BUFFY JAMES AND BB
by BillyG (hayden@mindless.com)
A grueling day had started at 3:30 AM when I'd been
called in to see a young athletic guy in the ER who had
presented with a painful white foot. It was no diagnostic
puzzle; a STAT x-ray, a "dye" study, had confirmed the
suspected arterial blockage. There was a clot in the
artery behind the knee. A prompt clot removal, restored
circulation before any nerve damage occurred. It'd been
pretty routine and almost as easy. Still, it had started
my day several hours before I wanted.
Three scheduled vascular reconstructive procedures in
the OR, rounds in the morning and then again in the
afternoon for the ICU patients gobbled up the rest of the
day. I was looking forward to an evening off. Maybe a
quiet dinner, an hour or two of music and perhaps a good
book...I'd be renewed, I thought. But no luck; it wasn't
to be.
Years ago as an over-worked intern in a too-busy
university hospital, I'd learned to hate the sound of my
own name on the paging system. It was never good news.
Not once did I answer a page and receive a message that
said, "Doctor, I just wanted to thank you for the nice job
you did. Why don't you take the rest of the day off?"
Never happened. Not even close. More often it was
something like, "Dr. Burbank, the GI bleeder has cut loose
again and he's vomiting blood all over the place!"
I was just pulling off my surgical scrubs in the
Doctors' Dressing Room when the omnipresent speaker blared
out, "Dr. Burbank, Dr. Bill Burbank, to the OR STAT!"
Shit! Now what the hell was that? None of my patients
were in the OR and I'd just left the ICU - everyone was
stable.
With a resigned grunt, I pulled up the scrub pants and
grabbed a fresh top, still knotting the draw tie as I ran
back to the OR Schedule Desk.
"What's up?" I asked the scheduling nurse, June, as I
was pulling on the paper shoe covers.
"Dr. James in Eight...he's in trouble. Asked for you.
Big trouble I think."
June wasn't given to hyperbole; if she said it was big
trouble, it must be really big. I trotted down to OR
Eight and before I was halfway there, the hum of tense
urgency floated on the air. Nurses were running in and
out, people shouting. Jesus, it was a goddamned Chinese
fire drill! James was in deep shit again!
I didn't even stick my head in the door. Donning a hat
and mask, I did a perfunctory scrub, slipped into the
room, arms up and dripping and caught the scrub nurse's
eye. "BB's here," she murmured quietly. Very few people
called me "BB" to my face, but Judy was so damned good,
she could get away with it. She was ready for me and in
moments I was gowned and gloved, pushing my way to the
bloody operating field. Christ, what carnage was this?
With the unerring instinct of a surgeon who needs and
gets help often, James didn't even look up. "Busted
aneurysm" he pronounced in his usual pompous fashion.
"So?" I asked, grabbing a sucker.
"Can't stop the bleeding!" he replied, petulantly.
"Retractor to me!" I barked at Judy and in a lower
voice, added, "Bleeding always stops."
In my peripheral vision I could see James' head snap
up. "WHAT?" he asked.
Pretending he hadn't heard me, I repeated, "Bleeding
always stops," as if talking to a dull child.
Failing to appreciate the prophetic doom, he repeated,
"Dr. Burbank, this patient is *bleeding*!"
Shit, I could SEE that! What an ass. I elbowed aside
his assistant, Dr. Arbuckle, an old-time general surgeon
who fancied himself a self-taught vascular surgeon but
couldn't operate his way out of a paper bag. I once had
asked him how he'd feel about flying with a self-taught
747 pilot. Still, he *looked* good. You know the type:
Gray hair, military mustache, good dresser with a school
tie and a too-hearty laugh. A fraud. Still, if you
wanted someone to stroke your ego, give old Arbuckle the
assist and he'd blow smoke in your ear.
At the moment, this patient needed more than smoke.
Blood was welling up in the patient's abdomen faster than
it was being pumped in. But where in hell was it coming
from? High up, I bet. I pushed a sucker in along side the
aneurysmal aorta and looked, trying to see the source.
Judy said, "Yes, up there somewhere!"
Judy was a first class scrub nurse. She'd seen more
vascular pathology than James and Arbuckle combined. I'd
have bet a nickel that it had been her that suggested
calling me. She pushed a large right-angle vascular clamp
at me and I understood instantly what she was thinking.
Blind clamp *above* the renals and gain control of the
occult bleeding site. Interrupting renal perfusion was
normally a real concern, but on balance, renal hypoxia was
the least of this patient's problems at that moment. As
W. C. Fields is purported to have uttered on his death
bed, "All things considered, I'd rather be in
Philadelphia."
James tried to start an intellectual discussion about
the various possibilities. Jesus! A goddamned
differential diagnosis as the patient was bleeding to
death. Fuck! This was the kind of self-satisfied asshole
who liked to debate how many angels could dance on the
head of a pin. I ignored him, reflecting the mesentery as
high as I could.
"Here! What the hell do you think you're doing?" James
demanded.
"Sucker to big daddy," I said to Judy.
She was ahead of me.
"I said . . ." James started, but I cut him off.
"Retract, dammit. HELP me here."
Before he could object, Judy reached over and hauled up
on the retractor giving me an inch, less, but it was just
enough to sneak in above the renal arteries and do a blind
cross clamp. The blood stopped welling up in the abdomen
immediately. For the moment, we were okay. The whole
thing had taken less than a minute. Then it took no more
than another couple of minutes to slip in a large
occlusion balloon and achieve homeostasis intravascularly.
Hot damn! The panic was over. At least the acute
hemorrhage was over. Now we had a chance to find the hole
in the dike. I looked at Stan the anesthesiologist. He'd
done a lot of cardiac work and if anyone could maintain
cerebral perfusion pressure, it'd be him.
"Touch and go," he said, "but aside from almost no
central pressure, his cardiac status is stable. Pray the
sumbitch has a strong heart. I've been pouring in saline
and pressors, but what he needs is more blood."
"More's on the way," Judy said.
"Where's the cell saver?" I asked. No one answered and
that was an answer.
I turned to James and asked, "Can you finish this?"
It was an unfair question. He couldn't. He knew it
and worse, he knew that I knew it. Still, he had to save
face. What a jerk! He'd never learn that you can't save
your ass and your face at the same time.
He sniffed, "Well, since you bullied your way in here
against my wishes and put that damned Fogarty balloon in
there, why don't YOU finish the job!"
I'd seen him pull this shit before; I wasn't buying.
"Don't think so, James." I looked at Stan's monitors;
still stable. "Your case. I just answered the STAT call.
But I'll take the balloon out if you want."
James' eyes popped open in alarm. He wasn't really
sure what he wanted - besides looking good - but taking
out the occlusion balloon wasn't one of 'em, that's for
sure. He swallowed his pride. Just a little.
"Well...no...since it's in...well, could you help me
for a few minutes?"
For James, that was a major surrender, as close to
begging as he'd ever get. I wanted to ask him just what
he wanted me to help him with, for I was almost certain he
didn't really know what to do. James had a lot of flash,
but not a lot of substance. There were those people who,
not really believing in substance, chose appearance every
time.
At root, he was an adequately trained vascular surgeon
but certainly not very experienced and at best he was no
more than a barely-competent journeyman. Mostly he was a
plodder who wanted to look flashy. But plodding and
flashy just don't go together. I knew the professor who
trained him and once, thirty years ago, that professor had
been famous. But like many once-famous surgeons, he was so
damned rigid and convinced there was only one way - his
way - he didn't grow. Couldn't grow. James had been the
recipient of that hidebound attitude and if anything, he'd
reinforced it. Show James a rut and he'd move in and
furnish it.
The technical solution to James' predicament had been
worked out a couple of years ago. It was no surgical
secret, but it appears he hadn't heard of it, or perhaps
had and didn't believe it because it hadn't been taught to
him by Dr. God. I suspected he thought that if it hadn't
been taught to him, it simply couldn't work - a well
established, stuffed shirt attitude.
I didn't really have contempt for James, even if he was
a marginally trained. Mostly I quietly disliked him
because he was such a pompous ass. Actually what he really
was was a mostly-adequate plodder who attempted to
substitute time for inspiration. He thought that if you
didn't spend 18 hours a day in the hospital, you were
somehow goofing off or worse, cheating. We certainly
weren't enemies, but we weren't friends either. I tried
not to think of the deeper reason I didn't like him.
I made eye contact with Stan who kept a sound system in
his anaesthesia cart. "How 'bout some goin' home music,
Stan?"
I operated largely with Judy for the next half hour,
Arbuckle fluttered about and James tried to look in
control, or at least busy, but that's tough when you're
not really sure what the hell's going on. And I wasn't
going to take the time to give him a surgical lesson. I
wanted to get the hell out of there as soon as possible.
After the proximal iatrogenic damage had been repaired
and there were only the distal anastomotic connections of
the bypass graft to complete, I turned it over to Dr.
James. "It's all yours, James. Thanks for this
interesting referral." Jeez, was I being a sarcastic
bastard today!
He didn't say thanks. But I didn't really expect that
he would. He wasn't trying to snub me; it just wasn't in
his personality to be polite. As I was turning to leave
the table, he said, "Oh, Burbank, would you tell Buffy I'm
tied up with this emergency. She's waiting for me
downstairs. And could you give her a lift home? It's on
your way."
James didn't wait for an answer. He was used to people
doing what he wanted. I guess even me and I was senior to
him. Shit, I thought, she's not the person I wanted to
run into tonight, or any night for that matter.
Buffy was James' wife. I knew her from the tennis
club. She was a gorgeous woman but I had developed strong
ambivalent feelings about her. (That means that I secretly
wanted to jump her bones but was put off by her aloof
manner.) I didn't really understand what that was about.
We'd been doubles partners several times and we'd
consistently played well together. She was a natural
athlete and a heads-up tennis player who was able to
augment my strength and compensate for my weakness -
primarily an erratic back hand. We almost always won when
we doubled and while she was vocal and friendly on the
court, she reverted to an almost stand-offish ice queen
off the court.
I was more bothered by her coolness than I wanted to
admit. Several times while playing doubles, one or the
other of us would say something insightful or humorous and
we'd make eye contact. It was that laughing,
eye-squinting contact that lent strong testimony to the
intensity of the connection. Each time I thought
something was there, but it was never acknowledged and
each time I extended myself a little bit, I was frozen
out.
For awhile, I'd been painfully off-put by her manner
and quite confused. I wondered if I had stared too hard
at her legs or her ass. She had a great ass. It was true,
I loved to watch her when she bent from the waist to pick
up a ball. I was aware that she had caught me ogling once
and thereafter, used her racket to pick up tennis balls.
Still, it was hard for me to imagine she'd taken that much
offense. Hell, almost every red-blooded guy over 13 and
under 83 had the same thoughts.
Finished showering and dressing in my street clothes, I
went downstairs to the now almost empty OR waiting room
and sure enough, there she was, looking like a cool
million bucks. I admired her shapely crossed legs from a
distance as I walked down the hall. Her dark cocktail
skirt road high on one thigh and the deep shadows of the
darkened waiting area effectively hid the underside of her
stockinged leg. I idly wondered if she wore stockings or
pantyhose. I doubted I'd ever find out.
She glanced up when she heard my footsteps. I thought
she looked disappointed for a moment, but she smiled and
said, "Good evening, Bill. Have you seen my husband
about?"
Sitting in the seat across from her, I replied, "Yeah,
I just left him. He's up to his ass in alligators and
asked me to tell you that he wouldn't be able to make it
tonight." I saw her face fall a fraction. Yet another
social disappointment, another in a long line of
disappointments, I suspected.
"He asked me...actually, he *told* me...to take you
home. Said it was on my way."
Again, I felt small for my internal irritation. We
both knew I was taking a thinly veiled pot shot at her
husband. She wrinkled her nose in mild distaste and stared
at me. It was unnerving, but yet whatever I lacked in
self confidence around her, I always made up with bravado.
I shrugged.
"Would you rather call a cab?"
I thought to myself, 'you're so fucking gracious,
Burbank.'
For a moment I thought she was going to say yes, but
she appeared to make up her mind and her face softened.
"No, please...I mean, thanks. I *would* appreciate a lift
home." Then she took some of the pleasure out of it by
adding, "A cab would take twenty or thirty minutes to get
here."
As we walked out of the hospital, I surreptitiously
admired her tall, lithe body. Nights in Northern
California in the Bay Area can be cool and she'd carried
an attractive shawl which she pulled off as she climbed
into my car in the almost-empty Doctors' Parking Lot. The
mercury vapor lights lent an eerie heightened contrast;
highlights were brighter and shadows were deeper. It
must have been the cool air that made her nipples so
evident. I tried not to stare and failed.
I drove an older BMW, a classic coupe, the M-6. It was
a sleeper put together by BMW's Motorworks division
designed to be a wolf in sheep's clothing without any of
those silly, boy-racer lines. A few weeks before I'd had
a CD unit installed in the trunk, along with a decent
speaker system. I selected an Enya album as we took the
road west of the hospital, quickly leaving the suburban
roads to climb into the up-scale country nestled in the
foothills overlooking the San Francisco Bay.
"Howie," she began - Dr. Howard James *hated* being
called Howie - "often complains that you leave the
hospital hours before he does."
I knew James often stayed far later than I thought was
necessary, but I didn't know he complained about *my*
hours. "That so?" I replied, clearly disinterested in what
James thought of my work ethic.
She nodded, almost gravely. "Yes. He says it almost
like an accusation, like you weren't being conscientious
or something."
I grunted, watching the road unfold as we swung around
a curve.
"Yet," she continued, "when I noticed that the
Complications Report for last year showed you had a
significantly lower complications rate and a lower
mortality rate than he did, I asked him about it."
I grunted again.
"Don't you want to know what he said?"
"Not particularly," I replied, glancing over at her,
dimly visible in the orange glow of the instrumentation
lights. I had a greater interest in her legs.
"You don't give a shit, do you?"
I was startled. It was common for me to be a bit
vulgar at times, but I don't think I'd ever heard *her*
say anything remotely in poor taste.
"Yeah, I do...but not about what *he* thinks. I don't
mean to be rude, but I find your husband . . ." and I
trailed off, not wanting to say how I found her husband.
"That's clear," she said in a flat voice.
I couldn't tell if she were offended and I didn't know
what to say. She continued, "Howie knows it. You make him
feel uncomfortable, even less-than."
"Hmmmm...sorry he feels that way. The stuff we
do...well, it's not easy to think of the social graces
when you're trying to keep some poor bastard from jumpin'
in the box."
"Dying, you mean?"
"Well, there *is* that," I gave her as I pulled into
the graveled turn-around in front of their rambling,
ranch-style home. Some outside lights came on
automatically as we'd entered.
"Here we are," I reminded her, just in case she'd
forgotten where she lived.
She turned toward me and said, "Can I offer you a
drink?"
"No thanks." I replied, smiling to take the sting out
of any rejection she might feel. Besides, she was just
being polite. She knew I'd not come into their house with
James away. Someone else's perhaps, but not James'.
"You on call?" she asked.
"Nope. Outta sight, outta mind."
"Then please...come on in and have a drink...or
something. I'd like to ask you a question."
"Can't you ask it here?" I knew I was being distant
and formal; and I suppose part of that was petty
retaliation for her ice-queen act in the past.
I heard her sigh. "Yes, I *could*, but I'm trying to
be friends with you. I know I've been difficult in the
past, and I want to make amends."
I was surprised. I don't think I'd ever heard her say
anything so vulnerable. I turned and looked at her,
illuminated only by the soft interior lights. I started
to protest, "No, you don't . . ." but she cut me off.
"Yes I do! I'm aware that I've been cold and distant
and I want to apologize."
"You don't have to . . ." I started again, and again
she cut in.
Putting her hand on my arm, she said, "Please. This is
difficult enough. Couldn't we go in the house? I'd feel
better on my own turf."
I couldn't think of a way out, short of being rude. I
was keenly aware that I found Buffy James to be a very
attractive woman, sexy even. I felt it and I was afraid
she'd sense it in me. I had been single for several years
and more chaste than I wanted. My hand jobs took a little
the edge off, but for the most part, I was a horny,
under-serviced dude. Oh, there were a few women friends I
could turn to infrequently for a mercy fuck, but mostly I
just 'sat in the sand and ran it by hand.' As much as I
found her attractive, I didn't want to embarrass her or
myself . . . it was easier on my ego to be distant.
"Okay," I said. So much for steely resolve.
A motion sensor activated and illuminated the front
door. Walking in, Buffy stripped off her suit coat and
threw it over a chair as we entered the living room.
"Scotch alright?" she asked.
"That'll be fine." I answered, not caring much one way
or the other.
"You take single-malt on the rocks, as I recall."
"You recall correctly," I answered, wondering from
where she recalled that esoteric fact.
Handing me a heavy crystal glass with a token ice cube
and a good measure of an old single malt, she made herself
an equally strong drink. I'd never seen her drink anything
at the club. Liquid courage?
I watched her move as she assembled the drinks. Her
blouse was sheer and I could see the lace of her bra
beneath it. Her breasts bounced a little when she walked.
When I looked up and made eye contact, she was watching
me. 'Damn, busted again,' I thought. *That's* why I
didn't want to be alone with her.
She seemed nervous. "Your drink okay?" she asked.
"Not much bad you can do to good scotch over an ice
cube," I quipped.
She didn't smile. I doubt she'd really heard my reply.
"As I was saying," she started again, "I've been cool to
you without cause and I want to apologize."
I tried to look interested, but noncommittal. It
wasn't difficult. I didn't know where she was going with
this.
"Actually," she continued, "there is...*was*...a
reason." She trailed off and looked down at her skirt.
That gave me a reason to look as well.
"Howie's threatened by you. He admires you and he
dislikes you all at the same time. I thought I had to be
on *his* side, so I was cool toward you."
I nodded.
"Do you understand?" she persisted.
"I think so. I can understand your allegiance to your
husband, but I'm *not* on his case, you know. He's a
competent surgeon. He's okay." I wondered if I was
overstating things. I was afraid I might have been.
"And now you're wondering why I'm even saying this,
aren't you?"
"It had crossed my mind," I admitted.
"It has nothing to do with Howie," she offered.
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"No. This is my stuff. I might have been influenced
by his fear, but he didn't *make* me do anything. This is
my stuff and I don't like the way it's making me feel.
You've been more than fair with Howie. Like tonight, for
instance. You probably helped him, didn't you?"
"A little," I granted. Shit, it was a lot, I thought.
"So, his stuff is his stuff. I'm not responsible for
him, but I am responsible for myself. I'd like to be
friends. Will you accept my apology?"
"None needed, but yes, of course I will." In the back
of my mind there was this niggling disconnect. I
understood what James' stuff was, but she'd never actually
said what *her* stuff was.
I stood to leave. I was still nervous.
"I know you're being a gentleman," she said, standing,
"but please know that I'm being sincere."
What I *sincerely* wanted was to take her to bed but
instead, I put my hand on her's and said, "I know you are.
And thanks for bridging the uncomfortable gap between us.
Now, I really do have to go."
She smiled, knowing I was full of shit. I'd already
told her I wasn't on call and she knew I lived alone.
"Girlfriend?" she asked.
"What?"
"You have to go. Is it a woman?"
I stuttered, "Uh...no."
"Oh God! I am sorry. It's none of my business. Please
forgive me again?"
I laughed suddenly. "You sound just like my sister.
She's always asking if I've a girlfriend."
"I've never seen you with a date."
"Oh, I date. But no one steady." I kept moving
toward the door. I went to shake her hand and discovered
I was still holding the glass of scotch. I hadn't even
taken a sip. I must have been balmy.
"Here, let me take that," she offered. As she put the
glass down, she extended her right hand and shook mine.
Her hand shake was full and strong; no limp handed lady
here. I noticed that her nipples were prominently evident
again. And it wasn't even cold.
"By the way, we're having some folks over from the
surgery department this Sunday...for a swim and a
barbecue. Can you come?" She smiled and then added,
"You're not on call."
She was right. How'd she know that? "Uh...I suppose
so. What time? Can I bring anything?"
"Two to three PM and bring an appetite. Will you come,
please?"
I realized right then that I might have said 'yes,'
meaning 'no,' but at that moment, I knew I would come. I
was intrigued with her.
We stood for a long moment in the entryway, making eye
contact. She had electric blue eyes. I thought
irrationally that people with eyes like that could look
right into me, know what I was thinking. So then, did she
know that I wanted to boink her?
"Sunday, then?" she asked, breaking my reverie.
I just nodded and turned away, half afraid to speak,
concerned that my hard-on would be reflected in my voice.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~
Saturday afternoon I was browsing in Nordstrom's, idly
thinking I might buy something new for the following day.
Who was I trying to impress? Then I smiled to myself. I
knew exactly who I was trying to impress.
I was holding up a light blue sweater when a voice
said, "Not your color."
It was Buffy James dressed in some vanishingly short
tennis skirt and a tight fitting pullover, a bit more
risque than her usual attire at the club.
Affecting a denseness, I asked, "Color? Whadya mean,
color?"
"Earth colors. That's what you should wear. Didn't
your mother ever tell you that?" She smiled one of those
dazzling jobs I'd only seen rarely.
"Maybe. Probably. But the only thing I can remember
for sure my mother telling me was to not look down a
girl's shirt."
I knew I was pushing the envelope here.
She didn't flinch. "And did you?"
"What do you think?"
That didn't pull her in. Instead, she just grinned.
And looked at me. Once again I found myself staring into
her eyes, my mind running a tape of imagery, mostly scenes
of her in various stages of undress.
"A penny?. . ." she asked.
"Pornographers earn more than that," I countered.
Wide eyed, she said. "Oh! One of those thoughts, eh?"
"Only since you showed up." I explained myself.
Jesus! What in hell was I doing here? I was talking
like some horny teenager trying to score points with the
high school cheerleader. I was probably impressing her
alright, but almost certainly not the way I wanted to.
She defused the tension by picking up a burnt-orange
shirt and holding it under my chin, said, "Yes, earth
colors. This goes well with your skin and your eyes."
"International orange?" I asked with fake incredulity.
"BURNT orange, silly."
"Okay, okay. I give up. I'll get it. I'll even wear
it tomorrow. But please don't tell *anyone* that I'm
wearing *burnt* orange. Promise?"
She waggled her hand as if to say, we'll see. Another
dazzling smile and she parted, saying, "Come early."
Not likely, I thought. And get caught with Mr.
Cardboard Man?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~
I arrived fashionably late the next afternoon. There
must have been thirty cars scattered about, parked every
which way. I drove right up to the front door and sure
enough, there was a clean-cut teenaged boy there who
jumped up to open my door. "I'll park your car, Dr.
Burbank," he offered.
"Take care," I cautioned. He'd probably heard that
several dozen times this afternoon and it didn't deter him
from chirping the rear tires as he took off in an
impressive roar. I winced. Oh well, that's what
insurance is for.
"This way!" a voice called.
Looking to the side I saw her again. What kinda
coincidence is this, anyway? Buffy was holding open a low
wooden gate, waving me over. I took in her long legs,
almost-nothing two piece bikini and deep tan. It was
evident what she did with her afternoons.
My mother *had* instructed me; I kept my eyes on hers,
resisting the temptation to stare at her cleavage as I
walked over.
"You're late. I was afraid you'd chicken out," she
said, pulling me into a small arbored area next to the
house and close to the pool. I could hear the buzz of
voices and the soft drone of music coming through the
bushes.
Nodding my head, I agreed, "I thought about not coming,
but then what would I do with this beacon of a shirt?"
Rationalization was always close at hand.
"Get out of it as soon as you can?" she suggested.
Then, "Did you bring a suit?" she asked, looking at my
shoulder bag.
"Yeah, but right now, I'd like to just kick back and
look at the . . ."
"Girls?"
"That too," I conceded.
Burbank, your nose is growing, I silently accused
myself. What *else* did you wanna look at?
"Howie asked if you'd come yet. A couple of times,
actually."
I must have made a face, for she added, "But he can
find you himself." Taking my arm, she said warmly, "Thanks
for coming to our party."
Before I could reply, another couple squeezed past us
on the narrow path. They were so taken with each other,
they didn't even look at us. Still, I was jostled into
Buffy, my groin nudging her buttocks. Her ass was soft
and I could feel the deep indentation between her cheeks.
I'd wanted to feel that for months!
She looked back at me and said, "It's a good thing
we're friends now."
Looking about the pool area, I recognized about half
the people there, and half of those by name. Buffy
introduced me to her neighbors, then a woman from her
university, and later someone with whom she did volunteer
work. Shortly, they all blended together; I didn't
remember a single name.
"Beer?" a waiter asked. "Or would you rather have some
Chardonnay?"
"Do you have any mineral water?" I asked. I wanted to
keep my wits about me. Hell, I was in the Department of
Surgery; why'd I feel like an interloper? Because you
*are*, that voice in my head answered. You're lusting
after James' wife, you lech.
I sat at a table in the corner, initially alone, but
soon some medical equipment salesman struck up a forced
conversation. The only reason I knew we was a salesman
was because he'd handed me his card. "So, what's your
line?" he asked in a loud, too-jovial voice.
"Line?" I didn't understand for a moment.
"Yeah...whadya DO?"
"Oh! Well...I'm a maintenance man. I clean the pool
on Thursdays," I answered, studying the water as if to
check for flotsam and jetsam.
He looked at me curiously and then couldn't restrain
himself. "How come you're here? At this party I mean?"
"In case someone shits in the pool," I answered, giving
him my most earnest look. I resumed my pool watch. Jeez,
I disliked pushy salesmen, particularly those who
persisted in running their game at social functions. I
thought of them as an extreme example of substituting
persistence for talent.
Before he could lodge a protest, Buffy came over and
said, "Oh, Dr. Burbank could you help me?"
He was embarrassed. "You're not a pool cleaner!" he
accused in an irritated tone.
As Buffy led me away, I looked back and said to him,
"You're right. You aughta see my pool. It's a mess."
"Howie's trying to get them to make him some special
instruments," explaining the man's presence I guess.
"Good luck," I said, knowing most instrument companies'
reluctance to do work like that without a commercial
reward on the horizon. "Where're you taking me?"
"I want you to meet a good friend of mine," she
answered without further explanation.
I followed her through a side door, through a laundry
room into the kitchen. Seeing the half moons of her
buttocks below the high-cut bikini bottom, I'd have
followed her anywhere. Having played tennis with her, I
knew she had a good butt, but until then, I didn't know
now good.
As we walked into the kitchen, I asked, "Where's you
friend?" I looked around, afraid I was going to have to
meet another salesman or worse, another doctor. Looking
over my shoulder, I saw her. Sitting on a tall stool near
the door behind me was a dark-haired woman with striking
eyes and prominent cheek bones. Her micro skirt rivaled
Buffy's for brevity.
"That'd be me," she said, extending her hand, "I'm
Duffy."
Looking back and forth between the two woman, I said,
"Aw, come ON! Buffy and Duffy?"
"Yeah, that's what I thought when I first me her,"
replied Duffy.
Buffy interjected, "I've got to get back to the party,
but I wanted you two people to meet. Why don't you get to
know each other and I'll come back when I can?" With a
gay wave, she was off again.
There had to be more going on here than I was getting.
It all felt so contrived. So I said so.
"Do you have the feeling that you were brought in to
amuse me, or vise versa?" I asked Duffy.
"Not really, but I've had a greater chance to chat with
our hostess, so I'm more in on it."
"At the risk of disclosing how dense I really am, in on
what?"
"Sit with me a few minutes. I'll see if I can bring
you up to speed," she suggested.
Pulling up another stool, I sat directly in front of
this dark-haired woman. She was leaning forward, her
elbows on her knees, her forearms crossed and the view
down the front of her loose pull-over was breathtaking.
Again, I ignored my mother's caution.
"That's part of the reason," she said, cryptically.
"Beg your pardon?" I was still out in left field.
"You have the capacity to appreciate women; at least
that's what Buffy told me and the way you were eyeing my
boobs just now, I'd have to agree with her."
"Sorry," I offered. "It's an old habit. Most of the
time I don't even think about what I'm doing. It's second
nature." I shrugged and conceded, "I know it offends many
women."
"And it thrills some others. Like me, for instance. I
take your appreciation as a compliment. It makes me feel
attractive. More, it makes me feel desirable."
I nodded, liking this woman more and more.
"And Buffy's the same way," she added.
"She's not offended by me?" I said this with a certain
amount of skepticism.
Duffy shook her head.
I continued, "I thought she was. She's caught me
staring at her so many times, I've grown to feel like the
proverbial dirty old man around her."
"At first, she admitted that she felt some ambivalence
around you and that arose from a perceived inner conflict
. . ."
"Yeah, she mentioned that to me," I broke in.
Duffy continued as if I hadn't interrupted, "And I bet
she didn't tell you about her response to your vibrations,
did she?"
"Vibrations? What're you talking about?"
"Let me answer that by asking a question. Have you
ever 'felt' a woman's interest in you?"
"Hmmmm...I suppose so...but I could never tell if that
was real or wishful thinking on my part."
"I doubt that, Dr. Bill, but I'll let it go for the
moment. Try to imagine that you *have* felt a woman's
interest. Then you might understand what I'm talking
about when I speak of vibrations. Or, how about energy?"
"I'm getting the picture," I replied, still checking
the view down her pull-over top as she rocked back and
forth. I'd ascertained that she was indeed wearing a bra;
I could see the indentation through her shirt under her
arms, but I was seeing only the swell of her breasts down
her shirt front...that and her cleavage.
"Not *that* picture," she laughed, "although I'm
feeling flattered. See what I mean? I don't even know
you, and I feel flattered."
Placing my hand over my eyes as with the 'See No Evil'
monkey, I replied, "You mean when I remove my hand from my
eyes, my energy leaks out?"
"Maybe, but she tells me it sticks out all over you,
'like a porcupine' she said. Personally, I could come up
with a less prickly analogy," Duffy maintained.
"Less PRICKLY?" I inquired, waggling my eyebrows.
"Oh, groan," she replied. "How'd you *ever* get to be
a doctor much less a surgeon? I mean with that sexual
single mindedness, I'm surprised you had anything left
over for medicine."
"Some of us are gifted," I allowed, modestly.
"Well, she hasn't talked about THAT!"
"Intellectually, that is."
"Oh . . ."
I never heard so much fake disappointment in an 'oh'
before.
"How quickly you digress," I observed.
"I'm not completely sure this is a digression, but I'll
give you the benefit of doubt. What *were* we talking
about?"
"Vibrations?"
"Oh yes! Thanks. Yes, Buffy told me that she was
uh...excited by your energy. But also a little frightened
by it too."
I didn't comment. Just looked at her.
"Well?" she asked.
"I didn't hear a question," I replied.
"You can comment on a comment, you know."
"Okay...I suppose what comes to mind is the fact that I
have a pretty decent reputation. I mean, I'm not known as
someone who hits on women or makes inappropriate passes,
so I don't understand her fear. Do you?"
"I'd love to think that you're as dense as you're
letting on, but it's too clear to me that you understand
far more than you appear to, or *want* to appear to. Admit
it. You *know* what I'm talking about."
"Duffy, I suppose I can spout psychological jargon as
well as the next guy. If it's not 'family-of-origin'
stuff, it's 'inner child' or 'fear based' defenses. You
know, stuff like that. Am I getting warm?"
"You ever cop a feel of your friend's wife or his
girlfriend?" she asked suddenly, out of the blue.
"Not since college...and he wasn't really a friend.
Actually he was an Indian, an Eskimo Indian and you know
what they say about Eskimos. I thought he'd *want* me to
pat her on the ass. You know. Like a compliment. Like
burping after a big meal or something like that." Then,
looking into her eyes, I asked, "You're husband's friend
ever pat *you* on the ass?"
She looked at me, wide-eyed, then laughed. "I deserved
that and I'm not married...anymore, that is."
"Me either...anymore."
"Let me back up. No, let me start over," she said.
"I'm making a mess of it."
"Fair 'nuff," I agreed.
"First, I'm Buffy's best friend. We tell each other
our secrets."
"Yes, I've heard that's what friends do."
Still ignoring my prattle, she continued, "I'd like to
ask your understanding and your discretion."
"I can probably guarantee the 'discretion' part, but
I'm less certain of the 'understanding' part." I smiled
and added, "But I'll do my best."
She rubbed her eyes, the kind of motion that
long-suffering people use in the face of idiots.
"Second, Buffy loves her husband." She held her hand
up as if to stop me. "Oh, I know. He's a jerk...but he's
*her* jerk."
I remembered the affection I once had for the world's
dumbest dog. I nodded in understanding.
"Third - and this is the sensitive part - he doesn't
appreciate her. Sexually, I mean."
I stared at her, expecting more. "Is there a number
four?"
"Yes, that'd be you."
"Moi?"
"Yep."
"See, I told you! The understanding part just flew out
the window."
She sighed. "Okay, Dr. Dense. You DO appreciate her.
You admire her and she feels it. You restore her tattered
self confidence as a desirable woman. She feels good
around you. Get it?"
"Let's say for a minute, a brief damn minute at that,
you're right, or even half right. Then why'n hell do I
think of her as Ms. Ice Queen of 1997? For cryin' out
loud, I'm not some fast-talkin' dude tryin' to sell a
roll-in-the-hay to some slow-thinkin' woman. If she's so
damn tuned into my "vibrations" then why don't I feel it?
Why do I always feel a little like a snake-oil salesman
after talking with her? Tell me that, Ms. Smarty Pants!"
I stopped, short of breath.
"You DO care about her, don't you?"
"What're you doing? Exploring the depth and breath of
the non sequitur?" I was getting a little hot and it
probably showed.
"Good! I'm glad you have those feelings. Now listen
to me. Buffy loves her husband, but she's ready to
explore her feelings as they apply to her sexuality. And
no, she's not looking for a new man. But she knows that
she has pushed you away, mostly because she's so attracted
to you. And no, she's not going to leave her husband and
no, you and Howard don't have to duke it out. Have I
forgotten anything?"
"Aside from your sanity?" I asked.
She arose and put a hand on my shoulder. "Give it some
thought." She turned as if to leave, then paused, "Don't
hurt her."
Hurt her? She left the kitchen and more, left me
sitting in some state of confusion that asked what the
hell was *that* all about?
Wanting to do something with my hands, I opened the
refrigerator door and found a Diet Coke before returning
to the party. What party, I asked myself morosely?
The hum and burble of the gathering swelled as I walked
back to the patio next to the pool. Same faces. Different
positions. Everyone talking, no one listening. Nothing
much had changed. I glanced at some jerky movement to my
left and saw His Nibs bearing down on me. Oh shit, I
thought.
"I say, Burbank!" James started. "Good of you to pop
by."
Pop by? Geez, this guy came from Philadelphia and went
to Hahnemann Where'd this phony British accent come from?
I didn't say pip-pip...or whatever the hell those guys
say to each other in agreement. Instead, in a rare moment
of civility, I said, "Sure," or some such equally erudite
response. I idly wondered if he'd ever been thrown in a
pool at one of his parties.
"That case, the ruptured aneurysm you know, is doing
well. Thought you'd like to know."
"Good. Glad to hear it," I replied, knowing this was
about as close as James could ever get to a thank you.
I couldn't resist. "There are people that maintain
that we DOCTORS," - I spoke it in capital letters - "don't
know our patients' names. That we refer to them as the
'gall bladder' or the 'ruptured aneurysm.'"
I waited. His eyes looked away. "So, do *you* know
that patient's name?" I prodded.
"Of course I do!" he blustered and then turned away
without telling me.
Whew, that wasn't as bad as I feared. I watched him
scurry away in his outlandishly loud surfers' trunks.
Christ, I hope my legs aren't that skinny!
Buffy, who had far superior legs, intercepted her
husband and whispered something in his ear. He didn't
acknowledge it other than to change course and scurry in
another direction.
Oh, I suppose he didn't really scurry, but it seemed to
please me to think of him that way. I didn't usually
mentally pick on other people. James must have been put
here to be my personal gad fly.
Duffy cruised up to Buffy and they chatted in an
animated fashion for a few minutes. Once or twice, the
color mounted in Buffy's cheeks and she glanced in my
direction.
I saluted her with my Diet Coke. Suave, huh?
Judy, that extraordinarily talented scrub nurse stopped
by and said, "Hi, Doc. Nice job the other night."
"Thanks to you," I beamed at her. "You were on top of
that train wreck all the way; thanks for helping me."
She smiled her appreciation and went over to chat with
the Bobbsey Twins. As aloof and standoffish as James was,
his wife was the opposite. She was well-liked by the
nursing staff for her generosity, both with her time and
with her home. Often the nurses were invited to hold
their social events at the James house.
I strolled around, chatting briefly here and there,
touching base with a dozen or more people I particularly
liked. I ended up back in the house, arguing the merits
of this year's Forty Niners with an old-time pump tech I
knew from my student days. Tired of carrying around an
empty Coke can, I went into the kitchen to help myself to
another. Or was I hunting for Buffy?
If it was the later, I was in luck. She and her side
kick were leaning against the chopping block, giggling.
Why is it, I wonder, when two women are laughing together,
I instantly wonder if they're laughing about me?
"This a private party?" I asked, pulling another Diet
Coke from the fridge and holding it up to signal the
question, "This okay?"
Buffy nodded and said, "Well it was, but for you, we'll
make an exception. Get anything to eat?"
"Too many peanuts while I was talking to Ray," I
answered truthfully.
"Judy told me about Friday night," she said in a
serious tone.
"Don't listen to Judy; she exaggerates," I advised,
trying to turn this aside.
"Even when she thinks you're the hottest thing around?"
she countered.
"Especially then. It's my...uh...energy. That's it,
my energy!"
Buffy laughed, "Ha! Judy's a lesbian and doesn't give
a rat's ass about your energy!"
"Shows what you know," I shot back, coming close and
leering down the front of her chest. "Feel that energy?"
She turned to Duffy and said, "What *is* it with this
guy?"
Duffy looked me up and down, just like I was there, and
then turned back to Buffy and spoke about me just like I
wasn't there, "Oh, he does have a certain stud muffin
quality...as long as you're not hung up on brains."
I didn't have a snappy comeback, so I did the next best
thing and said nothing, as if I were above it all. If I
couldn't sound studly, maybe I could look that way.
Duffy walked between me and her pal and cupped my balls
in her hand for a moment. "So, *are* you for real, Dr.
Stud Muffin?"
I choked on my Coke. Sputtering and red in the face, I
turned to Buffy and held my hands, palms up, as if asking,
what in hell is happening here?
She answered by saying, "Com'ere, stud, I wanna show
you something." She turned away from me and walked into a
large pantry; the door swung shut behind her.
I looked at Duffy for clarification and she just smiled
and asked, "Well, you gonna help the lady or not?"
Against my better judgment, I followed Buffy into the
pantry and asked, "What'd you want to show me, lady?"
"This!" she said and moved into my arms, planting a
soft kiss on my lips. "Thanks for helping Howie the other
night."
"Is *that* was this is about? Howie?"
"No! Shut up and kiss me you big jerk. What do I have
to do to get your attention? Take off my clothes?" She
wrapped her arms about me.
"That'd probably work," I allowed as she pressed her
body against mine. "But what about . . ."
"Don't worry. Duffy's standing guard," she whispered,
running her tongue into my ear. "BB, I'm not looking for
romance or a boyfriend or even an affair. I'm so damn
itchy I can't stand it! And mostly I'm not looking for
conversation. Is that clear?"
Things started to slow down about then. I was aware of
the press of her breasts against my chest and how her
pubic bone was riding my thigh. Suddenly, I didn't have
anything to say. Zero to sixty in a second flat. This
was about rutting, not negotiation.
The scent of her hair filled my olfactory senses. I
could feel her breath on my neck, her soft lips nibbling.
She kissed me again, running her tongue inside my
mouth, dueling with my tongue. She moaned into my mouth
and I could feel her warm breath on my lips. Lordy it was
sweet.
I ran my hands down her back, cupping her buttocks,
pulling her tighter to me. She moaned again and humped my
thigh in a grinding motion. I couldn't resist; I slipped
my hand inside her bikini bottoms and run my middle finger
down into the crack of her ass...velvet skin over firm
muscle in a deep cleft. She clenched her buttocks in
response when I touched her anus with the tip of my
finger.
"Yes-s-s," she hissed, arching back at me.
Reaching farther between her legs, I felt her soft fur
and the soft wetness of her labia. I slipped my finger
into her slit and dragged it back toward me; it felt like
warm butter. She was soaked and I was getting harder, if
that were possible.
"Ungh, ungh, ungh," were the only rhythmic sounds she
made as she continued to slowly hump against my leg. She
reached down and cupped my balls just like Duffy had done.
Jesus!
"Let me see it, Billy! Take it out!" she whispered
hoarsely.
At this point, I wasn't thinking any longer. It made
no difference if Duffy was outside the door or the
sheriff's posse was ready to ride through. Fuck it! With
a free hand, I pushed my trunks down and my woodie sprang
up. She groaned again and fell to her knees, taking my
cock into her mouth.
I couldn't believe it. The beautiful ice queen was on
her knees, her cheeks pulled in by the suction of her
mouth on my cock...right in the middle of her pantry!
When I opened my eyes, I was staring at a large jar of
pickles. Christ! I hoped Howie didn't develop a yen for
one right then!
As much as I loved the feel of my cock in her mouth, I
wanted more to taste *her*. I fell to my knees despite
her protestations and cupped her pussy mound through her
bikini.
"Buffy, show me! Show me your pussy. I want to smell
you, to taste you, to lick you...now!"
Eyes wild and unfocused, she didn't hesitate and pushed
her bikini down and off, falling back and opening her
legs.
While the space was generous for a pantry, it didn't
allow for much spontaneous movement. It was gonna be
right here sandwiched between cases of enchilada sauce and
Wesson Oil or not at all. That was a no- brainer, even
for me.
"Here! Is this what you want to see?" asked Mrs. Ice
Queen. "Look at ME!" she hissed.
And Dr. Stud Muffin, that hip, slick and cool dude with
his shorts down about his knees, dived between her
legs...filling his head with her essence. Her scent was
like a narcotic. No, that's not right. No drug could
ever drive me up the wall as her odor did. I inhaled her
bouquet and with an open mouth, breathed my hot breath on
her cunt.
"Oh God, YES!" she gasped, humping her pelvis up at me.
I pushed her legs up until her knees were by her
breasts, opening her completely to my lustful stare. Her
pubic hair was trimmed on top and her labia were bare. She
was swollen, partially open and dripping down her leg. I
could see her urethra and the small opening to her vagina
where her white juices were now pooling. Right under that
was her tight, pink and puckered ass hole. Bending down, I
ran my tongue around her anus, feather light, around and
around, and all the while she kept thrusting her pelvis at
me.
"Oh God, oh God...DO IT! Do it, Billy. Don't tease
me. Fuck me. FUCK ME dammit!"
Mine was hardly a considered action. My reptilian hind
brain took over. I bent my hard cock down to her pussy and
with borderline presence of mind, I asked, "Is it safe? I
don't have a rubber."
"I'm on the pill." She reached down, impatiently
grabbing my cock and fitting it to her cunt, growled in a
near guttural tone, "Fuck me, you bastard."
I sank into her slowly. "Can you feel it, Buffy? Can
you feel the head of my cock pushing into your tight
cunt?"
"Ungh...yes...more!"
I didn't think of what I was saying. Considered
thought was gone and the delicious, almost unimaginable
pleasure I was experiencing simply enveloped me. It was
no more than a stream of libidinous imagery to which I was
giving voice, mindless voice. The ecstasy, the pleasure
of it had caught me up and pulled me into a free-fall
vortex of rapture.
"My shaft's pushing into your cunt; feel it? Can you
feel my cock sliding into your slit? Can you feel me
fucking into you, woman?"
She answered by heaving her pelvis up at me in that
age-old, primitive, automatic action that's been going on
for a million years.
Bracing on one hand, I pushed her bikini bra up on her
chest with the other, exposing her tits. Humping and
driving my cock deeper into her, I reached down and sucked
a nipple into my mouth.
"Yes-s-s-s-s . . ." was her sibilant cry as she bucked
against me.
She threw her right arm up above her thrashing head. I
reached over her head with my right hand, holding her by
her wrist, effectively pinning her as I continued to pound
into her feminine core. She tipped her face up, her eyes
rolling back into her head. Her right armpit was
completely open and vulnerable. I dipped my head down and
began licking her from the base of her breast up to her
axilla, swelling in the soft fold of her pit. When I ran
my tongue against the grain, I could feel her close-shaven
stubble.
She thrashed and bucked in protest, trying to withdraw
her trapped right arm, trying to pull away from the
maddening tease of my tongue. She could not. I continued
to fuck into her and lick her arm pit for what, ten
minutes? Christ, I don't know. How can you tell? A long
time it seemed. Even my mindless chatter gave way to
hoarse, labored breathing as we rode this wave of
indescribable pleasure.
I could feel the head of my cock bumping into her
cervix and each time she grunted. Suddenly she squinted
her eyes as if in pain, throwing her head back, sending a
silent scream to the ceiling as her back arched and her
body went rigid.
I didn't *want* to cum just then. I wanted it to last
and last, but I had no power to stop. My orgasm was
ripped out of me with awesome force. Jet after jet of hot
cum splashed into her cunt. Her pelvic muscles contracted
and I wanted to tell her I was cumming and I couldn't; the
best I could manage was something that sounded like,
"Arrghhh!"
We both slumped, panting, exhausted and spent, as we
drifted back to reality...the reality of the hard pantry
floor. And then I remembered those damned pickles. It
was painfully evident to me that I was more at home in an
operating room than a pantry.
"God, oh God, I needed that. I can't *tell* you how
much I needed that," Buffy was mumbling, I guess to me. It
wasn't clear. Shit, at that moment, *nothing* was clear.
The pantry door creaked open and I heard Duffy's voice
behind me, "You guys made so much noise! For a minute, I
thought you were going to drown out the music." She
paused and then continued, "Uh...Buffy . . . I hate to
intrude on this romantic moment, but your genius
other-half is tromping around the house looking for you.
"Oh shit!" I heard her say, somewhat muffled as she was
pushing against me. "Thanks, Billy. I hate
to...uh...make love and run . . . but could you MOVE
dammit?"
My arms were lead as I pushed myself to my knees.
"We've got to stop meeting this way," I complained as I
tried to pull my shorts up. "What in hell got into us,
anyway?"
Buffy pulled her head off the floor and looked down at
her pussy as she ran a finger through her slit. She
pulled away a string of white cum. "I don't know about
you, big boy, but I know what got into ME."
Standing, I was able to pull up my shorts, catching my
softening dick in the process. Still pulling up one side,
I helped her to her feet. There was a big wet spot on the
floor.
Buffy pulled up her bikini bottoms and trailing a toe
through the wet spot, said, "Looks like we left a hickey
on the pantry floor. Don't worry, I'll get it later."
"Yeah, before James comes in here for a pickle!"
She started to brush past me and then turned back.
"Jesus, I'm rattled. I almost left without saying thank
you." She hugged me around the waist, her head on my
chest and added, "We'll talk again. This is what I
wanted. What I wanted all along and couldn't admit to.
Gotta go. We'll talk." With that she spun around and
walked out, adjusting her bra top.
Thank me? Christ, is this what the feminist movement is
leading to? I waited several minutes but heard no voices
in the kitchen and thought it was probably safe. I
ventured out and found Duffy patiently waiting, still
sitting on a stool right outside the door. She smiled at
me. You know, that Cheshire cat smile.
"Safe?" I whispered.
"Sure," she laughed. "Buffy jumped right into the pool
before anyone could notice her disheveled state. You look
marginally better."
"Ah...but I *feel* wonderful," I protested. Rummaging
through the refrigerator, I asked, "Can I get you
anything?"
She mumbled something.
"What?" I asked.
"I said, 'You're probably all out of what *I* want.'"
I sat on a stool and leaned against the chopping block,
shaken and dazed. "I still can't believe what
happened...*how* it happened. I mean, no soft music, no
dancing or holding hands, no romance.... just WHAM...and
it happened. How'd that happen, do *you* know?"
"Sure," she replied. "It's easy. You were both wound
tight, sexual springs under great tension. The romance
had already been acted out, goofy as it was. The build
up, the tease has been going on for weeks. There's no
doubt in my mind, this was gonna happen sooner or later.
When she told me about it, I thought it'd be better
sooner."
"What happens now?" I asked.
"Nothin'," she replied. "I told you. Buffy loves her
husband. She's not looking for another husband. She's
just in lust with you. She'll probably get shy now and in
a few weeks, she'll get horny again. She'll let you
know."
"And if I get horny?" I asked, as if someone *owed* me
something.
"It's always a two-way street, Doctor."
She stood and took my arm. "Now, it's *my* turn to
monopolize you, Dr. Stud. Tell me, how do you like
brunettes and will you give me a ride to the airport?
After you take me to dinner that is?"
~~~~ The End ~~~~