Cardiac Nurse with a Butt Tattoo?

This happened to Laura, a friend of mine, a nurse in a hospital cardiac rehabilitation program. I'm using her really name because you don't know her and she'll get off - maybe literally - on knowing you're thinking about her ass.

Guys coming to cardiac rehab are not young. Maybe sixty-five and up. To get admitted, all you need is a heart attack, a heart-valve replacement, or a stroke. Then, as I understand it, Medicare pays for thirty sessions in rehab. Let's talk turkey, as they say in New England: A rehab program is a "profit center", the hospital administration knows it, and men stay in rehab partly for the nurses half their age. Laura takes their blood pressure - holding their arm, smiling, chatting; she is likely the only one in their lives who asks about their diet, sleep, aches and pains, exercise schedule, and bowel movements.

Laura is pretty, she smiles, she remembers names, and has an enthusiastic hello for everyone. To do this job, she would not have to be so cute. She's an Italian girl with a full mane of glossy dark hair, blue eyes, a pretty but serious face, and, for late 'forties, a shape. I am not saying Sophia Loren - to dial back to the generation where these guys became enslaved to breasts - and I'm not saying that her boobs are named "holy" and "shit" - but no one can miss that Laura is concealed carrying. I'm not even saying "full lips" - but pretty, and they smile. And I am not saying hot legs, though Laura's legs are long and she's a runner. She's a damned dedicated nurse, but being a little hot didn't hurt in getting the job. After all, the point is to keep hearts beating.

By the way, she has to wear the same clothes every single day; blue sweat suit, bottom and top. Why? Frankly, the old guys may not be so good at recalling names, but Laura is "blue," Jessica is "white," Elaine is "black," and so on. We are dealing with more problems than just the heart.

I said I would not draw out this narrative. Recently, a "young man", say sixty, walks in. He has not had an infarction or a triple bypass. He has had a lifelong genetic problem, now corrected by open-heart surgery. He is feeling about now that his heart is better than ever.

The hospital's rehab facility is a health club, with exercise machines, treadmills, free weights, and posters extolling exercise, healthy diet, and keeping the mind sharp. Notably missing is "libido rehab," but that is my own catty comment.

The new patient is Raymond, fit as young geezers go, with a dark-red, ten-inch vertical scar down his chest, midway between his nipples, where they sawed his sternum in half and sewed it up with wire, which they left for the flesh over time to cover. Raymond is still a type A personality. On every machine he is a demon; the neat little personalized workout slip setting his "watts," "mets," "incline," and "time" he views as mere guidelines. His own regimen is hit it, hit it, hit it, so he sweats like the proverbial pig and probably risks an infarction. Except that he is wearing a heart monitor box around his neck with its wires connected to four contacts on his chest—for the black, white, red, and green wires. The nurses teach patients to apply the contacts and snap on the wires, and hearts are monitored on a computer screen. So, when Raymond begins his Navy Seal fantasy, Laura strolls over, smiles, shakes her head, and points a finger at his program. Slow down, asshole. But smiling.

A physical young fellow like Raymond can't stop checking out the cute nurses, which is all of them. When they smile and lift his arm to apply the pressure cuff, his fingers gently rest on their hips with just the slightest acceptable pressure. He smiles up into their eyes.

I'm not into percentages, but say ninety-seven percent of the guys work out in street clothes. They come wearing running shoes and mount the first machine. Raymond brings shorts and a T-shirt and sweat socks that don't show above the shoes. His legs are long and, not surprisingly, given his drive, slim and muscular. His arms are muscular. What hair he has is white, but full and nicely groomed. He has a Harvard accent and a chilling, ironic smile to match.

Let me, dear God, get on with this bloody story.

Raymond can't stop looking at Laura across the room, from atop any iron horse he is riding. When she glances up and catches him, he does not look away. Then, I imagine, her dark and lovely eyebrows come together with a reproachful frown. But she cannot help it, she then smiles her widest, welcoming Italian-girl smile. She likes men, is all.

Raymond, of course, does nothing and certainly Laura does nothing. I don't know what Raymond might have been thinking those first weeks, but I know what Laura was thinking because she told me. "I can't help it, Ellen, he does turn me on." She sighs, chin in hands, "He's wearing a wedding ring." Sighs again, "I haven't been fucked in two years since Carl died..."

And then, before I reply with my typical irresponsible suggestion, she says: "No. No, not with a patient. I can't." I nod, feeling for her, but Laura fends off men.

The rehab facility has a locker room. It isn't boy/girl, or private, just a wall of smallish lockers with locks scientifically devised to baffle users and two big bathrooms, one with a shower. Taped on the shower it is a paper sign, "Please wait 10 minutes for water to warm up." No one uses it.

Raymond has finished his workout, done his stretching and "warm down," and been cleared by the heart monitor to leave. He has not removed the four stick-on contacts for the monitor box that hangs around his neck. That is not especially relevant. What is relevant is that he can't open his locker. Four numbers to press, the same he always uses, part of his Social Security number, and today the motherfucker won't open.

Laura has come to the rescue with the universal code. She has squatted down to tackle the low locker. He stands behind her in his shorts and sweaty T-shirt, watching her. And somehow, her sweat suit's pants, usually tied tight and double-knotted, pull a costume malfunction. How the hell did it happen that day? I can't get that clear from Laura. I have a suspicious dirty mind. Let it go.

Laura is a private woman, but a woman. She has one sexy tattoo on her ass, left cheek near the top—classic location. She got it one August night when she and the girls were respectably carousing in Montauk. Got this rather large and tarty tattoo. "Do nurses do that?" I asked her.

She raised her eyebrows, shrugged. "Too much to drink. I guess nurses do if no one sees them. I don't see nurses in the nude, so I don't know. I can't be the only one. If the patients knew..."

Well, however it happened, when Laura squatted down with Raymond behind her, gazing down I suppose at her luxurious black hair, her sweat pants rode down a few inches on her big white ass, which was thrust back by her position. Laura did not realize it, intent on the lock, the code. Raymond is looking down at the top half of the tattoo. On this charming nurse's left buttock. He can't make it out, not entirely, but what he sees says, "Take Me..." The rest is still covered.

Raymond says, in his Boston-Harvard accent, discreetly lowering his voice, "Laura, you have a charming tattoo..."

Laura told me--I wasn't there, of course, and she was talking girl-to-girl--"I jumped up and screeched as though a mouse had bitten my pussy lip." She isn't that kind of girl, believe me, but we were drinking, she was relaxing and, I think, pretty high on getting fucked for the first time in two years.

So, she shot up straight, hauling up her infernal pants, and whirled on Raymond, her pretty face a comic image of round blue eyes and open mouth, and she is gasping, "Oh, I'm so, so sorry." Her hands come up to press her cheeks in the classic pantomime of horror.

"What was the fucking big deal?" I asked her with my characteristic sensitivity when she first told me.

"I'm a nurse," she told me incredulously, staring as though I'd been living under a mushroom. "A nurse in cardiac rehab, a serious job. So responsible..."

Believe me, she is. A tattoo on her pretty ass is definitely her private life to which she has a right. Agreed?

She is saying to Raymond, speaking too fast, but in a strained whisper, because thank God they are alone in the locker area, "I had no idea... you won't mention this? I'm a nurse..." She is not smiling; her eyes are like a bunny's gazing at a big snake, her lips pressed tight, eyes wide.

Raymond just rests his hands on her shoulders, smiles gentle, never releasing her gaze, and says, "I just want to see it all."

So romantic, right?

"What? Oh... Oh, no... No..." Shaking her head, hair swirling, eyes appealing, "No."

"But I do, Laura."

"It's private..."

"Between you and me and the tattoo artist. Absolutely private."

Becoming the demanding nurse, bossy when necessary, she says, in an angry hiss, "Damn it, Raymond. You are in cardiac rehab program and you are taking advantage. I can kick you out." Her face is very red, eyes flashing.

But in Raymond's face, where the slight smile has not wavered, there is passion, lust-- but no mercy. He doesn't even bother to answer her threat. He waits.

Now, she's glancing around in panic. Just deal with this. Get it over. Move on. And she says, "Oh, for Christ's sake, go in the bathroom." And she adds, "Then it's over, right?" Raymond does not answer; he turns and heads for the bathroom on the right, the big one with the shower.

"See you there, darling," Raymond calls back in a whisper, so casually, and steps into the bathroom, closing the door. In just seconds, there is a soft knock, but frantic in its rhythm. The door opens, Laura leaps in, whirls around to close and lock the door.

She is in the middle of saying, "I have about three minutes..." when she looks up at Raymond and gives a squeak of alarm. He is naked, except for his four contacts, and his wires, and his heart monitor. She can't help it, her gaze slides down his body from his face, to the long red scar down his chest, over his belly, and stops at his... we are all adults here... his satisfactory prick and balls in their bed of hair. I have no idea if she was thinking "satisfactory." She used that term later.

It had been so long time since Laura got it. The dick is not erect, that would be so un-New England, but it is thick and long, uncircumcised. The foreskin has been dragged back by the definite beginnings of his erection. She sees his big raspberry. It is a male version of a swollen clit and engorged pussy lips.

"This is just to see my tattoo," she says, her eyes begging him--I am sure an arousing sight for any man. When he only watches her and does not answer, she asks, "What do you want?"

Oh, Laura, for Christ's sake. He wants you to read him bedtime stories.

No answer. His inspection of her body is a slow caress and stops at her ass.

"The tattoo," she sighs. For a moment her eyes close.

She has the efficiency of a nurse. Without further dithering she turns away from him, her fingers take the top of her sweat pants and shove them down just far enough so he can see the upper half of her ass. It has a deep, sensual crack because her ass is tight, but very full.

Her ass toward him, she turns her head around, raises her eyebrows, signaling, "Okay?"

He is taking his sweet time. Devouring her ass with his gaze, dick erect now, his face a study in appreciation and enjoyment. Her face turned to him, she cannot--cannot--keep from grinning. Because she knows that what he sees is hot and how much he's getting off on it, and that no one has seen it in two years, since her husband died.

He reads aloud, with academic precision, "Take me, stud. Do it." As tattoos go, pretty mild, right? Could have said, "My ass first, then my mouth"--just to dream up an unimaginative alternative.

Weakly, she says, "Yup, that's it..."

"It is our secret, forever," he says, and this man, this voice, must be heard to be believed, Laura tells me later. Laura passionately believes that he never will betray her--in this or in anything in life. In short, she is hysterical.

She sighs with relief, says: "Okay? Done?" And later, she tells me, staring down at her drink on the table, "Ellen, if he had said, 'Okay' I would have burst into tears of frustration. Died."

Raymond does say, "Okay," but then, "get them off, Laura. And get your fucking top off and show me your tits. Not much time."

Laura can continue the charade of protest, bargaining, being forced. But... there is no time. She is in the bathroom, presumably taking a crap, and the other nurses are waiting for her to get back to the job.

She strips. Just takes it all off. Nurse efficient, she sweeps off the pants, the top, tosses them on the hook by the shower, and she is naked. "My God," murmurs Raymond, looking her up and down until her face turns red and her cheeks burn, "you're heart-breakingly, deliciously beautiful, Laura. What breasts," he breathes. "And..."

"I don't shave it," Laura explains quickly, getting a shade brighter red. Unconsciously, her hand slides down and the fingers fluff the thick black hair. Then, she jerks her hand away and her hands come up to cup her breasts, lifting them a little. She doesn't know what to do with herself, as we say. They are breasts that are sort of cone-shaped and sweep upward, the whole breast, to a point. And the point on top of that point is the nipple, straight up. Hers are not pink, they are red--that dark coloration in her make-up.

She shoots a glance at him. What now, Raymond? And she looks away, embarrassed. Hoping. In fact, she is thinking: Hurry up, for Christ's sake, and do it! He is thinking the same way and steps forward, his prick rampant, vertical, arched back toward his navel. Laura observes that his penis is smooth and the veins soft, and the head so swollen with wanting... wanting her... For a second, she madly contemplates taking over this show--clunking down on her knees right on the bathroom tiles and grabbing his cock and stuffing it into her mouth.

Raymond is a Romantic, at least in the compressed time-frame. He puts his arms around her and draws her to him so his vertical shaft presses into her soft belly, puts his lips to hers, and kisses her. Oh, great Garibaldi and the bloody shirt! She has not been kissed in two years, either. Her knees almost give way, but she has a good grip. Her engine is revving up to a roar. Doesn't give a shit, at this second, if the president of the hospital steps in to take a leak. She will just have a stroke and die in ecstasy.

Then, she thinks, "Oh, no--not that..." because her pussy is over-lubricating, now, which it tends to do when she's coming to a boil, and in a minute drops of clear liquid will begin snaking down her white thighs. She will be wearing a neon sign that says, "Cunt in over-drive."

Why doesn't he get on with it? It's his fault, with all this foreplay. Even if there has been only forty-five seconds of foreplay, just kissing. Must be the situation. Or maybe that for two years...

Nurses are take-charge types. "Here," she says suddenly, breaking away from the engulfing kiss, flashing a micro-second smile of apology and turning to the wall. She reaches up and grabs two towel hooks above her head. Then she steps backward so her arms pull straight, her back becomes long and curved and bisected by the sensual canal of her spine, and her ass is thrust way, way back. And her legs parted, braced. As though she were demonstrating to a new patient one of the stretches for cool down. "This is the ram-it-up-there-you-jerk stretch, sir..."

No cool down. She feels those rivulets of pre-cum inside both thighs, streams from the headwaters at her pussy. And to preserve the metaphor, her long back ends in the spreading delta of her broad white ass, even the crack open because her strong legs are braced three feet apart. She turns her head to glance back at him. She tries to smile. It comes out a dopey grin. She thinks that if her looks and says, "No, I don't think that way..." she will tear the fucking wires off his chest, wrap them around his neck, and kill him--maybe kiss his dying lips.

Raymond uses no unnecessary words. She feels his big, warm hands on her hips, crushing the flesh, holding her in a vice, so that when he suddenly penetrates her, so hard and far up, jamming her and hurting her--I'm a little tight after two years, asshole, but, of course, he doesn't know that, she reminds herself. Her first comment on new love is a grunted, "Uhhh," and her fists grasp the hooks harder as her body is jolted forward. But then, in just a few second, as he moves his hips, the engorging prick vigorously stirring around inside her cunt, she begins to weep silently, because suddenly she can't deal with the pain she has caused herself for two endless years by doing without this. Pull yourself together, nurse Laura; you're a big girl, remember?

It's wonderful. Oh, wait. Her dirty mouth is about to lurch into gear, as it tends to do when she's getting reamed. Nothing changes. And she is moaning, "Fuck me, fuck me. Don't stop ever, fuck... I'll tear your big balls off."

Later, over drinks, she asks, "Where does that shit come from?"

She is panting, flinging her big ass so it is a wonder his prick stays in. Raymond can deal with it. Wham, his hips nail her to the wall, the cold wall, so her body involuntarily straightens up, her boobs squashed on the chilly tiles, her hot belly trying to pull away. Again, and all she says is, "Uhhh..."

She remembers just in time not to scream. Still whizzing in and out of her, he has reached with one hand between her legs and is driving her clit into a frenzy. Christ, there is a flood down her thighs. Her pubic mop is soaking. She must not scream. Remember where you are, bitch. All she can do is turn her head and sink her teeth into her upper arm, filling her mouth so she can scream into that.

She is coming now. Her asshole begins wild contractions. Her clit is terrorizing her--can she stand it another second? And the pleasure is lapping like waves from her thighs, making her belly tight as a fist, tingling like mad in her titties.

And then she hears him, softly, very controlled but with a sob in his voice, "Oh, Laura, Laura, Laura, lovely Laura, you are everything..." And like that.

That does it, makes her knees give way, buckle, but she has her hold on the hooks. She dangles like a tortured woman from her wrists, a piece of meat hung there, her naked body used, used up, fucked limp, drained and stored for the winter...

She is in Heaven. For a moment, he has fallen forward to press against her, his warm lips on her neck and back, his hands caressing her hips, until he realizes that she is sliding to the floor.

And then, a panicky knocking on the door. A voice is demanding, "Laura? Laura? Do you know where Raymond is? His monitor box just now shows his heart beat going wild, just wild. But we can't find him."

And a moment later, more urgently, panicking: "Laura? Open up!"

Raymond's voice is controlled. He answers the panic outside the door with firmness from within. "She's here with me. I'm afraid I had an incident. I called to her just as I was passing out. I seem to be fine, now, but she wants me to lie still."

Genius. Meanwhile, Laura has cycled through panic, disbelief, relief and admiration for Raymond. She says, calmly, "I think he's all right to walk, now. Slowly. He needs to go down to the lab for an EKG. Let me just get him up slowly. Can you get a wheelchair here?"

"Oh, yes," says the voice outside the door, its relief palpable. "Right now, Laura."

Raymond is half dressed and gallantly holding out her clothes to her. He is saying, "Can you do dinner tonight at the inn? I can't possibly wait till the next rehab session... I can't wait at all, Laura."