When I opened the door, he saw I was still in my pyjamas and began apologising profusely. "I'm so, sooo sorry, Melissa. I would've called, but I don't have your number. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."