December 30, 2009
Fiction
High Noon
High noon. The hands of the clock hands are straight up and linked as if bound at the wrist.
Quick check the afternoon schedule, rip off the white coat (placing it ever so neatly on the back of the chair), grab the essentials. “Be back at one!” I wave to nurse Marcel, receptionist Gloria and office manager Bob. The latter gestures wildly but, phone pressed to his face, blessedly silently. Answer his frantic mime with pleasant nod of pretend comprehension and exit before questions are asked. Quickly, quickly. No time for charades today. I push the elevator down button twice, then again. It’s lunchtime and I’m hungry but what I want isn’t on the menu.
Until I cook it up myself. Hot, sweet and rich as sin with no skimping on the oil or spice, my “Special of the Day” will satisfy all cravings. Suddenly I can smell it. My mouth salivates and every nerve in my body springs into action, shooting out its neurotransmitter juice. Electrified and alone in the elevator, I trace the names of each desired dish on an imaginary menu, stroking the curves and hard edges of each letter. At ground level a look in the mirror confirms that I’m not the same person who stepped into the elevator twelve stories ago.
It happens every month.
The sun is at full force and we’re talking Miami hot. I start to drip. Rivulets of sweat wiggle between my breasts under my dignified, buttoned- up- to- the- neck shirt, but before I liquefy into one giant pool I’m inside the car blasting the AC, backing out of my designated spot.
Reserved for Doctor, the sign says.
Reserved. If they only knew.
I swear the car steers itself. It’s been there before, knows where I need to go, knows the way. One hour of freedom and it’s back to the office and an afternoon immersed in the needs of others, doling out advice, information, comfort (and strict warnings when needed), wearing a bland and professional face.
But tonight I’ll have a different face, not bland, not professional, and mostly covered by a mask. The mask allows me to be naked and alive, helps me face myself. Besides, there are things I can do with it on that my bare face would never allow.
A police car appears seemingly out of nowhere. Speed trap, but that’s not the reason for the fluttering in my chest, the constriction that suddenly makes breathing a challenge. In out in out, good girl! I slow down but tonight there will be nothing stopping me. The moon will rise up full and glowing, with no quarter taken, and I’ll feel full as well. Of plans, of excitement, and of desire that only one thing can satisfy!
The invitation made it clear that this month’s Full Moon Party has none of the rules and dress codes usually so strictly enforced.
“Pick a suit demure or frisky Bare is best and oh so risky Dare to reinvent it all In answering this moon’s booty call!”
And I was about to pick. Possibilities stretched out before me like magic carpets at my feet, each one ready to whisk me off to some unexplored exotic frontier. I may not yet know who I’ll be, but I do know it’ll be someone I’ve never been before, playing a part that will break open the habits of a lifetime. Or else why even bother?
I find a parking spot close, but not too close, to the store entrance. Over the door is a small sign announcing that you are entering a VERY HOT ZONE at your own risk. I take a moment to look around for any dangers. None. A few quick steps and the door slams shut behind me. Muted lights and cool air greets me, a welcome change from the hot glaring brightness of the outside.
When my eyes adjust I immediately recognize the staff, but if they remember me they don’t show it. Well trained, these employees. Discreet. I quickly scan the other customers but if I see someone familiar (and it’s never happened once in all these years), I come prepared as any former Girl Scout. A gag gift for a friend’s 50th, you know. Big laugh.
And I could get away with it, too. Look at me. Hair tucked back, low heeled shoes, a look that screams decaf skim milk cappuccino before I even open my mouth at Starbucks. “Of course she’s here for a joke,” anyone who knows me would think, “She’s not interested in this stuff.”
I pass by a display of huge plastic phalluses. Gag gift indeed!
But this is no joke.
New Orleans, 1994. Two women take a road trip and end up smack in the middle of Mardi Gras. Judy and I, clueless at first. We dared each other to dress up. I, the fearful one, so adverse to show, at first resistant, then trying it, then loving it. Masks and trinkets, feathers and sequins. And beads. Strands and strands of bright colorful shiny beads. We didn’t know what they were for but we bought them anyway. Who could resist? And when the very first one came up to me and said, “I want some of your beads,” I started to give him a strand when he stopped me. “Don’t ever give it away. Make me earn it. Make me work hard for it.” Begging, pleading.
I understood. I had found it, the ultimate high. Something snapped into place, a part I hadn’t even known was missing. Hadn’t had a clue until I looked into his eyes and felt my own become hard and narrow as I told him exactly what I wanted him to do, how I wanted him to do it, and what would happen if he failed.
Who says we ever outgrow the need to play dress up, to inhabit a secret world of make believe?
My secret keeps me going through the ups and downs of the day. I like my job, my life, but concealment and contrast is its spice, the whipped cream on my decaf skim. Make that the whipped cream, shaved chocolate and cherry. I remember the first time, the indecision, the fear, the difficulty of the transition from work to home to party, finally scrutinizing myself in the full length mirror and seeing a tough and menacing sexual figure. So this is what 39 looks like, I had thought with pleasure. It’s been Halloween every month since, wearing costumes and getting treats from strangers.
Enough. Thought is cheap but now it’s time for action, which in this is case expensive, and worth every penny. Cheap slut is definitely an oxymoron here. Just check out these price tags. I stroll up and down the aisles, casual as if it was breakfast cereals I was comparing. The place is huge; who would think there were so many ways to please?
Now is the time to pay close attention to bodily responses I suppress at almost all other times. Now is the time to attune to desires instead of tuning them out. Believe me, it took practice to get reacquainted with myself. It is amazing how we lose the ability to know what satisfies us, to know what we need. We spend so much time living in our heads, what a pleasure it is now to let gravity take over, to shift the focus downward, to surrender to primitive need. Instinct guides me now, it never fails.
Leatherwear first, redolent with earth and animal smells, so rich I can taste it. Matching bikini and bra sets, caps and flowing capes, supple skins pierced with shiny metal studs, promising tight fits that will leave their mark. I run my fingertips over the harsh braids of whips, over sandpaper-rough paddles, then move onward to the soft and silky, the feathers, fleece and fur. With each new texture I pause and imagine how it will feel against — other places.
“Put me on,” a gorgeously studded black leather collar beckons me.
“Use me hard!” a riding crop demands.
“You know you want to be inside me,” a frilly maid’s outfit seduces.
Take me, wear me, buy me, play with me . . .
I think it’s gonna be rough tonight, alpha female all the way, no making nice. I picture myself demanding satisfaction and my legs go weak, nearly give out from under me.
No more Ms. Nice Girl, or Dr. Nice Girl to be exact.
“Doctor by day, dominatrix by night.” I can see the headline, the tacky picture of a discipline queen, whip in one hand, stethoscope in the other. After all, why not? I’m good at my day job. People undress at my command everyday, passive and grateful. “Whatever you say, doctor,” they say, “You’re the doctor, you tell me.” “Thank you, doctor,” they generally say sincerely afterwards, “that was a thorough exam all right.” I have them bending over and spreading for me all day. Why not take it to the night, spice it up? Probably make more money without the insurance hassles. The doctor was definitely IN. In charge, in control, in the mood.
Definitely sounds like a top night to me . . . or was it? I look from display to display . . . to ride — or be ridden? To sit in the saddle — or be straddled? Wasn’t I just a little tired of authority, of being the powerful bosswoman? Maybe it was a night to mindlessly follow the commands and whims of others, to totally submit, zone out. I can feel the sting of a whip against a buttock, the fearful quiver of binding . . . yes sir, no sir. Anything you say, ma’am. Yes, it could definitely go that way too.
It’s 12:35. I feel it coming on. It’s time to choose . . .
DAMN! I suddenly realize why Bob had that frantic questioning look on his face as I sashayed out the door. It’s the new furniture shipment, he promised them an answer by one PM today. I had forgotten all about it. Office decoration is not exactly my thing. Irritated, I reach for my cell and hastily ascend to a corner of the less crowded second floor, punching in the office number with more force than strictly necessary.
“Bob?”
“Oh, Doc, I’m glad you called.” He sounds so relieved. He really is my most valuable employee. “I was worried that you forgot. I tried to catch you before you left for lunch.”
“I just realized, sorry for the delay.”
“No problem, I have your cell number but I hate to interrupt your lunch. Where are you?” he suddenly asks.
“Oh, just picking up some dry cleaning. You know how it is, so hard to find the time for the boring daily errands.”
“Yes, I sure do know. Matter of fact I’m just going into the hardware store. Redoing my kitchen. I forwarded the office number to my cell.”
I can hear the buzz of a busy store on Bob’s side and decide to continue shopping while we chat. No time to waste! There’s a nice display of my kind of “hardwear” right near me: fluorescent and multi-flavored condoms which I briefly consider before dismissing then as too gimmicky for tonight. Basic and bare, that’s what I want. Aha, here are some beautiful masks. Full coverage . . . but somehow transparent. Perfect.
“ . . .so what do you think?”
I must pay attention! “Could you repeat that? Bad connection. These cells . . .”
“No problem. So about the chairs, do you think they’re too big for the waiting room?”
“Well, they are really large,” I say, staring at another display of supersized double dildos. Burgers, sodas, chocolate chip cookies: everything is supersized in this country. “But I guess we can squeeze them in. The patients will certainly like them.”
“They were very comfortable,” Bob agrees.
A shelf of lubricants . . . Sticky Dicky, Gooey Louey . . . I stifle a laugh. Where do they get these names? I grab a tube. A woman can never be too . . .
“Slippery finding the right balance, isn’t it?” Bob continues.
“It is. We want comfort but it has to look professional. By the way, Marcel just told me he’ll be out next week.”
“Not a problem, I can pinchhit for him. I am a nurse after all.”
“Oh, that’s right, I always forget,” I say, swiveling to stare up at a white, tight uniform . . . that’s it! I’ll go as a nurse, a very nasty nurse, the irony would be sweet. I like the idea. No, I love the idea! It’s close enough to reality but at the same time light-years away. And I already have most of the equipment. I could picture thermometers sliding in . . . why hadn’t I ever thought of it before? “What a perfect outfit!” I say, accidentally out loud, as I reach up and snag it.
Bob makes a confused sound, then, “Oh right, you’re at the cleaners.”
I nearly bump into a stack of videos. Great titles. “Enter at your own Risk.” “Always Available.” “Just Say Yes.”
“So let’s just say yes. See if they can deliver them ASAP,” I conclude. Bob agrees immediately. I hear as he pays the cashier, and again apologizes for the lunchtime interruption.
“I’m Always Available,” I tell him sincerely, “It’s not a problem.”
And I mean it. Nice guy, Bob. And truthfully, talking to him while I’m here was absolutely delicious. Picturing his thin, nervous face, the way he sits at his desk in his neat suit and tie eating his bag lunch of precisely measured-out carbs, protein and fat. All the grams in the proper balance as always. Irresistible . . .
I admit that sometimes I think about sharing my little secret, maybe even with someone I see every day, someone who would look at me — and know the truth. To go through the day interacting with someone in a normal, conventional way, knowing that that person sees you complete, could turn you in, could blow your cover? What would it be like to skate on that edge of discovery, to be naked in that way? The thought is horrible, frightening and ludicrous — and sends a jolt of pure excitement right through me.
And how exactly would you find such a person — advertise? Tack an ad between “car for sale” and “have you found my cat?” on the office bulletin board? Don’t go there, I warn myself. It’s way too risky, don’t let those thoughts get the upper hand.
Better be careful. That’s what everyone says these days, whether you were stepping on an airplane or drinking a hot cup of coffee. It’s what I counsel my patients day after day. Be safe, be careful, buckle your seatbelt, lock up your guns, use condoms. And of course I’m careful; it would be stupid to be otherwise.
But I’m also careful not to lapse into a life satisfied by watching other people, eavesdropping on their more exciting lives. Reality TV, indeed. These monthly parties make damn sure I’m a participant in life. Watch MY life if you want some reality!
I make my final decisions and get in line to pay. Looking at my purchases, it may be harder than usual to get through the rest of the workday without losing concentration. My outfit is that good. As I watch everything disappearing from view, being tucked away neatly in discreet black plastic bags, I feel an unexpected longing.
The mask. Usually my most indispensable accessory; I feel a nearly overwhelming desire to go bare tonight. Should I or shouldn’t I? A bit regretfully I nix the idea. Tonight I’ll cover, and uncover, as usual. Maybe one day . . .
•
As I hurry to my car I can’t stop laughing. Remodeling my kitchen indeed! If she only knew! I try to picture the look on the good doctor’s face if she knew where I really was! Oh the horror, the horror. Priceless. It would almost have been worth it to tell her, shock her out of her complacency . . .
Not that I want to hurt her, she’s a nice woman. I guess that’s the problem, she’s too nice, probably has no idea of the great big world she was missing out on. No idea at all . . . it’s a shame really.
Well, back to the office, back to drudgery, oops slow down for Speed Trap. Man is it hot today. Luckily it took just a few minutes to pop in and get what I need for the party. In and out . . . that’s how I like it sometimes.
My costume’s perfect. White coat, stethoscope, and little else. About the only thing covered tonight will be my face! Hey, it pays to advertise . . .
A very naughty thought tempts me. I should borrow something from the bosslady, just for fun. But what? Tongue depressors? Her penlight? I’ll have to take note this afternoon. At any rate, the equipment is easy, and the lines will be even easier:
“Say ah-h-h.” “Open wide.” “I need to do a thorough exam.” “Please turn over now.”
There were a lot of very kinky women out there and I was bound to meet my match.
The doctor will definitely be IN tonight.
• • •
, a pseudonym, is an ex-New Yorker who’s relocated to a sunny condo down south, sharing it with numerous geckos and one ancient, hardy orchid. She claims that any resemblance to her protagonist, including being a doctor, is purely coincidental. This is her first published work, and she’s insanely grateful.
