Preux Chevalier

He thrilled to the rush and rumble of the motorcycle's engine as they sped - man and machine - along the winding counrty road. To his left, the sun was slowly setting. Intermittent flashes of golden light as the sun flashed through the trees captured his silhouette on his right. His shadow was long and lean and intrepid, astride the bike and leaning ever forward. He wised he were as heroic looking as that shadow. After a time, the steady hum of the motor and the shush of the wind through his helmet lulled him and left him in a meditative mood. He turned his thoughts to a certain night, weeks past, and his mouth tightened in a small, rueful smile.

After rushing through his nightly duties, scrubbing and scouring and sweeping the kitchen, he had changed out of his soiled chef's attire and managed to join her at the bar. Her petite frame - small, but womanly - was hugged by a sheer lavendar summer dress, low-cut to emphasize her impressive breasts. The dress stopped daringly short around mid-thigh, and her bare legs drew his attention; shapely calves glowed in the dim light of the bar, tapered to thin ankles, pretty toes wiggled in white thong sandals. He took the bar stool next to hers and furiously racked his brain for something charming to say.

Forced conversation led to a few scattered opportunities to make her giggle with substanceless jokes. Eventually it was decided that the staff would attempt a rare company social outing - drinks at a notorious dive bar the next town over. After some prodding, she agreed to ride with him.

Silence held sway on the ride over. He had given hours of thought over to exactly what to say and how to say it, but found himself unable to utter the words now that the moment had arrived.
"I really like hanging out with you," he could almost hear himself saying. "I've had a great time on our two dates. I just feel that we're at an awkward stage right now, a limbo kinda. We just need to make one little jump to get more comfortable." He couldn't imagine how, but at this point he planned to slide an arm around her waist and draw her close. His hand would gently cup the side of her face as he leaned in to press his lips to hers. As it was, they chatted aimlessly about work and the weather, or watched the quiet, night-time town roll past the car window.

He parked up the street from the bar and they made their way under streetlights, past crumbling brick tenaments, to the raucous alehouse. Abruptly, she halted. She rubbed at her face.
"Okay, we need to talk."
Good, he thought dumbly. I'm glad she broached the topic.
"I'm so chicken shit when it comes to saying this kinda thing . . ." she began, looking everywhere but in his eyes.
Go on, he thought. Maybe she'll end up saying it all for me.
"I think you want more from this than I do," she said at last.
That wasn't what I was expecting . . . he thought.
"I'm happy just hanging out and being friends."
In retrospect, it's a good thing I was so gutless. If I'd have spoken I would have made an ass of myself.
He nodded, numb, a vapid smile fixed on his face.
"I hope that's okay with you." She smiled nervously and tottered a bit, succumbing to the alcohol.
Okay with me? Nice of you to say, but what choice do I have other than acceptance, short of rape? It had damned well better be okay with me. Women . . .. Just don't say that you understand. You always say "I understand," or "Oh, understandable," when faced with rejection. You slur it, too, and sound like an idiot.
"Oh, I understand," he said, kicking himself.
"Are you sure?" she frowned.
He was nearly overcome by a desire to force her against the damp, red brick wall, look fiercely into her eyes, and tell her "No."
No, I'm not sure. I want you. I was convinced you wanted me. We're young, we're fit, let's not let these bodies go to waste. Let's not allow thought to get in the way of this.
He pictured slowly sliding a hand up between her smooth, inviting thighs, pushing the lavendar dress aside like a stage curtain and feeling the warm moist spot between her legs. He envisioned cupping her breast in his other hand, not roughly, but firmly. Assertive in every way he was not. He would kiss her face, the gentle curve where her jaw met her throat, her pink ear a slowly blossoming rose, and continue to kiss down her neck. He could almost taste her skin, sweet and salty, and hot as sun-warmed stone at dusk, feel the pusling in her cartoid artery. He would linger on her perfectly formed clavicle. She would arch her back and bite his ear lobe, grasping at his hair with eager little fingers, pulling him closer, whispering breathy pleas . . .
"Of course I'm sure," he said, tipping out of his reverie. "Shall we?" he indicated the pool of sallow light beneath the bar's chipped sign.
She smiled again, relieved, and stumbled off the sidewalk.
He extented an arm, which she took, and they crossed the street.

He had indulged himself with a gin and tonic, feeling like a bit of nancy for ordering such a drink in front of the beer-swilling clientele. Even she had gotten a Bud Light . . ..
She was watching the Red Sox on the bar flat-screen with a glazed intensity, chatting with a tag-along customer from the restaurant. He ordered a soda water, excused himself and made his way outside.

The summer evening air was sweltering. The bass thrum of the bar's juke was not so evident out here, amongst the picnic tables and paper lanterns (some of which still worked). The sounds of distant sirens, reggae and Carribean beats, and domestic squabbles served as a backdrop to the din of drunken conversation.

He found his friends seated around a far table and leaning against the wall of the bar, chatting lazily.
"There he is," announced Ed, the restaurant manager, looking a good deal less formal than he had that evening, now clad in a wrinkled white tee and holding a beer bottle. Ed wrapped a solicitous arm around his shoulders and pulled him into a boisterous half-hug. "And where's your lady love?" Ed inquired.
"Ah, she found the game more riveting than my conversation, I guess. I needed some air."
"Plenty of that out here," the manager claimed, and drew two lungfulls. He burst into a coughing fit. "Canal mist, oil fumes, cigarette smoke. Enjoy."
He smiled genuinely for the first time that evening.

Sometime later, someone asked after her.
"Inside, watching the game," he intoned.
"Is she alone?" one of the waitresses wanted to know.
"There are other people at the bar . . ." he ventured.
They began to fuss, so he pried himself off the wall and stumbled back inside.
She was already gone by the time he got to her spot, but had left her purse. He scooped it off the bar, casting suspiscious looks left and right, ordered a water, and returned to his friends. He found her chatting amiably to someone a few tables over, her hand on his chest. Pretending to ignore this, he resumed his perch near Ed and somehow the two of them became embroiled in a discussion of the French monarchy.
"Phillip II was the Crusader King," he insisted. "He was on the Third Crusade with Richard I and Frederick the Barbarosa."
"Saint Louis, Louis IX was the Crusader King," Ed argued. "He's my namesake."
"Well, what family was he from? Was he a Capetian or a Carolingian? Did they repeat names in separate dynasties, or retire them like jersey numbers?"
The assembled company groaned.
Let them groan, he thought. I won't bed any of them, I don't care if I impress them with charm or wit. Let them at least think I'm smart.
"You guys are too much," Jackie complained. "Stop talking about history or philosophy or whatever . . ."
"Jackie, men are talking," he said, to further hoots of indignation from the women.
He did not notice her return until she was directly in front of him.
"Thanks for getting my purse," she said, and spun slowly, presenting her back to him. She plucked her beer off the table and leaned against him. "What are you guys up to?"
"Rich and Ed were discussing history and stuff," Jess said dismissively.
She giggled.
Conversation slowly turned to work, sports, and weekend plans. He took a back seat.
She reached her arm back and her hand traced up his cheek. It settled on the back of his neck, limp and affectionate as a tired puppy. her other hand alternately groped for her beer and reached behind her to hook a few fingers in his belt loop.
He unobtrusively switched her beer out for the water he'd ordered for her from the bar and watched her drink a few sips. He finished her beer.

Eventually, she decided it was time to go, and began to lead him away by the hand.
"Have fun, you two," called Erin, smirking.
Good, he thought.  I won't fuck her tonight, or ever, but they might think I did. He was by no means opposed to rumors spreading, feeling both desperate for the respect of his kitchen co-workers, and a trifle vindictive.
They made their way back to the car. He held her door open and helped her in.
They drove back more or less in silence.
"I had too much to drink," she declared.
"We all do, from time to time." He kept his eyes on the road and not on the way her dress was sliding up her thighs as she slouched in the passenger seat.
"Oh no, George . . ." she said.
What now, he thought. Some other guy?
"My car," she went on.
"You named your car 'George'? Isn't it customary for ships and other modes of conveyance to be feminine?"
"Fuck that. Everyone says that to me. All my guy friends, anyway. I'm giving my car a boy's name."
"Fair enough," he conceded.
"I left it in the parking lot at work."
She was quiet a moment.
"I'll just have to walk there tomorrow morning and get it. I have to be at my other job at nine a.m.."
He said nothing to that.
They arrived at her condo. Not soon enough, as far as he was concerned. He helped her to the door.
Immediately upon entering she stumbled into the bathroom. He wandered into the kitchen, poured her a glass of water, and cursed himself for a pervert at the little thrill he got from the sound of her urinating.
Christ, what's wrong with me?
She exited the w.c. and leaned awkwardly against the wall.
"Time for bed?" he asked.
She nodded weakly.
A few steps up the staircase she collapsed in a limp, warm bundle.
"Or dear," she muttered.
'Oh dear'? She might be the most adorable drunk I've ever seen.
He hoisted her to her feet and, her arm around his shoulders, helped her up the stairs to her room.
He gave her a few more sips of water and laid her down on the bed. She had kicked off her sandals at the first landing on the stairs. He briefly considered stripping her out of her dress to make her more comfortable, but shook himself out of that line of thought. Leaving the phone and water by her bedside, he began to back out of the room.
"Don't go," she said, plaintive, and half into her pillow.
He stopped, sighed, began to unlace his boots.
Other than regarding footwear, he remained completely clothed. He gingerly stepped around piles of dirty clothes, throw pillows, and odd shoes and clambered onto the bed beside her. He assumed the Big Spoon position, as was his preogative as the male half of the sketch, and caressed her bare arm with a tentative, calloused hand.
Her breaths were deep and slow, and he took her to be dozing, when quite out of nowhere, she began to sob.
Great, a crying drunk. That's all I need.
"Hey, now," he whispered, "what's wrong?"
"I'm sorry," she managed, breathless. "I'm sorry.
"It's okay, jeez. Don't be sorry."
"No, I'm sorry," she sniffed. "I'm a terrible person."
"That's not true."
"I'm a terrible person," she insisted.
"Listen to me," he said, completely at a loss as to the cause of this outburst, but experienced enough with crying women to not be too caught off guard. "You are a funny, interesting, intelligent, beautiful person. It's okay. It's okay."
"It's not okay! Stop telling me it's going to be okay."
He was quiet. He found himself strangely calm and unaffected. Here he was, curled up next to a weeping co-worker, the two of them drunk. His friends had seen him leave with her, there were sure to be rumors. This was about as intense at the drama was likely to get in a small bistro in a sleepy hamlet. And yet he was utterly serene. He had no vested interest in the way this turned out. Now that a relationship with the girl was off the table, he could sit back and watch this trainwreck unfold. Still, he didn't want her to cry. Like all men worth a damn he was sorely affected by the tears of the fairer sex. And he was more sensitive and caring than most.
He resumed massaging her arm.
"No I will not. It is okay. It will be okay. You're an awesome person."
"You're too good to me . . ."
He had heard this before. Many times. From all the women he remained a loving friend too but would never become physically intimate with.
"No, no I'm --"
"And I'm horrible to you."
He chuckled.
"How are you horrible?"
Sure, he had taken her on two nice dates, spending his hard-earned cash and not receiving so much as a peck on the cheek, but that could hardly be considered an atrocity. Where was this coming fro--
"I slept with someone. While we were dating. Last Saturday, after that party."
Well, that came as a shock.
He had perceived her as a timid, almost prudish girl. He had had trouble describing to her two ice louges sculpted in the shape of certain anatomical parts. Looking back now he realized she probably assumed he was the prudish one, tip-toeing around sexual language. He recalled the jibes his co-workers had launched at him the Saturday in question.
"She hasn't returned your call because she was having trouble talking with two cocks in her mouth," Jake had said, smiling.
At the time, still thinking her a goody-goody, he had laughed it off, like all rude kitchen banter. He smiled ruefully now realizing how near the mark Jake had been.
"I'm a slut," she said.
Even now he found himself tranquil.
"You are not a slut," he said forcibly. "You were just having fun. You were doing what you wanted to do. There's no shame in that. It's not like we were going steady."
She sniffed.
"You're too good to me . . ."
I might be, at that.
"Hey, I get something out of this, too" he said. "I get to spend the night curled up next to a gorgeous girl. That's fair compensation."
She giggled.
"I'm just sad you never got to see my six pack," he muttered drunkenly.
"We'll see . . ."
They lapsed into silence.
"It's hot up here," she said, at last.
"Yeah, it is."
"I wanna go to the basement."
"You . . . do you have a bed in your basement?"
She laughed again. "I do have a bed in my basement. I'll show it to you."
He got up from the bed and helped her to her feet. She grabbed her purse -- something she wouldn't remember doing and he didn't notice at the time, which would come back to haunt them the next day. She was unsteady on her feet and slumped back on the bed with an exasperated sigh.
He sighed himself. This was becoming absurd, but one was either preux chevalier, or one was not. He Scooped her up into his arms and carried her out of her bedroom and down the two flights of stairs to the basement.


There was indeed a bed in the basement. It was dark and cool. He got her another glass of water and curled up behind her atop the covers. They dozed for a time, her arm curled around again, rubbing the back of his neck. He moved on from rubbing her arm to rubbing her side, her flat stomach, her hip. After a while he realized, alarmed, that her dress had ridden up well past her waist and he was caressing bare skin. His rough fingertips were stroking the silky curve where thigh joined hip joined body - one of his favorite spots on the female body. He was massaging the smooth front of her thigh, felt the thin taut line of her thong, ran his hand over the warm, creamy roundness of her ass cheek, and then stopped himself.
Preux chevalier!
She wouldn't sleep with him. She would never be his, never hold his face in hers and kiss him in public. Never smile, her eyes alight with secrets when she saw him. All he had was his dignity, his honor. Such a stupid, antiquated notion. That was all he could salvage from this.
He smoothed her dress back down and rested his hand on her shoulder.
I wonder how she'd react if I slowly rolled her onto her back, slid her dress back up and her panties down and ran my tonque between her nether-lips. Alternating slow, broad strokes covering every sweet inch of her nectar-dripping flower with shorter, more vigorous flicks centered on the sensitive pearl between the petals. Her hand around my neck, her plea for me not to leave. Perhaps she'd be pleasantly surprised . . .
No! She's not in her right mind. She's well under the influence now. Any intimacy under the circumstances would be as good as forced.
"I feel sick," she said.
Preux chevalier . . ..


He carried her back up the steps and through the living room and down the hallway to the bathroom. Positioning her carefully in front of the bowl, he sat down to wait, loath to leave her lest she have need of having her hair held back.
"Oh dear," she muttered.
Her nicely formed limbs were all in a tangle, one arm across the seat and her head resting on that arm. Her eyes were closed. He was surprised at how pretty she looked under the circumstances, and told her so.
She giggled.
"Don't . . . don't tell Ed about this," she said. "I don't want him to know how drunk I was . . .."
"You're not that drunk," he lied.
"Does he already know? Will he be mad?"
"He doesn't know."
Shows how little she knows the staff at work. This escapade might make her rise in their estimation.
"We all get drunk from time to time," he assured her. "I made a royal ass of myself at two company Christmas parties in a row."
"Really? You got drunk?"
"Sloshed. I propositioned a different member of the waitstaff at each party. Neither went for it . . ."
When he recalled this episode, glossing over most of the details, to his friend at work, he was chided for not taking advantage of it.
"She was all bent over the toilet, man. Ready to go," Jake had said.
"She was drunk and like to be sick."
"Pity you missed it. There's nothing quite like fucking a a girl while she wretches. The way her stomach contracts, gives you a marvelous little squeeze down there . . ."
After a while, when it was clear that she wasn't going to be sick, he carried her back into the living room.
"You can leave me here . . ." she said, and waved a languid hand at the futon.
He set her down as gently as if she'd been made of crystal, and started to walk away.
"You're leaving me?"
He sat down on the floor, his back to the couch seat.
"Where'd you go?" she asked, sounding surprisingly worried.
"I'm right here. I didn't go anywhere."
He tipped his head back so that it rested in her lap, took her hand, and draped in over his chest so that she'd know where he was.
They stayed like that until she fell asleep.


He got groggily to his feet, stretching his sore neck. He scouted around for her keys, having made up his mind on what he had to do.


Back outside at his car, having locked her door behind him, he stripped down to his briefs, hoping no neighbors were up and about at three of the clock. He grabbed his gym bag from the trunk and slid on his shorts, laced his sneakers, and clipped on his iPod.
Stuffing her keys in his pocket, he chose the Playlist that featured a lecture on Ancient Greek Tragedy and set off toward the restaurant. Preux chevalier . . ..

The cool, damp night air kissed his skin as he built up speed. His feet flicked lightly over the asphalt. His arms pumped. His chest heaved. He breathed deep the scents of fresh-cut grass and night-blooming flowers.
He thought back to the girl, curled up on the futon in her living room, breathing quietly.
He thought of her body, poorly concealed under the thin dress.
He wondered what his friends would have done in his place.
What would Ed have done? That horndog misogynist. Would he have pushed aside her flacid arms and entered her while she half-dozed? He thought that sounded more than likely.
Does that make me weak? Did I do the wrong thing.
If only she had had a little bit less to drink. She might have been loose enough to appreciate some physcical connection, but not so completely out of it to make it nearly date rape.

Panting and sore, he touched up outside George three miles and twenty minutes later.
His body glistened with sweat. His nipples were hard. His head was clear. The alcohol had burned away with the run, leaving him awake and aware.
He slid into George, chuckled at how tight the fit was, and adjusted the seat.
I also get to drive a new Beetle. Hurrah for new experiences. The night's not a total loss.

He parked her car in her spot and placed her keys on the end table near her head. He considered leaving a note, but decided a surprise might be a better.
He cast one last look at her, arms folded up under her breasts, nearly spilling them from her dress. Legs gently splayed. Bare feet resting on a throw pillow.
What if I were to kneel at the opposite end of the couch and gently suck her toes? Would she wake up and smile slyly at me? Would she even remember?
Enough! Jeez, you hapless, hopeless pervert! Just leave!


He returned the next morning to find her freshly showered. Her hair wet and clinging to her bare shoulders.
"Coffee?" he asked, handing her the cup he'd bought her at the convenience store down the road.
He'd wanted to make sure she didn't miss work. It had been he, after all, who left her far from phone and alarm clock.
"I really don't remember anything about last night," she said.
Was she being truthful, or was she giving them both an easy out, avoiding an awkward discussion.
"Yeah, we were both pretty worn out."
"Uh . . . sure, worn out. Well, I guess our friendship has gone to a new level . . .."
She spread her arms for a hug.
No! Not a hug. The lamest concilation prize to be had from a girl. Show her you don't need her touch. You're beyond physical contact. No false sentiment. Chilled steel!
Still, that might hurt her feelings  . . .
He went along with the hug.