The Imprint Ch. 11: Tête-à-Tête

It was about 7PM. I found myself in the steamy sub-basement of University Hospital at the entrance to the fertility program, next to the heating plant. The hospital president Dr Regina Windham had called for the meeting without an explanation. Was it about the malpractice action pending against me and the hospital? Malpractice was the plague sweeping through hospitals in the 1970s with a screaming headline about a new and even more fantastic award, every day.

Greeted by a stocky Nurse Charon guardian of the gate with a smirk, "Dr Rebecca Barton, I heard you dropped out of the egg donor program." Dryly looking over her charts, she added, "Or to you, should I describe it as the Ovum Donationis program?"

I grimaced at the reminder that my secretary's editing of my reports to translate medical terms to acceptable common equivalents had spread throughout the hospital. Word reached even these lower depths.

To my nod, Nurse Charon, her white uniform, hidrosis discolored (bathed in sweat), declared "There are no secrets in a hospital." Cautiously looking around furtively to make sure we were alone, she added, under her breath, "most people think of weight gain, but weight loss is also possible in early stages, a 30-year-old female is at the height of her sexual prowess, daily sex-ercise is physically demanding and calories expending fitness exercise, controlling weight gain and maintaining appearance."

"Just plain healthy living," I quipped.

"There are times that we fat girls are lucky," muttered nurse Charon.

"So I've heard," I replied. With a hand reflexively guarding my hypogastric region (lower abdomen), I engaged in diaphragmatic breathing (took a deep breath). We were parrying around the truth. A single mother was still a subject of scorn in the 1970s, especially for one who did not intend to marry the father. For the moment, I intended to remain unattached.

Looking me in the eye, Nurse Charon under her breath reminded me of her advice, "I hope you got your own health insurance. To keep your business private, find a doctor far away from Capitalland." Switching to an audible voice, Nurse Charon asked, "What brings you down here to the choking sulfur fires of my little Hades?"

"I'm here to confer with Dr Regina Windham in eh--her private sauna," I nodded toward the airlock which provided access to the programme through a series of showers, "one of her little Tête-à-Têtes with Departmental Heads."

"Tête-à-Tête or Tits -- A -- Tits," Nurse Charon explained, "are justified by some of Dr Windham's peculiar ideas about baths: how baths running hot and cold can remedy many common ailments like arthritis. Surprising her male department heads more uneasily approach reporting into these Tête-à-Tête sessions than the women."

"Sisterhood is powerful," I uttered one of the banal truisms of the 1970s.

"Sisterhood alone can't get you admitted to the facility," Nurse Charon paused to look over her roster. Nurse Charon exhibited stertorous breathing (breathed heavily) as she spoke, "You're not on my census. I can't admit you, even to visit with a plan participant, unless you have a pass from the hospital president Dr Windham or the fertility program director." Putting aside her register, Nurse Charon advised me, "You'll have to wait for Dr Windham, sweetie."

Not one to pass time by idle chat, Nurse Charon busied herself with her paperwork. I was about ready to excuse myself to return to my office to wait for Dr Windham there when Nurse Charon's face transformed into a cheery rosy glow. Standing on her tippytoes to peer over my shoulders, Nurse Charon, a smile creeping over her face, welcomed Dr Windham.

The expression on the nurse's face was a warning. Nurse Charon was a player in this great game. She gave good advice but in this hospital who could be trusted?

"Oh, Dr Windham," Nurse Charon greeted the Hospital President, "Dr Barton is waiting for you. I would have processed Dr Barton into the facility, but she's not registered in my census for a height and weight check or an egg donation."

"Oh, `Gina please," Dr Windham insisted, "Down here. I'm just another patient. We're very informal, on a first name basis, like kissing cousins. Reba," Dr Windham addressed me, "Reba, you have to loosen up darling. I'm glad you have that bright little secretary that translates your medicalese laden reports into English. What would you call an egg harvesting procedure, Ovum Donationis?"

"Hmm, Ovum Donationis," I feigned consideration of the term, "It might sound more refined. I would take it under advisement."

"Ah yes, ovum donationis!" Dr Windham exclaimed, "I'd like to steal that amazing secretary to use her talent to translate medical -- ese in constructing a Remedial English program for incoming push -- ahead Medical students lest popular vulgar anatomical terms become embedded in the Medical lexicon."

"Ovum Donationis," I observed, "might sound more refined than its street English counterpart."

"Quite! Speaking of Ovum Donationis," Dr Windham suggested, "we are about to enter a sterile area. Addressing Nurse Charon familiarly, "Karen, shall we commence our prefatory ritual?"

"Ladies," Nurse Charon stretching the gloves on her hands as she spoke, "Let`s get down to business. Kindly remove your boots and hand them to me. Hurry on, I've processed 10 employees at change of shift at 4PM, 30 plan participants returning from work or school at 6PM faster than you two."

I sighed. It was the ritual assumption of power which I detested -- when I was the subject.

In administering group physicals, I love playing god, experiencing that quiver of the unclothed corpus (naked body) reacting to my touch, like the reaction to the sting of a bee, setting into operation the autonomic nervous system causing tumescence in the male and vaginal lubrication in the female. I enjoy the embarrassed reaction of many virile men to the appearance of pre -- ejaculate at the tip of the glans (head of the) penis. Women's physiological reactions, like women themselves, tended to be more subtle.

What had I been told of a woman's smile? "Be guided by this portent. Nothing conceals stealth and guile // no poison more potent // than what lies behind a woman's smile.

But with either sex, the certain pleasure drawn from sexual contact is far exceeded by the surge of power. I am God. People submit, crying, `yes Doctor.' Now today, I would be once again the subject, but with a certain amount of sympathy from Nurse Charon I might be treated more gently.

Reaching down to undo the zipper that ran up the length of lower extremity from the malleoli (bony protuberance on either side of the ankle) to my patella (knee) high boots, I experienced a moment of vertigo unsteadiness on my feet. Speaking calmly, Dr Windham, squatting to remove my boots, reassured me, "It's been a long day for you. It is dreadfully hot in here."

Handed my boots, Nurse Charron held them upside down to bang them together. "Nice pair," Nurse Charon noted, "Crossways Mall?" To my nod, she smiled and placed them on a shelf.

After unrolling my stockings, Dr Windham rose. With a swoop of her hands, she swept my dress over my head. It billowed like a sail when Nurse Charon caught it. Turning it inside out, Nurse Charon inspected the seams. Dr Windham unsnapped my bra; Nurse Charon pulled it away from my body. My exposed mammary papilla (nipples) went erect. Windham palpated (felt up) my gluteus maximum (butt) as she eased my panties off.

I laughed. I had been thinking of asking my secretary for the medical term for "felt up." I surprised myself. I knew it all along. I'm not quite as stuck up as I thought I was.

In a solicitous voice Nurse Charon asked whether I'd be OK, bending forward, feet apart. As I got in position, Nurse Charon ordered, "Hands on your knees for balance." With a gloved digit she gently lubricated my sphincter muscles.

Nurse Charon preached softly, "Sweetie, keep personal affairs out of the hospital. No nurse would ever allow herself to be admitted to her own hospital."

"Wouldn't they know everybody?" I held my breath as Nurse Charon continued to massage my anal sphincter with that warming lubricant (goo).

Probing my anal cavity (asshole), Nurse Charon penetrated my external and internal sphincters first with one finger then with two.

Fully aroused, I felt my sphincter muscles clamp down like a vice on Nurse Charon's fingers. My vagina was secreting my own natural lubricant. The warming surgical lubricants (oils) with which the nurse was massaging my sphincter muscles had brought me to the edge of orgasm.

"Never you mind, Sweetie," Nurse Charon laughed "many girls get a little worked up by the prep for insertion of a rectal thermo. There's no need to get red -- faced over it."

The nurse respired heavily (took a deep breath). When Nurse Charon inserted the thermometer, contractions over taking my body drew the thermometer in such that the penetration was such a pleasurable experience that I did not mind her thrusting the thermometer in.

"If a mere mortal nurse fears treatment as a captive audience in her own hospital," Nurse Charon chuckled, as withdrew her fingers from my rectum (asshole), "I shudder at the thought of what might befall a privileged MD or a Hospital Exec. It's better to buy your own insurance and pick your own doctors -- far away from here.."

I picked a doctor up in Cold River in the border country. I hoped that was far enough away from Capitalland to avoid intermeshing my private affairs in Hospital politics. Dr Windham, the Hospital President, who pushed me into the Directorate of rendering emergency care to sick and injured, laughed at my role as comic relief in porn productions. Would she as easily excuse a single mother?

With the pending malpractice action pending against me and the hospital for when a staged mass catastrophe drill I supervised produced a real casualty, could I risk an intrusion into my personal life? I'm sure Nurse Charon would say, "Medicine is more political and spiteful than any would suspect. If someone knows your secret you might regret, they'll use it against you if opportunity presents."

Dr Windham now bent forward next to me, the warmth of the dermis of her gluteus maximus touching mine audibly emitted an agonal respiration (gasped) when Nurse Charon plunged the thermometer into her anus (asshole).

What had Nurse Charon just said? Keeping personal affairs private!

Catching her breath as we waited to be weighed, Dr Windham, presented herself hands on her hips, thrusting her chest out. Her light pink mammary papillae (nipples) blended into the snowy white dermis (skin) of her C cup mammaries (breasts) lending to them a smooth, soft round appearance.

Dr Windham thanked me for agreeing to an informal Tête-à-Tête after hours in the shower. "I'm spending the night here and with my busy day ahead of me tomorrow, shower time is the only time I have available. Being the Hospital President involves a lot more than sitting imperiously behind a desk and acting impervious."

Once again, I forced a smile when Dr Windham gave me a hug and pecked a kiss on my cheek. I restrained myself from chuckling. Hadn't Nurse Charon among others warned me that "Dr Windham likes to project a -- motherly aura, but I think she runs hot and cold?"

In the steamy atmosphere of the sub -- basement, noticeable hidrosis (beads of sweat) now sprouted on Dr Windham's sinciput (forehead). I could feel hidrosis (droplets of sweat) moisten my axilla (arm pits), pubes and rectum.

"For a sub -- basement in this bitter cold Northern climate, this sub -- basement level," I blurted out, "is unbelievably clammy."

"These conditions are ideal," Dr Windham maintained. Behind her Nursing Charon white dress weighed down with noticeable hidrosis (sweat) looked up to the heavens in disbelief. As if she could see Nurse Charon's expression of disbelief Dr Windham answered the challenge, "Plan participants are kept in an unclothed condition. Staff working in the chamber with them has the option of wearing the haz-mat suit; shower girl can wear a bathing suit. The guardian of the gate," turning to Nurse Charon, "Karen on this shift, may wear a nursing costume. Most exercise the option of being clothed."

"The foundational humanity // of the bare body tingling //in this sulfuric humidity // the display of authority//overrides the comfortablity// a key card dangling // between bare breasts bouncing," Nurse Charon interjected.

In a cheerful voice, Dr Windham dancing chirped, "Unclothed garrote," Dr Windham, hands clapping aloft, bare feet tap dancing, un - constricted mammaries bobbing, declared, "sans culottes! Readied for the photo shot."

"About your figure you may bray," Nurse Charon pushed Dr Windham toward the scales, "But on the scale we do weigh." On the scales, Dr Windham weighed in at 160 lbs. "At 5 - 8, Dr Windham--eh Gina," Nurse Charon announced, "your carriage bears freight that remains slightly overweight."

I shuddered as I was ordered onto the scale. "Dr Barton," the nurse declared, "5-1, 195 lbs, no change from your last weigh in, very much overweight. Any comment?"

"Good clean living," I quipped.

"OK girls, you're ready for the showers and --," Nurse Charon was about to admit us to the showers when Dr Windham insisted that usual protocols were observed.

"Good clean living and integrity, indeed," declared Dr Windham, "protecting patients in the facility requires preserving sterility."

I grimaced when an expressionless Nurse Charon, handing me a cup, chirped, "Good clean living, we shall see, here's your cup, squat and pee."

I might have feared that the hospital would buzz with news of my condition until I noticed that the nurse, with a slight of hand, switched my sample with Dr Windham's.

As Nurse Charon pricked my finger to take a blood sample, Dr Windom chanted, "the privilege of accessibility is freedom from infirmity."

After with great exaggeration holding a finger out to be pricked, Dr Windham was already giggling declaring herself ready to add her photograph to the hospital's gallery. "I'm sure the Hospital has the greatest collection of ..." Dr Windham looking from me to Nurse Charon smiled, halting herself in mid -- sentence.

"Rules,"

Dr Windham shot me a sympathetic look. "Earlier over lunch in the Executive dining room, Hospital's counsel discussing photographing persons entering the sterile area of the study, left me unsure over the wisdom of the procedure. Best I could get from counsel was `it depends.' Imagine if lawyers had to make second -- by -- second decisions. Where would a series of `it depends' lead you in a life threatening situation?"

Docilely, I held my carpus (wrist) to be tagged with an hospital identification band; Nurse Charon shook her head when Dr Windham held out her antebrachium (forearm) with great exaggeration. "Time for girl talk?" teased Nurse Charon as she admitted us to the shower.

Entering the dim, steamy mists of the shower, I was disoriented, momentarily blinded. Enable to see, I reached for Dr Windham's upper right extremity. I palpated her muscular forearm working my way up to the bristle of her shaven arm pits. An electric charge ran through me from the tactile sensation of stroking her smooth, rounded breasts.

"Normal reaction," Dr Windham assured me in a soft motherly voice, "Nothing to worry about you know that. In a few minutes, your eye muscles will relax dilating the pupils to admit more light. Did I ever tell you I modelled the airlock between the program and the real world upon the Roman baths?"

"An hygienic and therapeutic experience as well as a social one," I observed. A beaming smile appeared on Dr Windham's face when Dr Windham grabbing my forearms brought us face to face. Instinctively, I stood on my phalanges (tippy -- toes), brushing my mammary papillae (tits) against hers.

The steam seemed to engulf us as Dr Windham held me close locking our pubic regions together. Our vulva (vaginal lips) rubbed as they slid over each other. I felt a charge from the bristle of her shaven pubis. She was due epilation (a shave).

Clasping my forearms, Dr Windham emitted a long, audible exhalation (sigh). She explained her design of the airlock," Incoming staff on changing shifts, participants, returning from a pass, present, disrobe for examination, identification, photographing, and admission to the facility. It is like the apodyterium, `the undressing room,' where bathers disrobed and stowed clothing. Queuing up in the buff for access, the Romans of all classes mingled to converse casually."

"You don't think nudity puts people on edge, more careful, cautious, reluctant to open up," I asked.

"Social nudity promotes openness, honesty and trust," Dr Windham responded, "Deprived of the cues of status and precedence, unclothed persons meet on the plane of equality and under the condition of apparent transparency encouraging people," Dr Windham's voice trailed off as her eyes scanned the room, "to mingle casually and engage in candid conversation."

Her eyes fixed on what looked like a shadow clinging to a darkened corner. Dr Windham grimaced when the one -- piece bathing suit clad shower nurse emerged from the shadows. At Dr Windham's nod, the shower girl turned to enter the program area.

"Are we forgetting?" Dr Windham prompted the shower nurse. The shower girl paused to pout. A searing glance reminded the girl to lift the straps shoulders. Bare breasts bobbing, the shower girl grumbled indistinctly as she slid the one-piece suit off her body. A look of defiance spread across the shower nurse's face; the key card dangled between bare breasts as she tossed the suit.

"For the moment, report to the physician on duty," Dr Windham ordered, "see what assistance he or she requires."

When the portal into the study was clanged shut, Dr Windham continued, "Social nudity promotes, "a candid, un-staged, open exchange." Looking me straight in the eye, Dr Windham with a smile added, "You deal directly with the person in unadorned, unencumbered by the distractions of everyday life."

Locked in an embrace with Dr Windham, in the mists of the bath, I noted our progress from the bright lights of the apodyterium, (`the undressing room') into the misty shadows.

"In the tepidarium," Dr Windham held me as she explained, "or the warming room, the relaxing warmth opens the pores of the body releasing pent up energy, atomized droplets dancing on air act as conduit linking the energies in the tepidarium. In the relaxed atmosphere of reduced tension, people signal their true quality and intentions."

I laughed, "You expect a lot from a hot bath."

"I dare say," Dr Windham was candid, "You yourself bring considerable experience to these concepts. I might be interested in hearing your observations."

"The communal showers of the convent school, I attended," I reminisced, "devoted much attention to the study of anatomy. Effete young ladies compared dental impressions (bite marks) on their mammaries (boobs) as proof of the intensity of their libido (sexual prowess). The girls discussed the art of palpating stroking the guy's penis to ejaculate prematurely. The ladies described it as an art, leaving the guy to believe it was his fault."

"Hearty teasing all in good clean fun, I'm sure," Dr Windham momentarily paused before she continued. "I was thinking of your experience in porn."

"That was business," I replied, "It was a job. We worked together to produce a product. Oh, there were thrills, but the focus was on the result, one we were proud of and of course," I chuckled, "make some money."

"The bottom line," Dr Windham injected.

"Presenting bare bottom babes required navigating a squiggly line," I smirked, "Just enough redeeming social value to stay within the law, just enough erotica to interest the guys who bought the film. Oh, there was a high, stripping off running down the hallway into a communal shower. What would the men, and I suppose, the occasional woman too, who bought the film want to see? We played to an audience."