Lulu? That had to be a fucking joke. He'd expected something long and pretentious and foreign-sounding. A name with way too many letters for a woman her size. Maybe five or six names strung together in quick succession, the way some of the Catholic mothers he knew in Arizona had dumped in as many middle names as possible to make their children sound more important. Give them all those meanings to cling to, as if that would somehow make up for the shit town and poor upbringings. There wasn't anything haughty about the name Lulu. He'd had a cousin Lucia who'd used the diminutive, and he'd once fucked a woman who'd bestowed the name upon her ancient, heavyset cat. Even more than the silly name, however, there was that rise of color. Marcus couldn't help a smirk. Any kind of blush was like a drug to him. Suddenly he felt at ease. After all, he didn't have to be insecure or embarrassed if she was. "Heh. Lulu. Yeah, maybe I'll remember that."
He considered taking that comment further, but she had taken the bar as he'd told her to, reminding him that he was supposed to be instructing.
"You pull that fucker down in front of you, squeezing the muscles together here," he brushed a finger through the back of her shirt just between the shoulderblades. "Go behind, you gonna pull it wrong. Hurt yourself. Might need to lift your chin up. That's fine. But keep your spine straight and shoulders down, and keep squeezing together in that spot when you pull. Go slow 'til you get it. Real fucking easy."