Crystal's Persuasion

   My girlfriend Crystal is from the suburbs; malls, nice homes with lots 
of grass, and three cars in every garage (the Beamer for the kids, 
don'cha know).  Me, I'm from the city; discount stores, row homes on 
pavement with aluminum siding and car alarms going off in the street.  
She's 25, and white.  I'm 30 and black.  I work with computers, and play 
music part-time on the weekends.  She's an auditor for a brokerage house, 
and used to spend money on the weekends.  We met while I was playing, but 
it took an unusual catalyst to get us together: my ex-girlfriend, Pam.

   Pam is drop-dead gorgeous, a walking wet dream.  She's about five-
four, with blonde hair (sometimes it's curly, sometimes not).  She has 
bright blue eyes, and a slender, firm body that inspires thoughts of 
rabid, mindless marathon sex.  She's a city girl, and works as a cocktail 
waitress at one of the clubs we play regularly at.  Pam's aggressive if 
she sees something she likes.  She's not afraid of anybody.  Pam's been 
around the block a few times, and is wiser than her 23 years.  She's 
almost the exact opposite of Crystal.  Crystal played the coy little girl 
"notice me" game with me, while Pam...  Let me tell that story first.

   I had been playing every other weekend at the club where she works for 
about three months.  Being an average, under-sexed male, I noticed her 
like all the other men who walked in the club.  I drooled, too.  
Unfortunately, I couldn't even try, since she was clearly off-limits.  
It's bad news for a band to piss off the staff at a club, and unwanted 
advances are the easiest way to do that.  That will get you fired faster 
than almost anything else.  One Saturday night after closing, I was 
waiting for the owner.  Pam sat next to me, counting her money.  I heard 
her say, "Excuse me, Don."

   "Yeah, Pam?"  I tried to be nonchalant, but my heart started racing.
   
   "Why don't you just ask me out instead of looking at me with puppy dog 
eyes all of the time.  I _am_ an equal opportunity dater," she said 
sweetly.  My jaw bounced off the floor twice.  "Let's do something after 
I ring out," she suggested.  After all business had been taken care of, 
she and I walked out to our cars.  That is where I found out what her 
definition of "something" was.  Pam produced a rubber from her purse.  
("Just in case I meet somebody -- interesting.")  She looked deeply into 
my eyes, and I got lost in hers'.  "My place or yours?  This is what 
you've been wanting, right?"

   We never even made it out of the parking lot.  After kissing 
frantically for about five minutes, she and I climbed into my van.  Pam 
pulled my pants down, put the rubber on me, and removed her panties.  I 
felt her settle onto my erection.  "You look shocked," she panted.  
"Isn't it what you expected?"  She began to pump her hips, sliding 
ferociously along my dick.  I had no brain; Pam's scent, her facial 
expression, and her enthusiasm were more than enough to make thought 
impossible.  It didn't hurt that I was living out a most recent, 
extremely recurrent fantasy.  I didn't care that Pam was essentially 
masturbating herself on me.  It didn't last long, either.  "Now that 
you've had the fantasy, will you call me next week?  I think you're 
cute."  She sat next to me, still dressed in her tuxedo top, miniskirt 
and fishnet stockings.

   "You're kidding, right?" was my response.  "Why in the hell wouldn't I 
call?"

   "Because you already got what you wanted," Pam replied.  That wasn't 
quite true.  She had masturbated herself on me while I watched.  That was 
considerably less than what I wanted.  "So."  Pam let the sentence drop 
with that one word.

   "Pam," I started, then stopped.  "I'm sorry you're so cynical, but I'm 
not like other guys."  I ran that back through my head.  "I guess you've 
heard that before," I said sheepishly.

   "Uh-huh.  But -- you are the first guy since high school to look at me 
with puppy dog eyes.  Maybe you're not lying."  Pam kissed me on the 
cheek.  "Bye."  She got out of the car, smiled and walked leisurely to 
her car.  I called her the next day, and that began a six month romance.  
Much to Pam's pleasure, I was a much more active lover than I had been in 
the van.  Our after-work van encounters continued; at first, they were 
the subject of gossip at the club, but then became accepted fact, hardly 
worth comment.  For about five months, it was great.

   The last month felt wrong.  The sex was still incredible, but 
conversation had dwindled to virtually nothing.  Finally, we had the 
inevitable discussion.  I brought it up over dinner one night.  "It's not 
working, is it?"  She looked up at me through surprised blue eyes.

   Lowering them before speaking, she sighed, "No..."  She cleared her 
throat before resuming, stronger this time.  "No, Don, it isn't.  It's 
been fun, but you're right."

   "Anything I can do?"

   "No, I'm sorry, but I don't think so," Pam ruefully replied.  "Please 
don't take this personally, but, I'm afraid I've gotten bored with you."  
She quickly added, "Except in bed.  You're pretty creative, y'know?"  She 
smiled sadly.  "What you need is a nasty streak." Regarding me fully, she 
continued before I could say anything.  "I mean, I'm about to go into 
diabetic shock, you've been so sweet.  I guess I'm looking for the spice 
of danger."

   "A nasty streak?  I just wasn't brought up that way.  And I doubt that 
I can change, even for you," I stated.

   "See?  There you go again."  Pam patted my cheek and leaned closer.  
"You can't hurt me.  I really do like you a lot, and I want to be 
friends."  She paused.  "Really, I don't think I could have this 
conversation with another guy.  I think about all the times you made me 
laugh, and I value your advice.  Can we -- be friends?"

   I looked at her with all the seriousness I could muster.  There was 
hope written all over her face, and the entire apartment was silent.  My 
voice was quiet, deep; grave.  "Wouldn't this be a hell of a time for me 
to get that mean streak you just talked about?"  Pam was stunned for an 
instant, then she read the laughter in my eyes and laughed herself.

   "That's why it's been fun," she chuckled.  "I knew there was a reason 
I wanted to go out with you in the first place."  Pam leaned over and 
kissed me on the cheek.  Then she nibbled on my ear and whispered, "Wanna 
do it once more?  For old times' sake?"  It turned out to be more than 
once, lasting into Sunday afternoon.  Pam is still a walking wet dream.

   Our discussion continued over coffee in bed.  Pam explained, with 
loving care, exactly what she felt had gone wrong.  If anything, I hadn't 
been possessive enough, and too acquiescent to her wishes.  I asked her 
how she had become so wise in her 23 years.  "Bimboism isn't terminal.  I 
know, 'cause I used to be one.  I'm smarter now -- I hope."

   I really care for Pam a lot.  She's a good friend, and I learned a lot 
from her, especially after we broke up, which brings me to Crystal.