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.