"Life starts in one flash, and then ends in the next strike of thunder. Stop being such a pussy and live, girl. You ain't immortal. Be more, er, assertive! Ah, no, that's not it…spontaneous. Follow your impulses. You're too boring."
My grandmother used to tell me that.
I blamed her for the fact that I was in a gyno's in New York, anxious to get it over with so I could start my job despite the fact that she was long dead.
Strangely, it was a normal office. I thought it'd have more pictures of vulvas and naked female bodies…not that I was complaining or anything, but dentists have pictures of teeth. Cardiologists have pictures of hearts. Why shouldn't a gynecologist have lots and lots of pictures of pussies?
Well, it made sense to me.
"Marcasite Wilkes?" the blonde guy at the counter called out.
"Yes?" I said, standing up.
"Dr. Noel will see you now," he said, snorting at his own use of a cliché, and we walked through the door that would take me to the examination room.
There was a hall on the other side, all bright, shiny and the first room on the left. A tan wooden door left open. I clasped my hands together and stepped into the empty room when he left me with a quick goodbye. Normal doctor's office, sort of, I guessed. I sat on the bed-like thing after I took off my pants—I was supposed to do that, right?—and then I crossed my legs.
There was a click of clack of heels coming towards me, getting louder, and I folded my arms in front of my chest. My doctor would probably be a woman. That was expected, since, I specifically requested one. I really, really didn't want some strange man's fingers up my…my down there. Still, when she walked in, white coat and everything, I was surprised.
"Hello, Ms. Wilkes," she said, her face in a clipboard. "How are you…to…?"
That was when she looked up at me, stocking covered legs crossed and smiling nervously. No need to be nervous, I reminded myself, it's not like you two fucked or anything. You just met her at a gun shop, is all—nothing to be worried about?
"Hi, uh, Monet," I said.
"Marcy must be a nickname then," she muttered, looking me up and down. "Er, take off your clothes…please."
I wasn't usually nervous about taking my clothes off. In fact, I hated wearing clothes when I didn't want to, but gynos always made me feel, well, self conscious. They see all kinds of women all the time. They'd be judgmental of cunts.
"No need, doc," I replied, thinking myself smug as I opened my legs. "Just look up the open crotch and viola."
Thank the universe for the internet.
"Huh, so it is, but," she said, "you do know I have to check your breasts too, right? That's what you requested." She smiled, a bit sardonic. "Unless, you have something like that"—she gestured to my exposed crotch and I closed it, self-conscious—"under your shirt."
"At home, yeah…" I blurted out, like an idiot, and then blushed when she raised her eyebrows.
"I'd love to see it," she commented. "Take your top off…you can keep those on, I suppose, if you need to."
"I will." I said, and took a deep breath.
Fast, I decided, I'd just take my clothes off fast as possible and get it over with. So, I did, and Monet, unlike what I thought she'd do, just stood there and stared at me. The only thing I was wearing was the stocking I'd both off an online lingerie boutique.
"Er, Monet?" I said.
The only thing that moved was her eyes and I looked away, sliding back on the bed as she smiled at me.
"Let's get started," she said.
I suppressed what happened next, because, ya know, I didn't get a little wet or bite my lips and count to ten when she stuck her fingers inside down there. It was only a little…So what if I squirmed a little during the painful pap smear? At least I had the decency to feel like crap for enjoying when she checked my uterus and ovaries, but it felt so…good to feel her prod my breasts and then finger my shaved pussy and asshole, both of which I'd been scrubbing particularly hard. For this checkup, and my new job.
"Have you been sexually active lately?" she asked me, hiding her smirk.
And, because I didn't find it appropriate to tell her that yes, very much so, I just have no partner outside of work, I said, "No."
She nodded and marked some stuff down. "That hurries things up."
"I feel dirty." I pulled my shirt on over my bra. "You didn't even buy me dinner," I joked.
"How about now?" she offered, never taking her eyes off me.
I wanted to turn around so that my backside wasn't in her view whenever I faced her and bent down, but she couldn't be gay. All that pussy, it'd get old after a while, and a lesbian wouldn't get a job as a gyno…right? Right.
"Y-Yeah, okay, yes," I said. God, I sounded desperate. "Do you, uh, want my phone number or something?"
"Sure, maybe later, though," she replied. "I'll be done in 'bout ten minutes, hon. Can you jus' wait in the reception room?"
"Um, okay," I said.
"Brilliant, hon," she said, and ushered me out the door, down the hall of naked walls. "Caleb!" she called, and Blondie looked over from his computer screen. "Don't leave when Ms. Heath comes into my office, got it? Stay here with Cass."
Cass? I thought, but liked it enough not to say anything.
"Stay here with Cass?" I said, "I need a baby-sitter now, Mo?"
"Mo? When did that happen?" she said, full of smiles that dodged my questions. "Ms. Heath—you're here? Come this way, then, ma'am." Ms. Heath was a blocky woman who must've been twice Monet's age and three times her size.
I didn't worry…not there was anything to worry about. That would imply that this was something more than it actually, and this…This was nothing.
She was taller than me. I noticed that when she walked me out of her office's building. Not by much, but still, I thought that I was taller than her. She was lean and graceful, walking next to me, like those women on television who grew tough because they became successful around the start of the Civil Rights Movement. Yeah. I…I wasn't. I won't say I was fat or ugly, because I wasn't. She just made me feel like some immature punk.
"Where're we going?" I asked, entering the car when she unlocked them.
"Nothing big," she said. "I thought of going to one of my favorite restaurants, but then you'd have to change. We're going to a pizza place instead."
"My favorite," I said, grinning as I made myself comfortable in the passenger seat and patted my stomach. "Are we almost there?"
"No," she told me. "Well," she added after a moment, glancing at me, "halfway there."
Her car had leather interior, and reminded me of the kind of car I promised myself I'd buy when I wasn't dirt broke.
"Can I see your cell phone?" I asked.
She looked at me through the corner of her eyes and then sighed.
"It's in my purse, the one at your feet."
It was. The same purse she'd been carrying around at the gun shop was right there at my feet, plainer than day. After a sacred moment of feeling like the dumbest bimbo on Earth, I picked the purse up and opened it. Her phone was sleek, a smart phone, and I fumbled with it for a bit before I finally saved my cell and home phone number into it.
"What'd you do?" she asked when I closed it and stowed it back by my feet.
My pussy was pulsing, and I rubbed it, kneeling on the sofa in the apartment I shared with Fran. I was rocking to the rhythm of the girls on the television as I flicked at my clit, panting and moaning along with them. I thought of Monet as I unhooked my 34D bra and tossed it behind the couch, sliding a finger slowly through my soaked folds, and then mused on the waitress I'd met. Monet had dished me in the middle of dessert for a patient, leaving me with nothing but a peck on the cheek, her cell phone number, and the promise of another date. Marty, the waitress, had shyly flirted with me after that and asked me out.
We had to reschedule from her suggested Friday night to the following Saturday night because I was booked solid. I, of course, didn't get into the details. Telling someone that I couldn't come to a date because I was too busy having sex with a housewife and an ex-nun wasn't an ideal way to start a relationship. Not that I expected us to have much of a relationship together. Marty seemed like a closest case by the way she whispered everything and got spooked when she thought someone might've heard her.
I hissed, rubbing my hard clit with my thumb, and rolled my hips against the arm of the couch, humping it. I squeezed one of my tits with the other hand and then pinched the hard nipple roughly before I began to rub my breasts. A small moan escaped my mouth after I pressed down harder against my clit, squeezed my breast tight, and began to pull my fingers in and out of my wet pussy faster simultaneously. I was a little hesitant to masturbate that night, because my nails were manicured recently and I had a fear that I would mess something up, but nothing bad happened and I reached my orgasm.
I flicked off the porn, and felt around for my clothes, then I sighed. Someone was at the door and rang the doorbell five times. That was Fran. It had been her signal ever since she walked in on me and one of my client. She didn't care what I did for money, as long as I had enough to pay for my part of the rent, but she also didn't care for seeing me go down on a panting thirty year old mother of three. Well, I didn't care much for how the woman slapped my ears with her thighs far too hard, but I never freaked out screaming, and sadly still kept Olivia as a regular.
Why? Because she paid the big bucks.
I put my lacy bra back on and was pulling my camouflage print panty with the ruched back on when Fran waltzed in, smiling as she fluffed her curly black hair and it soon dropped from her face as she saw me tugging my pants back on.
"Jesus, Marcy!" she tutted in her thick accent. "Francesca always has to walk in to see your boobs bouncing everywhere?"
"Talking in the third person again, Franny?" I said. "You must be in a good mood."
She huffed, but couldn't hide her glee as she hopped onto the couch and I pulled my rhinestone covered shirt.
"I am!" She beamed. "Jerry proposed."
"Finally," I said, inspecting my nails and only smiled when I saw that they were still perfect.
Fran frowned, and I shrugged. Shoot me for not being excited that she was going to marry some chauvinistic asshole.
"I like Tom better."
I shrugged again. "Whatever."
She pouted, but was soon going on about how great Jerry was, how beautiful her wedding was going to be, and I just hummed and gave short replies where it was necessary. My mind was beginning to replay the hot video between a milf and her daughter's friend when Francesca snapped me out of it by asking me to be a bride's maid. I blinked at her, and spluttered out some nonsense from surprise. I honestly had been thinking that I'd be lucky to just be invited.
"So?" she said after I stayed quiet too long.
"Oh, um," I replied, "sure?"
"Cool!" she said. "You can bring a date as long as..."
"They're male?" I asked and my face darkened.
So I wasn't the best lesbian. I was really into gay rights or even womens' rights anymore than the next person that wasn't a complete douche, and I was kind of a prostitute, (okay, not kind of, more like I'm a big whore) but I wasn't going to be pushed back into the closest.
"No," she rolled her eyes. "As long as she's not one of your clients!"
"Oh," I nodded. "Okay, then. I wouldn't have asked one of them anyways." Probably.