I Say Ass, You Say Arse: Again

A tale of transatlantic scientific collaboration.

Independent sequel to 'I Say Ass, You Say Arse...' -- no need to read that one first.

This story is written in a mixture of American and British English, depending on who is speaking or thinking at the time.

"What a year," Emily sighed. She'd finished her doctorate, had a paper published in Nature -- albeit one of the less-famous spin-off journals from the number-one aim of all scientists, split up with the boyfriend she'd lived with for nearly a year, and now, moved from London to the south of France, to take up a Research Associate position in Montpelier.

Her new French boss, Xavier, preferred for her to do the talking to any of their English-speaking collaborators, so Emily spent much time on the phone to a lab in Boston, headed by Sandy, a gruff Glaswegian. She particularly enjoyed chatting with their student, Bradley.

Now working on his own doctoral thesis, Bradley had spent a few months over in London, while Emily had been finishing her PhD experiments. She'd celebrated completing her work and being dumped by her boyfriend on the same day, ending with Bradley taking her home.

They'd spent the night fucking.

Bradley had never taken a woman up the ass before; she'd not had a man in her arse for way too long. It was a perfect match.

She'd taken him to the airport the next morning, but they'd stayed in touch, not just to discuss work, understanding well that in science, people had 'conference friends': people you only saw once a year -- perhaps more, often less -- but when you did catch up, the sex was spectacular.

Some said it was because scientists were weirdos whom no-one would want more permanent relationships with. Emily supposed, thinking of her own recent arrangement with an irascible guy she saw each month, that might sometimes be true. Mostly, though, it was simply that highly-intelligent people liked lots of sex and didn't see default coupledom as a requirement.

What happened at conferences, stayed at conferences.

"Will you be coming to Vegas next month?" Bradley asked.

'Cell Sciences' was the big annual conference in their field. It alternated between Las Vegas and New Orleans, the only centres which could hold sufficient thousands of scientists. Rumour had it they'd had been banned from both Chicago and Cologne.

"Yes! They accepted my abstract for a poster presentation, so my funding covers it. Though I nearly decided against, when I saw how hot it was going to be! Thirty-eight degrees, in August!"

"What's that in English?"

"Thirty-eight degrees, obviously!" she snapped back. "In American? Um... oh, body temperature is thirty-seven, so must be about ninety-nine, a hundred, in Fahrenheit?"

"Yeah, that's warm. The convention center will have AC, though. And the hotel rooms will all be air-conditioned. Not like England," he added, unable to resist returning a jibe.

"If we had such stupid heat, we'd invest in aircon. We don't, so we don't." Emily retorted with dignity. "Even here in the south of France, it's only thirty, thirty-two, which is hot but bearable. Sunglasses and bikini outside work, throw on a little dress for the day..."

Bradley took a moment to visualize Emily and friends in bikinis. Her shapely ass would look stunning in one, for sure.

Emily made a reservation in the same hotel as Bradley, in a chain hotel off the famous strip. Her ex-colleagues Marion and Rachel did too, though she hoped neither would be next door. Marion in particular was likely to seduce a young man and be very noisy during the night.

Nor did she didn't want them seeing her sneaking Bradley into her room. Gossip would never end. For that matter, she didn't want them seeing her new sort-of boyfriend, either! It was always a bizarre experience in the mornings, especially the last one of a conference, when almost everyone seemed emerge from rooms with people they weren't in known relationships with. Collaboration at its most effective.

In late August, Emily flew to Las Vegas. Jet-lagged and wilting in the dry heat, even early in the morning, she signed in at the conference, having had a pleasant surprise the day before: an offer of a short speaking slot in a panel session.

"This guy," the organising team member put a finger on the program listing, "couldn't make it, so you got pulled out of the hat. Same keywords. Only five minutes, mind." It was lucky she'd had a smart suit to bring -- she'd used it for a couple interviews where people had warned her the lab head liked formality. Xavier, her new boss, was a long-haired jeans-and-T-shirt guy and would have been startled to see her dress otherwise, but for presenting to 30,000 people -- no, only a few thousand would be in her auditorium -- the smarter the better, she thought. And this was why all scientists kept a set of PowerPoint slides on hand, with photos of all their lab members and a summary of their work.

Fortified by coffee, but suddenly shivering in the Arctic temperature of the over-airconditioned lobby, she flipped through the attendee list for people she knew and names to schmooze. In the first category, Marion and ex-supervisor Verity; Bradley and his boss Sandy. The second included a dozen she'd met briefly, and another dozen to get to know. Emily steeled herself for several nights of drinking. Many would be at a buffet dinner with key speakers that evening; she signed up to go along. It should be fifty dollars well spent, even if it didn't qualify as expenses.

Emily found her hotel. It might have been only a ten minute walk, taking it extra slow with her suitcase, but the heat was brutal; she felt both on the edge of melting and her throat parched, as if moisture was being sucked out of her by the dry desert air. The sky was a hazy blue, flat wisps of cloud across it, but in the streets of concrete, the heat was getting ever more oppressive. Steam was rising from the cement roads. She wasn't surprised to see a newsflash in the hotel foyer, warning of a heatwave.

Her room appeared clean, comfortable, bland, like any other chain hotel. She changed into her suit for the presentation -- the most lightweight blouse she owned, short narrow skirt, thin nylon tights despite the weather, cropped jacket. Her wavy fair hair was coiled up into a bun, so any breeze would reach her neck rather than the hair insulating it. Not that there was any refreshing wind. Low heels, given the amount of standing that would be necessary. Marion always went for a trouser suit and flats, but then Marion already knew everyone who was anyone. If she hadn't slept with them, she'd probably woken up on their floor with a hangover, followed by not mentioning who they had ended up in bed with.

Not wanting to be perspiring even before her nerves kicked in, Emily splashed out on a taxi back to the conference centre. The car had been painful to touch and suffocating inside. Then the near-painful punch of icy-cold air when she entered the building. She shivered. Evaporating sweat congealed on her neck.

The catering suite was marginally less freezing, given the thousands of people passing through. Emily downed another coffee. No point even trying to ask for tea; it would be undrinkable anyway. Iced tea sounded promising but was sickly sweet rather than refreshing. She assisted some bemused Japanese delegates in ordering food, ending up having a discussion of their work, mostly by pulling out reprints of their respective papers and pointing at sentences, going 'ah!' as appropriate.

Just before the first panel session, coffee refill in hand, she found Bradley. They gave each other a hug; nothing more. The world didn't need to know they'd had a night together just before Bradley returned to America. She let him run away to a different talk before reading a message from the guy she was now sort-of seeing. Richie's flight was scheduled to arrive late evening.

Some months ago, Richie had persuaded her that he might well be an arrogant arsehole when it came to science -- that know-it-all knobhead in Dan's new proteins lab'was one of the more complimentary descriptions she'd heard -- but that when it came to sex, he was most willing to listen to instructions.

She'd tested that assertion thoroughly, and found it to be true.

After a few satisfactory hook-ups, Emily had told Richie about her night with Bradley some weeks earlier. And that she'd love to have Bradley again if they met in Vegas.

"Ah, conference pals!"

Richie had clarified, "Everyone gets them. It's a bit like the vegetarians who go to conferences in Japan; they say it's too difficult to stay veggie, so they'll just be an omnivore for the duration -- though actually ordering bacon sandwiches always seems overkill, to me. Same with sex -- so many scientists, all completely faithful to their partners, except at conferences. Let their hair down, have a bit on the side, get the urge out, then everyone's happy back home. To be honest, I can't think of a science couple who don't..." He'd returned to tying back his long reddish-brown hair, clearly unfazed.

"You'd... Really?" Emily also knew about the except-for-conferences phenomenon, even if she wasn't convinced it was quite as widespread and consented to as all that, but Richie insisted he had no problem with the concept. If it was a man he rated -- which meant anyone Emily rated highly enough; anyone she approved of was OK by him -- then, why ever not?

Richie reiterated this view even when Emily phoned him to confirm that Bradley was there in the flesh. "Go for it, safer sex and all that.

Not that I want to see it." The laconic man chuckled. "What am I saying? If I come back to the room and you're mid-fuck, I get to join in."

"Seriously?" Emily recognised this as the joke it was. "I wasn't planning an orgy -- does a threesome count as an orgy? No? Still. More than one guy at a time is a waste, surely? And he's all young and sweet and acts sort of innocent, too! It's all part of his charm, making me feel like I'm introducing him to all sorts of depravity! What about you, though?"

"I'll see. I don't have any promises or anything, but there's people planning some good parties, who do interesting work. Dieter Bonhoeffer's group from Berlin, for example. Or the Wang lab in Amsterdam -- some of them are here..."

"I met them at the Paris one. Absolute nutters... That Jeff from Chicago..."

"Generous with the drink in their room, though," Richie noted.

"True, though I did worry they'd be arrested before getting there!"

"I think everyone will be more careful, over here with the American police. Did you see that 'cultural briefing' document they gave us upon registration? It said if a cop stops you, you shouldn't even get out of the car! In case they shoot you, I guess. Just as well we'll all be relying on taxis and Uber."

"Let's hope so. And they don't get too enthusiastic about doing people for drunk-and-disorderly."

"Surely not? I mean, this is Vegas -- if every weird drunk got arrested there wouldn't be a city! Or a Cell Sciences conference," he added dryly.

"On that note, I'd like to point out I'm not drinking yet -- I'm mainlining caffeine to stay awake and to keep warm! I wish they'd be a bit more subtle with the aircon -- just stepping outside is like teleporting to the Sahara from Antarctica! You've got that all-day symposium in Chicago today, haven't you? Ah well, see you late tonight."

Emily's talk was in an hour. First, a trip to the ladies to touch up her make-up, hiding the jet-lag. A crowd was in the way.

"Excuse me, is this the queue for the toilets?"

"No, it's the line for the restrooms," a middle-aged American lady informed her.

Emily sighed, and waited patiently. Another vital coffee, before confirming her presence to the Chair of the next session. Two more speakers, then her panel of four. She tried to ignore her nerves.

Then she noticed Bradley coming in. He could provide distraction, for sure.

The large session hall sported several thousand wedding-type chairs in rows, with three aisles. Her greetings done, Emily sat down next to Bradley.

As she did so, she hitched her skirt up an extra inch.

Bradley nodded at her, saying nothing as the lights dimmed. But once the speaker stopped holding his interest, he closed his conference folder of papers across his lap and let his left hand stray to the side underneath it, to Emily's leg.

She spread her legs a couple inches apart, and pushed her skirt up a little more -- not so much that it would be seen, but enough that Bradley's fingers could reach some soft flesh through the nylon. She should have worn stockings, not just for breathability...

He gave her thigh a squeeze.

She whispered, "Don't distract me too much until after my talk, OK?" With the over-enthusiastic frigid air blasting out, she was very glad of her jacket, preventing her from shivering and looking even more nervous than she was.

He gave a thumbs-up. They did their best to listen to the rest of the lecture, but as the Japanese chap wasn't speaking anything resembling comprehensible English, they could only read the over-detailed slides. It was slowly changing, but many Japanese lab heads still insisted they be the one to give presentations, whether or not their English could be understood.

"Another one to find the student of, later."

Emily nodded. "You'd think they'd get over the embarrassment and get the young lads who can actually speak English to speak, by now, instead of just standing up there like plonkers."

"Who's up next? Oh, this one should be better."

"Mm. And then it's me. Can't wait to get it over with."

"You don't like public speaking?"

"I don't mind it. I've done enough of it, now. But I've never had to speak to three thousand people before! Who can quiz me on my work, too."

"Would it help to say you look great and you'll rock this?"

"Not particularly." But she smiled.

Half an hour later, Emily having been taking copious notes to distract herself, Brad wished her all the best as she headed up to the stage.

She really did look great. That little jacket went in at her waist, highlighting how her ass curved out. The short skirt and hose showed off good legs. Her sandy blonde hair was braided and pinned up, emphasising a pale neck that really needed a hickey or two. Her demure court shoes were small heels, enough to lengthen her legs and look feminine, but achingly respectable.

Emily didn't wear glasses, but Brad knew that she could shake out her hair and remove the suit, and she'd transform in an instant, from the restrained modest-librarian look into the sultry siren he'd fucked before.

It seemed that after her talk was over, she'd be up for that again.

Bradley was very glad he already understood her work, as he was suddenly having great difficulty concentrating!

Emily flicked up her last slide: photos of her old lab, Verity, Marion and Roland all making faces behind her, and her new one with boss Xavier and Gilbert the Cameroonian post-doc. She thanked them all, a good ripple of applause suggested people had been listening, and she took her seat on the stage when the next speaker on the panel went up to the lectern.

Bradley didn't pay much attention to the next talk. He was focused on the hem of Emily's skirt and what might be seen between her legs. He got the impression she hadn't meant to give the audience a view, sitting on the dais at their eye-height. He'd best not mention it.

He found her at the end of the panel. "Good talk. May I take you to lunch?"

"Sure. That sounded American, didn't it?"

"Kinda." It hadn't.

"What's in the next session? Hm, nothing I'd desperately miss. I think I'll go back to the hotel and change out of this suit."

Bradley couldn't keep disappointment out of his voice. "It does really suit you. You look gorgeous in it!"

She grinned. "'Suit' me, really? That's a Brit-worthy pun, that. Seriously, I know it looks good -- so hopefully some men will have been paying a fragment of attention to someone they've never heard of. Makes me feel all professional, like a Proper Scientist."

"But, Dr Bannatyne! You've got your PhD and everything!"

"Your writing-up going that badly, is it?"

"Just started, really. It's okay, I've got until next June to get it done. I'd just like some more conclusive results..."

"Wouldn't everyone, always? Nine months is a long time in science."

"True. Nine months ago I hadn't even met you. "

"And I hadn't yet got any of the findings I just presented. And you..." Emily double-checked no-one was within earshot. "You were still an anal virgin..."

Bradley choked on his drink.

"Fancy coming helping me have a shower?"

The invitation couldn't have been more obvious.

"Of course! Nowhere else I need to be. Though it's a shame you're taking off that smart outfit. No! I mean, it'll be a shame when you put something else on, later."

"I never figured you for a skirt and stockings kink."

Bradley considered. "Me neither. But that narrow skirt with the little slit -- that's like the Pencil Skirt song you guys kept playing, isn't it? Now I know what you mean. So much promise beneath..."

"Pretty much." They'd introduced Brad to decent British music in the lab, often compromising on Pulp's Different Class album. He'd let Marion and Dev show him Soho, not that he could remember much of the night, but he knew they'd collapsed for a late night coffee in the Bar Italia, 'where other broken people go'. "Glad to see you remember the good stuff."

"Mm. Still don't like Oasis. The Welsh girl singing about Mulder and Scully was good, though."

She shrugged. "Fair enough." She started chanting:

"He came from Boston with a thirst for knowledge!

He studied science at a little college!

That's where I..."

"Had her ass..." he interrupted her parody. "I'm not at all loaded, you know."

"Compared to me on my student stipend, you were! Let's not get hung up on song lyrics -- I want to take you to my room, not a supermarket!"

Emily led the amenable Bradley out of the lecture theatre. She'd just about adjusted to the temperature -- five thousand bodies did warm a place up -- but was still shocked by the icy blower over the doorway. She'd get a stiff neck if she wasn't careful.

They let their hands drop as soon as they saw people in the corridor. Plausible deniability. Deny all relationships until forced; it was what everyone did. She'd had an interview for a studentship with the eminent cell biologist Fiona Wilson, who had quizzed Emily on her experience as a summer student working with Tim Smith. "People say he's very difficult."

"Do they? I never heard that. I mean, I wasn't in his lab, but he was very kind showing me how to use some of his team's microscopes and their cameras," Emily had answered politely.

"Oh yes! They say he terrifies students, and yells and is horrible to work with!"

"All I can say is, he was fine with me and seemed OK to everyone else."

Emily had returned to her tutor and demanded, "What's Fiona Wilson got against Tim Smith?"

"Against him? She's been happily married to him for twenty years! You didn't know that? They do keep it quiet..."

Emily had been offered the place, for having a 'good attitude' apparently, but gone elsewhere. She'd seen both Smith and Wilson looking very friendly with others, come to think about it! Emily steeled herself for another blast of Nevada summer heat. It was early afternoon, the hottest time of day, sun blazing at them from overhead, not enough shadows to be useful. Too hot to hurry to escape it, even. By the time they reached the nearby hotel, they were both red-faced and Emily could feel sweat trickling down her back and soaking her nylon tights, her thighs feeling horribly damp. So much for sexiness. If it weren't for the sweat, she could swear her skin was desiccating like leather.