Dr. Zoptic Pt. 10 - Cross of Gold

DR ZOPTIC PT 10 The Gold Cross

I was stopped at a traffic light near the Governor's mansion overgrown with weeds. The news had just come on my radio. "After the upcoming 1976 general elections, the price of gasoline is expected to rise as high as 65 cents a gallon." I had a more immediate problem an annual election. Damn, I swore, it's already 5PM. Zaftig gets angry when I'm late picking her up."

Elections, I thought to myself. When will a governor get elected who actually maintain that overgrown weed farm? Recent Governors all from downstate hadn't occupied the official residence. Idling with the Governor's mansion on my right, I was already late on my way to pick up my roommate Becky -- Dr Rebecca Barton MD whom I called Zaftig, a sub -- dialect term politely describing a plump, full-figured woman. Zaftig would have come off duty at University Hospital where she held a coveted appointment to a sinecure. Why did Zaftig leave the airconditioned precincts of the hospital to wait in front of her designated parking spot?

Me, Erica Ehrlich from the working class Fenlands downstate was in much lower status, a mere mortal by comparison to a patrician like Becky, to me Zaftig, who in her estimation upon graduation from medical school had become one with the Gods, with the power of life and death. Our mutual friend Al Mandy told me in Med School, Zaftig earned the title ice queen for having been looking forward to killing her first patient.

The big news of the moment, other than the electoral contest between two lightweights, were reports of a Swine Flu epidemic. Imperiously, Becky mouthed the official line, "Trust the science," promoting the swine flu vaccine when I began driving her to work in August.

"The life of law is suspicion of power and those who wield it. Trust a product," I asked, "whose manufacturer pours money into hapless Gerald Ford's campaign fund to obtain immunity and won't warranty it? Would you drive a car that the manufacturer had such little confidence in?"

There was an awkward silence. I realized that was the wrong question to ask Zaftig who, despite her professed brilliance, never learned how to drive. In the still of early morning, you could hear the tires course over the old cobblestones of Capitalland. We both laughed when Becky broke the quiet with, "I suppose that was the wrong question to ask me."

About to begin my final year of law school, I, on that sunny late summer afternoon, was returning from filling in at a restaurant where I occasionally worked. Getting hours there was tough in the dead of summer with the University on vacation and the Legislature in recess.

On my left was the Olympic size pool that Capitalland boasted of. It was crowded in the heat of the dog days of August, the last hurrah of summer. Everybody seemed to be having a good time. Though on this hot and humid day, I might have liked a plunge into cool waters, I was too inhibited to appear in public in a bathing suit. A woman with a gross chest deformity should avoid attracting attention to herself through exposure in public.

What did my friend tall swarthy Al Mandy, in his stiff pretentious Anglified tones, say about porn today? "My players, the Dirty Dozen are reliable but porn these days needs to assume a more exotic character than what one encounters in the legitimate theatre."

"How so?" I asked.

"Say a relationship between opposites," Al brainstormed, "It would appeal to that very prevalent belief here in the Colonies that opposites attracts. like say, you skinny and tall, your roommate Becky Barton short and plump, you're quite the prude; she loves to bare it all, you speak plainly earthy at times, she speaks in inflated, almost incomprehensible medical babble, your religions and professions both antagonistic. I probably could build a plot around nude scenes of you two head butting, quarrelling then getting it on together. Interested?"

I took a deep breath. My relationship with Zaftig had been slow to take form. Around the apartment, Zaftig would waddle to the shower with a towel slung over her shoulder, a certain wiggle in her fleshy tush suggested an open invitation.

Turning to me, as I sat reading my tomes earing nothing but my oversized Che Guevara T -- shirt and panties, Zaftig, cupping her bare boobs in the palm of her hands, lectured me, "mammary glands, girls in the communal shower at my convent school, proudly displaying passionate bite marks, called them 'Boy Magnets.' Some guys refer to them as girlies. In reality, without any role in intercourse, mammaries and their papillae are not sexual organs. They serve a functional purpose In lactation."

"You mean," I chuckled, "boobs provide milk to newborns."

As impressive as her mammaries were, my attention was focused on her simple yellow cross dangling between uncovered bulbous bare breasts bobbing. During a long silence, I declared, "Milkers." I reached to touch her breasts. I ended up grasping her cross between my fingers. My blood was boiling. I was ready for sex. Overcoming temptation, I released the cross to allow it to whirl like a pendulum between her breasts.

Condescending to answer my unstated inquiry about the gleaming cross hypnotically swinging between her breasts, Zaftig clasped her hand over mine, laughing, "I always wear that cross -- a small present from a former friend. It can never be replaced. So, I never take it off."

On one occasion earlier in the summer, Zaftig paused to request assistance, "I've been working around the clock. Help me to the bathroom. I'm so tired I might fall down."

My heart raced. Has the moment I've prayed for since I met Zaftig arrived? Arm in arm we skipped to the bathroom. At the door, she skillfully slipped away and locked the door in my face.

In the interim the tease had evolved into intimacy and I was no longer so shy about my physique.

I adroitly arose to Al's tease, "Zaftig is a big shot at the hospital."

"Hmm, I have heard rumo-u-r," Al stressed the second syllable to indicate British spelling, "to such effect. I say, she has her own parking bay in the car park with the little plaque, REBECCA BARTON, MD, EMERGENCY RESPONSE TRAINING DEPT. A pity despite her brilliance and standing, Zaftig never learned how to drive!"

"Zaftig -- I mean Becky," I shifted into Al's Anglified accent, "Dr Rebecca Barton, if you please," I chuckled, "no longer needs porn to pay her electric," I advised Al, "Zaftig has forgotten what it's like to count pennies to pay bills.."

"Oh, I'm sure," Al suggested, "I could find a cute butterball willing to stand -- in."

"Even with a pinch hitter," I pressed Al, "Do you think my bare chest could sell elsewhere than in a freak show?"

Urging me to consider the proposed nude scene with Zaftig, Al argued, "you posed nude for photos resold to a medical book illustrator? Hmm, you might recall having had scant problem posing privately. You stripped to pose for those shots without excessive lamentation."

During the shootings of the Dr Zoptic series, Becky, to make ends meet in her final year of med school, appeared nude for Al in the title role. Oh, Zaftig looked cute in one scene running nude down a corridor with that yellow cross swinging between her boobs. I asked Al, "doesn't Zaftig's religion regard such a scene as blasphemous?"

"I shan't concern myself with the `thou shalt nots,'" Al replied.

"And you the Anglican?" I teased him.

"I warn you, dear Erica Ehrlich, we're so religious, we're closed Sundays," Al retorted.

I sighed I clung to low paid fully or partly clothed parts. For the longest time, I had hesitated to be seen naked by Zaftig -- Becky -- even though we lived together.

A month ago with Al Mandy's porn shoots falling off, I found myself short of the August rent. With September rent coming due, Zaftig suggested that I become an anatomical model at the Hospital. "I couldn't," I winced, "You don't understand. I'm deformed. That's why I work hard to pay you rent. I don't want to live in a dorm, share a room and bathe in a communal shower."

"You're embarrassed," Zaftig reminded me, "As a doctor I see naked people all day. Let me be the judge of whether your body is so grotesque that you need to be in a freak show. Make yourself comfortable. Disrobe! Take off your clothes -- all of them," She ordered, pointing to a chair, "Fold them neatly and stand tall." She chuckled, "Didn't your mother teach you: listen to the doctor? She's always right!"

Mechanically obeying undressing to exhibit myself, I laughed. Despite her claims of professionalism, Zaftig's focus locked upon my deep crevice in my chest bisected by a vertical surgical incision.

"Pectoral excavatum," I winced as Zaftig exclaimed. Running a fingernail along the scar from my belly button to my neck, Zaftig lectured, speaking fast in a higher octave, "Pectoral excavatum occurs in every 300 -- 400 births, mostly observed in males rather than females, possibly because the condition might be concealed by the development of female breast tissue. The condition warrants surgical intervention in extreme cases. Your vertical surgical wound eh--healed well."

When Zaftig placed her left hand on my back and her right on my breastbone at the low point in the concave curve between my breasts, I jumped. "I'm not hurting you. Am I?" I asked dispassionately.

"No," I wiggled my shoulders to show Zaftig I could almost make opposite sides touch. "Other girls used to make fun of me in the locker and the shower."

"Do you feel threatened now?" Zaftig asked as she felt my breasts, looking for "suspicious lumps." Meeting my surprise with a smile, she chuckled, "Doctor -- Patient privilege," as she teased my nipples.

Leaning back as Zaftig ran a finger across my lips, I denied feeling uncomfortable.

"Then," Zaftig suggested, "It's rather warm in here. Why not just have a seat in that stuffy chair while I get a bottle of wine out of the refrigerator? Sitting around unclothed will get you used to your position as a medical model."

As I plumped down in the chair, Zaftig draped a towel over the seat. I chuckled she was prepared for this. "But you're fully dressed. Get comfortable yourself."

"Mustn't we get inured to being left in an unclothed condition in presence of clothed examiners?" Zaftig explained as she poured some wine. Although nervous at first, I settled in to enjoy the cooling effect of the chilled sweet May wine.

Holding my glass aloft, I laughed, "It isn't what you said but the way you say it."

How long did we sit there drinking? At what point, were we both drunk? Rising Zaftig stripped off in front of me as she often did, cold sober. I followed her dazzling fleshy curves into the shower. To my surprise at the door, Zaftig, turning to me to shoot me a suggestive smile, held the door for me to hop in the shower.

Pinning Zaftig against the shower wall, her delicious double D breasts crushed into the tiles, I licked her backbone from her neck to the small of her back and then started to lather her butt.

The silliest things come to mind at such times, I was tempted to whirl her around and tantalize those succulent milkers, but I was afraid to end up kissing that dangling cross, though the medallion meant nothing to me. Her medallion was little more than a shiny piece of jewellery to me. I might not believe in talismanic powers, but it was wiser to keep the gleaming jewel out of sight.

"Five nerves that exit from the lower lumbar and upper sacral spine," Zaftig orated as if presenting medical case in hospital while I left an impression of my teeth on her butt, "combine deep in the gluteal prominence to forms the sciatic nerve. Protected near its origin by gluteal muscles, the sciatic nerves cannot be palpated felt by touching or pressing on the skin, but this region, though shielded by high muscle and fat content, is one hyper-sensualized more responsive to firm touch or squeeze -- or smack -- than a lighter tickle."

Taken aback by her response to my ministrations, I paused for a second caught between laughter and ardor. Then, I continued driven by raw instinct into a fury lathering her fleshy butt with my tongue.

Out of the shower, Becky passively allowed me to towel her down. As I dabbed her breastbone she held her golden cross. "My ex-boyfriend gave me, this simple gold plated cross. I never permitted penetration when we lay together, but promised to wear it always -- as long as I remained a virgin."

"But we just ...," I observed.

Holding a finger to my mouth, Zaftig cooed, "you're not a man. You lack the phallus necessary to engage in coitus."

"Tongues don't count?" I teased Zaftig.

"Sexual intercourse involves," Zaftig lectured, "sexual union between a male and a female by introduction of male's penis into the female's vaginal tract during which the male ejaculates and releases sperm into the female accomplishing, under optimal circumstances, fertilization of the ova."

I laughed, "It isn't what you say but the way you say it."

Zaftig chuckled, "Despite a devotion to the cause of women, we as trailblazers in our professions owe a duty to future generations to leave our imprint in the genetic pool. A relationship with a woman does not exclude the possibility of sexual congress with a man for the purpose of reproduction."

As the traffic light changed, I felt the stirrings of the furies of the late afternoon Northwind. I started down the big hill to University Hospital where I was scheduled to pick up Zaftig. As I proceeded down the hill, I knew that the pleasant breeze that made my rickety auto bearable would in short order became the gale that swept down on Capitalland to drive summer away. Soon we'd be in fall in my final year in law school. Along with the change of season, I committed to a trip downstate to Zaftig's brother's wedding I could ill afford.

How I dreaded facing Zaftig this afternoon!

As I pulled into the doctor's parking lot, the guard, eying the sticker carefully, questioned, "Dr Barton's car?" I simply pointed to her vacant spot where Zaftig stood waiting for me next to that sign, REBECCA BARTON, MD, EMERGENCY RESPONSE TRAINING DEPT. She wouldn't want to block view of her plaque.

Climbing into my car, Zaftig after a peck on the cheek asked about my efforts to come up with overdue rent.

"I can juggle my schedule to accommodate the trip," I protested, "by leaving Capitalland midday Wednesday returning early the following Wednesday morning to make my class, but unless you lend me the money how can I pay your rent, buy a dress, gas up the car for the trip and pay for a motel room in Clintonville downstate?"

When I asked to borrow the money, she reminded me I was already one month late for the rent. "I don't mean to be rude," Zaftig reminded me, "another month's rent is coming up and I do recall recently I helped you get you a job at the Hospital. Didn't I?"

"Medical modeling is not a regular job. It's per diem," I was frustrated. "They won't start sessions until classes resume and they hold back payment for a month. I won't see any money from it until maybe November."

"So," Zaftig asked as my rickety car struggled to make the hill, "must I wait until December for August rent?"

"I seem to remember," I gritted my teeth, "to have made the rent in May, June and July out of my tip money and appearing bare bottomed kissing a naked girl in a shower scene for Al Mandy."

"I had the money," Zaftig replied as I pulled into a parking space alongside the park across from our apartment, "I couldn't get to the Bank because I was working around the clock. If you need money, see Al Mandy. His perverted mind always comes up with a new idea for a script." As Zaftig exited the car, she asked, "Coming in?"

"I have to see Al Mandy," I replied, "At 65 cents a gallon you might push the car all the way downstate. It shouldn't be so bad. It's downhill all the way!" When Zaftig slammed the door shut and crossed the street, I exclaimed to myself, The way she works the balance sheet, I should be the one dangling the cross between my boobs. It might distract people from my scarred hollow chest.

My sweat froze on my body when I entered Al Mandy's corner office in the fertility clinic. "Al, I need some help. When school resumes, I may get slots as an anatomical model, but it's per diem. The University takes its time to pay. I won't see any money until November. I need some help to pay for a dress to go to Zaftig's eh -- Becky's brother's wedding like now."

"Luv, a sad day it is to find naught in your pockets," Al rose from behind his circular desk, "but commercial flicks have gutted the world of the nuddie cuties, the blue movies, eh soft porn. Why would John Bull buy my reel for $250 to watch birdies go starkers across the screen, when they can buy a ticket for a seat in the legitimate cinema for $2.50?"

"What about Dr Wright, who was compiling illustrations for a medical text?" I asked, "Will he buy more pictures?"

Shaking his head, Al remarked, "My friend Dr Wright, the illustrator left to take up a prestigious appointment to Hospital in the South-west. disappointed. Did he propose to acquire the original creation rather than settle for a replica?"

"I have one year left in school. My goodly Mr Wright wouldn't wait," I replied.

"Or is it, Luv, you have a different love interest," Al suggested. When I did not reply, Al remarked, "I'd resolve your dilemma by escorting Dr Barton -- our dear friend Becky whom you call Zaftig -- to her brother's wedding but," Al's tone and expression turned somber, "family matters require that I be away a wee bit longer -- family matters which require my attention take precedence." In a brighter tone, Al added, "Hopefully, nothing I can't manage to resolve."

"Can't you at least lend me some money for the dress, the rent, the trip and a motel?" I pled with clasped hands, "I should be able to pay you back in a month."

"Dear Dr Becky is pressing you for money. Why put up with her?" Al challenged me. Silence followed.

Becky drove a tough bargain. As the partner who was so often outplayed, I wasn't sure whether I should don Zaftig's cross or nail her to it.

Why did I put up with Zaftig's temper tantrum over the rent when earlier in the summer I covered the rent out of my tip jar and posed nude for a doctor who fell in love with me? Now, that's a good question! Yes, I felt an obligation. Becky took me in when my previous roomie tossed me because my former roommate decided to get married. My ex-roommate and I had been intimate. I allowed my ex-flatmate to lick my hollow chest -- No one ever dared touched me there.

Flatmate? I questioned myself. I've been hanging around the Imitation Saxon Al Mandy too much.

I had tried to no avail to compromise with my old roomie to allow me to stay. I would have done both my ex-housemate and her guy together, just to keep the flat. The rent was half what ended up paying Zaftig.

Sighing with resignation, I agreed to the role Al wanted filled. "I'll play the part in your erotic freak show. How far along are you with the shooting script for the freak show you spoke of?"

Silence fell once again. Had my capitulation come too late?

"Truly," Al broke the quiet, "I'm glad you broached the question. I floated the idea to my connections in the cinema downstate Indeed! The movie moguls ran with the proposal. They're shooting a freak show scene for the legitimate theatre," Al informed me. "My friends are working on a screen play. Working title is ugh -- The Sentry."

"Sentry? A war film? How does that help me?" I pled, "What part could I play? A -- ugh rape victim?"

"The working title may be ugh -- misleading. I have proposed," Al recounted, "Guardian or Guardian Angel to my mates as more indicative of the High Church theme of a person given the opportunity to redeem herself through taking the place of a retiring Guardian who protects the earth from the demonic hordes."