The strobe lights reflected off her glasses, obscuring her eyes. From my darkened vantage point across the room, I imagined I was invisible to her. I was caught off guard, then, when her lips curled up into a fey smile. Was she really looking at me? I felt a warm tingle build in my lungs.
She turned her head slightly, allowing me to see those dark umber irises underneath. They were, in fact, pointed directly at me. Her face was bathed in a blanket of crimson.
I smiled back at her weakly. She blinked, then looked away. I thought to divert my gaze as well, but somehow I remained transfixed. There was something oddly familiar about her, something that tickled the depths of my memory in a vague and increasingly vexing way.
I then noticed her getup. Her cloche hat was tipped just so. A lacy tank dress clung to her like Saran Wrap, framing her curves with tailored precision. Those pumps her feet were crammed into didn't look cheap either, nor did the somewhat garish jewelry dangling from her neck and wrists. It all appeared so fussily considered. Pretenses aside, this was a dyke hookup party; that usually went without saying, but everyone knew that's what it was at base. Dress-up was purely optional.
Still, I found this girl's extra effort charming. It spoke to her youth, and looking at her, I was reminded of the days when I felt compelled to do the same. Like her, I once went the extra mile in my presentation, nitpicked every detail. I felt that if I could define myself with fashion, I wouldn't have to actually explain myself to anyone. In more recent years I'd grown a bit cavalier, perhaps a bit too comfortable with myself. I didn't have to doll myself up much anymore. These get-togethers drew a lot of regulars, and the women who shared my interests knew where to find me. I rarely went home alone.
Had this girl heard about me? Or was she just naively browsing, unaware of my reputation? I saw her clutch her plastic cup tightly and raise it to her lips. Watching her, it dawned on me that the light beaming down upon her perfectly matched the hue of her ensemble. Red on red, like a chameleon settling into its camouflage. And yet I the same, with my dark grey dress pants and black blouse, laying in the murky shadows.
She suddenly stood up, her head still turned away from me. I took note of her figure. She was fairly short, with a trim upper body and modest bust. From the waist down, things took on a more well-fed appearance, culminating in a rather prominent bubble butt. Even through the loose-hanging drape of her skirt, it was hard to miss. As she turned in profile, it jutted out at a crisp angle.
She took a few short and meandering steps towards me, pausing every so often. I saw her mouth move as if she were talking to herself. She hung her head now, stealing glances at me so quickly that I'd have missed them if I weren't glaring at her as expectantly as I was. I slowly uncrossed my legs as she approached, and placed my hands on my lap.
As she wandered closer, I squinted, realizing that her long black hair was actually dreaded in places—a strange curveball, I thought. I noticed her raccoon-grade eyeshadow and excessive lip gloss. Glimmering studs ran through two sections of her nose. These details clashed with the abbreviated sophistication of her dress, though of course this was probably just another of her inspired calculations, and I found it charming all the same.
I felt caution creep in, however. At this proximity, I couldn't determine her age. She honestly looked like she could easily be one of my daughter's friends, and keep in mind my daughter hadn't yet graduated from high school. Was this girl even old enough to be in the bar? You'd think the staff would have tightened up door security after last year's incident, but the Friday bouncer remained notoriously lazy.
The girl's large eyes glimmered up close, snapping with subtle mischief, topped by strong dark eyebrows. Inhaling dramatically, her lips parted slightly to reveal small, faintly yellowed teeth. She held her smile, stomach contracted as if she were waiting for permission to exhale.
I blinked. I wasn't sure what to say. I nodded and flashed a grin. She relaxed her posture a bit.
"Hi, I'm Branda," she said. I detected a curious spot of southern drawl in her speech. I took a quick sip from my cup, then flashed her a grin.
"Hi there," I said, casually. "My name's Cat."
She blushed, looking me up and down. "Oh, nice. I like cats! Or is that short for something?"
"Catheryn, but I prefer Cat," I said, finishing the last of my vodka tonic hastily and setting the cup on a nearby table. "Nice to meet you, Branda. That's a pretty name."
"Oh, thanks! Nice to meet you, too, hehe," she muttered, bouncing on her heels a bit. There was an awkward pause. I could see her calves tense with each movement, and I noticed that they looked rather toned. I took a chance and seized the opportunity for conversation that they presented.
"Hmm. You're not a cyclist by any chance, are you?" I asked, glancing down at the exposed portion of her legs. She paused, looked down, and then chuckled again.
"Oh, wow. You're pretty observant. Um, well I'm not pro...I just ride my bike a lot," she said, downing the last of her drink almost simultaneously. "Are you?"
I shook my head. "Me? No, I do a few laps around the reservoir on Sundays if I have the time, that's about it. I should do it more often."
"That's cool. I'm a bike junkie. Been riding since I could ride!" she said with a grin. She stared at me as if wanting further validation, tensing her stomach again. I nodded politely. I could smell her cheap alcohol breath and it wasn't particularly flattering. I also was now a little unsure how attracted I actually was to her; I can be quite fickle, I'll admit, and something about her manner coupled with her less-than-ideal age was beginning to disappoint me.
"So..." she said, looking around. The bass of the trashy dance music rumbled underneath us dramatically for a moment before settling into an ignorable throb. I leaned back, my hands now on my lap. I took a deep breath.
"So!" I returned, smiling more exaggeratedly. I brushed a minuscule speck of lint off of my sweater for no particular reason.
"So, Cat. Who do you know here?" she asked.
"Everyone and no one," I said. She tittered. I narrowed my eyes. "Hmm. If you don't mind me asking, Branda, how old are you exactly?" I asked. I saw her calves bulge again.
Her eyes dodged around the room. I folded my arms and flexed my lips up to a sneer. She caught my cue and stopped, and then exhaled deeply.
"I'm sorry! I just don't want you to think—"
"How old are you?" I interrupted, my patience waning. As cute as she was, I simply was not in the market for jail bait. I ran my fingers through my hair and stared her down severely.
"Uh, 21," she said unsurely.
"21?" I asked, searching her face for some kind of clue. She quickly nodded.
"Yes, I am. I mean—actually, I'll be 21 in about sixty seconds," she said, looking at the large LED clock hanging from the upper balcony.
I glanced at it. 11: 58 flashed to 11:59.
"Is that so? I guess Alvaro gave you a pass tonight, then?" I asked, incredulous.
"Oh, you mean the door guy? Umm, yeah. Okay, I'll be honest, I used a fake ID to get in, just because. But I'm going to get a real ID first thing tomorrow, promise!" she said, quickly looking around her to make sure no one overheard her admission.
"I see. Then happy birthday, Branda," I said.
"Thank you, Cat!" she let out. She stood still, staring at the clock while crimping her fingers. Finally it flashed midnight, and a joyous peep escaped her shiny lips. "Yay! Alright, so I'm 21 now. That means...um,"
"Yes?" I said, exhaling deeply.
"So uh. I was gonna ask. Do you remember me?" she said, anxiously fiddling with her necklace.
I shook my head no. I wondered if she could see the soft lie in my gesture, the glimmer of stifled recognition in my eyes. She seemed undeterred, in any case. I did recognize her somehow, but the word "remember" implied something more than that.
"You don't remember last Friday?" she said. She ducked her head down close to mine, her knotty hair swinging back and forth in tandem with the bling dangling from her neck. I mentally replayed my previous Friday night at the bar...
I remembered being approached by a woman approximately in her 40's who introduced herself as Letitia. I'd seen her on the periphery for a few months, and we'd made some telling eye contact, but it took her some time to find her way to me. When she finally came up, we chatted for about five minutes, though I can't recall what about.
Whatever it was aroused both of us, that much I know. I then guided her into one of the lockable bathrooms. When she turned quietly and bent over in front of me, we both knew why; as I've said, I've got a solid reputation. I pulled up her skirt to reveal her predictably bare bottom. It was flat and pasty like the rest of her, but I wasn't feeling particular at the moment.
Approving of it, I slicked my fingers up with liquid soap from the disposer, and within a few minutes my fist was wrist-deep in her rectum. She orgasmed fairly quickly, leaving my fingers slightly soiled in the process, though this didn't bother me. As I washed my hands in the sink, she stood in the mirror next to mine fixing herself up with a large smile on her face.
I remember that awkward moment where "Letitia" tried to kiss me, but I pried her off of me as politely as I could. I wasn't in for that kind of thing. if she'd had asked around the bar a bit more, she would have known that in advance. I'm married, and I just do this for the release—I get enough kisses and hugs at home.
I could see the dejection in her eyes, and was a bit sympathetic to it, but I had my boundaries. To soften the blow, I told her that she could come back for another examination any time she pleased. I said it as sweetly as I could, even though deep down I wished she wouldn't take me up on the offer; I'm not too fond of return customers unless they're extraordinary. In any event, my encouragement seemed to hearten her a bit, though I sensed I may never see her again. She seemed to get the hint. She wasn't there the night I met Branda, in the least.
That was my only strong memory from last Friday night, and this young Branda was definitely not anything like the woman in my recollection. So I could not for the life of me know why she would have any recollection of us talking previously. I shook my head to her question.
"No, dear, you must be thinking of someone else. I've never spoken to you before."
"But, you have! Ms. Weiss, you have to remember me, I—"
"How did you know my last name?" I shot at her severely. My heart began beating faster.
"Oh..." she began, then bit her lip.
My mind started to race. The only person in the bar who I'd ever given my full name to was Lena, one of the bartenders. But she doesn't work Fridays, so there's no way this girl could have gotten it from her—or was there? I always figured that if rumor ever got out about me and my profession, Lena would be to blame. But that would go against everything I knew about her. Lena was as trustworthy as they come. Plus, I knew just as many potentially defamatory details about her life as she did about mine. In any case it didn't make sense for her to blab to some random, clueless 20 year old.
"Tell me," I repeated. "Tell me how you know my name."
"I don't know," she said unconvincingly.
"Tell. Me," I said, flexing my upper lip.
There were very few functions where she'd have access to my last name. Wait staff taking my credit at a restaurant, okay. Behind the counter at a DMV, okay. But I couldn't think of many other legal ways. Or, more accurately, the only other way I could think of was so unfathomable that I merely did not even want to entertain it. And, then, the unfathomable came from her lips.
"Because...you saw me last week. In your office. You're a doctor, right?"
I froze, then looked away. I wanted to deny it, but she was right. I was a specific kind of doctor, too: a colorectal surgeon. Proctology was (and still is) my calling in life, strange as it seems.
I shifted in my seat, lips pursed. I knew that my non-answer would tip her off, but I wasn't about to out myself in public. I just waited for her to continue. She crouched before me and put both hands on my knees. Every muscle in my body tensed.
"You are. I know it! You saved my life..." she said. "You really did. You don't remember?"
Suddenly I recalled who she was.
Last week at work, a young college-aged girl had come in with an emergency. She'd inserted a vegetable into her anus—a relatively small butternut squash, if I recall correctly, which is still fairly big by nature—and it had traveled so far up her rectum that she couldn't retrieve it. I'd extracted plenty of anorectal foreign bodies in my time, so nothing about my initial interaction with Branda stood out in my mind.
When I'm at work, none of my kinks apply; I am all business, and details about one-time emergency patients usually exit my mind the minute they're out of sight. But with Branda's reappearance, it began to dawn on me not only had she enjoyed her medical experience, but she was stalking me for more, and this flustered me. It also had the strange side-effect of turning me on, which I found slightly disturbing.
Reflecting for a moment, I did recall sensing something strange in her demeanor during the operation, something oddly lascivious in place of where ordinary concern, fear or discomfort would have been a more normal response to the probings she'd undergone. But, again, when you see as many asses in one week as I typically do, you stop trying to psychoanalyze your patients and just get to the task at hand.
"Yes, I do," I said curtly. "But whatever you have in mind, forget it. I don't know how you found me here, but I don't appreciate being stalked. Please, leave me alone."
I saw her face immediately droop.
"But..." she began. "I'm sorry for stalking...I mean, all I did was follow you after work that day, but it's not like I'm, y'know, hacking your emails or anything."
"What?" I said, fighting the urge to stand up in outrage and cause a scene. The bar was only a 15 minute walk from my office, yes, but I never imagined anyone would trail me like that. I wasn't exactly in the closet about being a lesbian, but I did want to remain discrete about my particular sexual practices as much as I could, especially since they correlated with my professional interests so closely.
"Wait, you mean you didn't think it was hot?" Branda said.
"No," I said.
I could tell she'd come too far to give up so easily. She took a step closer, daring to place a hand on my shoulder. "I mean, it hurt like hell...and it was really embarrassing, I'll admit that," she said. "But, come on. You didn't enjoy...feeling inside, so deep. Feeling me stretch..."
"Oh god. Go now, dear," I said, a twitch rolling up my spine. I pulled away, releasing her hand from me. "I think you've got the wrong person."
I'd had a very distinguished professional career up to that point, and I wasn't about to jeopardize it by talking to some tipsy college girl. I knew I had to put up clear boundaries, whatever her intent was.
"I'm sorry—" she let out, her eyes beginning to water. She began to turn away. Her sudden, almost innocent-seeming reaction took me by surprise, and almost made me forget how sketchy she was being.
"Wait, hold on," I said in a hushed voice.
Why did I say that? I couldn't tell. I'd just nearly managed to get her off of me, and yet I was calling for her to stay a moment longer. Maybe it was the alcohol, though I hadn't had much. Maybe it was just the power of her charms working, as skeptical as I was.
I unthinkingly reached into my pocket, and pulled out one of my business cards. I pressed it into her hand. "Here's my contact," I said.
"Wh...what?" she said, confused. Frankly I confused myself as well, but arousal began to realize itself within me as those little dirty words flitted through my mind—"feeling me stretch." I enjoyed hearing them spoken with that little country twang, falling from the mouth of this doll-faced little tart. connected them in my mind to the image of that fat, filthy veggie. My vividly soiled rubber gloves.
Other images came back to me—the pink rim of her elastic sphincter as it widened under the pressure of my dilator. The vivid details of the proctoscope as it traveled deep into the membranous darkness of her impacted bowels.
And then the smells—the heady fragrance wafting from her her gaping asshole, lingering in the air. The bittersweet scent of her sweat as it trickled down the small of her back, parting into two streams along the widely split ravine of her crack.
I shook my head, pulling myself back into the moment. When my eyes locked with hers again, I saw her in a totally different light. A green light.
"I can't see you here. Come during business hours," I said as calmly as I could, my mind swirling.
She looked at the card in her hand, then back at me, and finally a smile began to return to her face.
"Oh...so you mean, I should make an appointment?"
I nodded quickly. "Yes. Now go," I said.
She bobbed her head in understanding, laughing nervously. "Oh, wow. Yes...Miss!" she said, turning on her heels. "I'll...call...first thing Monday."
I looked away, fearing someone would hear us. I'd developed a very good sense of when I was being eavesdropped upon, and a particular dyke hovering near me was well-known for being nosy. One thing about that bar was that everyone gossiped. I was walking on thin ice at this point, so I picked up my cell phone and pretended to busy myself. Branda thankfully got the hint, and by the time I looked up again, she was gone.
As of this writing, she hasn't called.
I believe I'll remember her as "the one that got away." I didn't even know I wanted her for certain until it was too late. That was over two years ago, so I doubt she ever will ever return to the bar.
I wondered, did she slip that veggie inside of her just to get the attention? Was this a pattern, and were there unsuspecting proctologists all over town who she secretly crushed on after painful extractions over the operating table? I may never know.
Perhaps never knowing is for the best. But in the wake of that bizarre encounter, I found myself taking more interest in my female patients, especially ones I suspected could be bi or lesbian. I began asking them about their lives more, something I've never done naturally.
I've never been an extrovert, but something about my experience with Branda bridged a gap for me I feel just slightly more invested now that I know my profession can, in fact, draw a few crazy moths to my flame.
Back at the bar, I've since decided to light up my murky little corner a bit. I bought a little red night light, and I plug it into the wall right next to my usual seat next to the bar.
It's the same color red that Branda wore, and think I'll leave it on until she returns.