Eight-Inch Girls

A Short Story by Jo-Anne Wiley

 

Stacy's Song:

Puddle of mud, mud's in a puddle,

I do as I'm told but my mind's such a muddle,

So take a breath, count one, two, three,

Then make my point as fast as can be,

I sidestep quick but it's awfully tricky,

It stains my clothes, clots, and gets sticky,

Puddle of mud, mud's in a puddle,

I hear the machine and know I'm in trouble...

 

Chapter One

 

Crap. Maybe the dude was fuckin' dead.

What did she know? She'd never seen a dead guy. And maybe that's why it was so god-awful cold. She thought of a side of beef, on the hook. Jenny watched carefully. Didn't see his chest move. His body was draped under a thin sheet, but it was a guy: big feet, narrow hips. But he didn't move.

Maybe it was a test. Did they want to determine how she would react? Locked into a room with a corpse? No, that was just crazy.

"Just check on the patient," the woman had said, and had all but pushed Jenny through the door. It closed behind and Jenny could feel the woman's weight, bearing down on the crash-bar. Like she was leaning back, relieved; had avoided a nasty situation. Like she was holding the simmering pot lid down.

The room was dark. No... more than dark. Black!

If there was a window, it had to be heavily curtained. And the walls, ceiling and floor, must be black. And it was cold.

She reached out with tentative fingers, to the right side, where she thought she might find a light switch. Nothing. Just unyielding concrete block.

Jenny looked back to the bed at the end of the room. The sheet was silhouetted in pale green. Was he dead? No, that was crazy; couldn't be. The monitor on the wall, emitting the peaceful, green light, displayed his vitals. There was the slow rhythm of life. But that would be easy to rig. Any minute now it would flat-line and she would be put to the test.

And they would be watching. Yes, watching and waiting. For her reaction.

That must be it. That's why it was so damned dark. They had a spy-hole somewhere and the darkness covered their voyeurism. And she was cowering on the other side of the room. That wouldn't look good. She had to make a move and, mind made up now, she dropped her bag onto the floor and pushed off the door frame; she took a step toward the bed. Be proactive. Or at least look the part.

There was still no movement from beneath the sheet. Any second now, the monitor would scream an alarm:

Cardiac Arrest!

She would race to his bedside. Start external heart massage, maybe mouth to mouth. And she would call in the troops, with the crash-cart. What was it? She couldn't remember: Code yellow? Code blue, maybe? What the hell; one of those damned code things. Why hadn't she paid closer attention during class? Never mind. She would do everything right. She would be a hero. She would land the job!

And then he spoiled it. He moved.

 

"Are you a doctor?" he asked.

She was so startled, Jenny went over on a high-heel and stumbled into the side of the bed. Her ankle smarted. "No... no I'm not," she managed, leaning down to massage her foot and replace her shoe. "I'm a nurse."

"But you're not wearing a uniform. I thought maybe they had sent someone."

"Just started today. I don't have a uniform, yet."

"Oh," he said, resting his head back. "I thought maybe they had sent someone new. I had a stroke, you know."

"Are you comfortable?" she asked. Someone had told her to say that. It was safe ground and a good way of introduction.

"I'm fine," he said. "But something doesn't feel right."

She took a quick hobble around the end of the bed and checked the chart that hung at the foot. His name was Kline. And earlier in the day, he had been administered VAG. The line was initialed by his nurse. Viagra? Couldn't be... it affected blood pressure. Who would give it to a stroke victim? And, later in the morning, he had received an IV. Once again, the line was initialed by his nurse. But there wasn't an intravenous bag hanging from a stand; no tube to his arm, no needle in his vein.

"What's the problem, Mr. Kline? You're having some discomfort?"

"It's my catheter. I think it might have slipped, or something."

She swallowed. "I can check that for you. Or I can call a male intern." Damn. Maybe she shouldn't have said that. Could it be conceived she was passing the buck? Would they hold that against her? What was her score so far, anyway? She really needed this job.

"I'm fine with you," he said. "You seem nice."

"Thank you, Mr. Kline," she said and positioned herself reluctantly alongside the bed rail. "You had a stroke?" Casual conversation would be good, she thought.

"A mild one," Mr. Kline said. "They say I'll be okay, in a week or two. No paralysis. Need rest, is all. Peace and quiet."

"It happens a lot. Stress related usually. Full recovery is normal and I'm sure you will be fine." Encouragement. That should add a few points. "Let's have a look, shall we?"

She slipped her left hand under the sheet and gripped his penis low down; lifted it slightly. He was semi-hard.

She felt cornered and sweaty, but she pushed the sheet aside. Where is the damned light switch? She reached around for the tube that was supposed to be inserted into the end of his penis. She only felt the soft, bullet-shaped head and the empty vertical eye. There was nothing except a drop of gooey excrement. No tube. He exhaled deeply and squeezed his now sizable erection up into her hand.

He had tricked her. "Mr. Kline!" Jenny said in disgust, but snapped her jaw shut before she could say something regrettable. Yelling at a patient wouldn't win her any points. But what was proper etiquette in a situation like this; her standing at his bedside with his cock in her hand? No one had broached the topic at the college. She sure as hell felt like giving him a piece of her mind, along with a rude twist, but that wouldn't do. Neither would be having sex with him. What did they expect of her? Be good-natured about it, she thought. Laugh.

He ejaculated.

"Oh shit!" The first release shot a strand of semen up her wrist. She took a step back but kept a cupped hand over the end of the offending appendage, trying to control the torrent that was quickly overflowing her fingers. Be good-natured!

"Mr. Kline, please." But Mr. Kline wasn't listening; he was too wrapped up in his own ecstasy. "My god. There's so much of it." She tried a light laugh for the benefit of those watching, but it sounded thin and contrived. "How long have you been saving it up?"

She kept her right hand in position and struggled with the other, searching across the top of the side-cabinet. There was, thankfully, a stack of towels and she plucked one off the top and started to clean up the mess. He groaned happily. She felt like stuffing the towel down his throat, but dutifully attended to him. The stuff had gotten everywhere. She ran the towel over his belly and thighs; the underside of his penis and dabbed at his testicles. She wiped her hands. A dutiful nurse would find a wet cloth and wash him down, but she wasn't about to stumble around in the dark, searching for a bathroom.

"There. I'm sure you're feeling better, Mr. Kline," she said, smoothing the sheet back and tucking it in. "You've truly christened me into my new job. Next time, I won't be so gullible." She tried the light laugh again. It didn't work any better, but it got her out of a sticky situation with some degree of decorum. He was chuckling to himself as she moved toward the door. She reached down, scooped up her purse, and pushed out into the hallway. She was embarrassed, humiliated and, luckily, all alone.

There was a waiting area across the hall and she slipped onto a sofa. She needed a lady's room where she could wash up but there was nothing close at hand. Down the hall was the nursing station and she studied the women who, she hoped, would soon be her co-workers.

The hospital floor looked like a set from a television soap: The nursing staff were all young and surprisingly attractive; not one of them was overweight nor sloppily dressed. They wore traditional nursing uniforms with starched white caps. No one was shuffling around in scrubs or even white pantsuits. All wore white pumps, or black, to complement the black bands on their caps, the clicky-clack sound of high-heels was prevalent. She waited a full five minutes before an office door opened and a woman stepped out.

"Miss Armstrong?" Jenny looked up at the sound of her name. "I understand you would like to work with us. My name is McAllister. I'm the queen bee around here."

"Jenny looked up into the intelligent face of an older nurse. She had the aura of administration. Twin stripes on her cap. Jenny hopped to her feet and extended a hand. "I'm so pleased to meet you, Nurse McAllister."

"I hope you appreciate what we are doing here at Rosedale. We're a small facility and we like to keep things informal. Except for our dress code. You may have noticed."

Jenny took to the woman immediately; wanted to work for her. She was older, mid forties, maybe, but fit and firm; with a no-nonsense handshake. Jenny hoped her fingers weren't sticky. "I love the uniforms," Jenny said. "It looks so professional. I could never understand the attraction of scrubs. Your staff looks so smart."

"And the patients seem to appreciate it. Look, Dr. Janson was impressed and I think the job is yours, if you want it. Trust me. It's a good place to work. The hospital is small but we've got great patients... no one comes here to die, if you get my drift. There is a gym in the basement, an indoor swimming pool and the dietitian will prepare a meal plan that will suit your personal profile; and the cafeteria staff will help you stick to it. All the girls here are in fabulous shape, as you can see. And we take great effort to make sure our staff is happy. Now, how did you make out with Mr. Kline?"

"He's fine," Jenny said. "Vitals were all good and he's resting comfortably." Jenny had a feeling she could speak freely. "He seemed to have a healthy reaction to me." Jenny took the chance.

Nurse McAllister laughed. A good hearty sound. "You mean he got a hard-on?"

"Something like that," Jenny faltered. "But I was curious about his chart."

"That's good," Nurse McAllister said. "I encourage my staff to be curious; to ask questions."

"This morning, he was given a drug: VAG."

"Viagra," Nurse McAllister replied without hesitation.

Jenny gawked, hoped it wasn't too obvious. "And then, later on, an IV, but there wasn't one in his room."

Nurse McAllister smiled and leaned over and lightly put her fingertips to Jenny's cheek. "Oh sweet innocence," she said. "Not 'Vee'" she whispered into Jenny's ear, "but 'Cee' ...IC."

"IC?" Jenny asked, a little mystified.

"Intercourse."

Jenny gawked some more.

"Close your mouth dear," Nurse McAllister said, tapping Jenny's chin lightly, and with a chuckle, she turned away. "I'll go attend to Mr. Kline."

Nurse McAllister moved with a long purposeful stride, her hips seesawing atop thighs and calves and four-inch heels. Wow! Was she kidding? Jenny flushed, feeling like a kid in play-pants.