Copyright © 1997,  BillyG.       ALL Rights Reserved

This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without
the written permission of the author.  This story may be freely
distributed with this notice attached.  The author may be contacted
by writing mrdouble@mrdouble.com.





                               BUFFY JAMES AND BB

                                                                BillyG



  A grueling day had started at 3:30 AM when I'd been called in to see a
young athletic guy in the ER who had presented with a painful white foot. 
It was no diagnostic puzzle; a STAT x-ray, a "dye" study, had confirmed
the suspected arterial blockage.  There was a clot in the artery behind the
knee.  A prompt clot removal, restored circulation before any nerve
damage occurred.  It'd been pretty routine and almost as easy.  Still, it had
started my day several hours before I wanted.

  Three scheduled vascular reconstructive procedures in the OR, rounds in
the morning and then again in the afternoon for the ICU patients gobbled
up the rest of the day.  I was looking forward to an evening off.  Maybe a
quiet dinner, an hour or two of music and perhaps a good book . . . I'd be
renewed, I thought.  But no luck; it wasn't to be.

  Years ago as an over-worked intern in a too-busy university hospital, I'd
learned to hate the sound of my own name on the paging system.  It was
never good news.  Not once did I answer a page and receive a message
that said, "Doctor, I just wanted to thank you for the nice job you did. 
Why don't you take the rest of the day off?"  Never happened.  Not even
close.  More often it was something like, "Dr. Burbank, the GI bleeder has
cut loose again and he's vomiting blood all over the place!"

  I was just pulling off my surgical scrubs in the Doctors' Dressing Room
when the omnipresent speaker blared out, "Dr. Burbank, Dr. Bill Burbank,
to the OR STAT!"

  Shit!  Now what the hell was that?  None of my patients were in the OR
and I'd just left the ICU - everyone was stable.  

  With a resigned grunt, I pulled up the scrub pants and grabbed a fresh
top, still knotting the draw tie as I ran back to the OR Schedule Desk.

  "What's up?"  I asked the scheduling nurse, June, as I was pulling on the
paper shoe covers.

  "Dr. James in Eight . . . he's in trouble.  Asked for you.  Big trouble I
think."

  June wasn't given to hyperbole; if she said it was big trouble, it must be
really big.  I trotted down to OR Eight and before I was halfway there, the
hum of tense urgency floated on the air.  Nurses were running in and out,
people shouting.  Jesus, it was a goddamned Chinese fire drill!  James was
indeep shit again!

  I didn't even stick my head in the door.  Donning a hat and mask, I did
a perfunctory scrub, slipped into the room, arms up and dripping and
caught the scrub nurse's eye.  "BB's here," she murmured quietly.  Very
few people called me "BB" to my face, but Judy was so damned good, she
could get away with it.  She was ready for me and in moments I was
gowned and gloved, pushing my way to the bloody operating field.  Christ,
what carnage was this? 

  With the unerring instinct of a surgeon who needs and gets help often,
James didn't even look up.  "Busted aneurysm" he pronounced in his usual
pompous fashion.  

  "So?" I asked, grabbing a sucker.

  "Can't stop the bleeding!" he replied, petulantly.

  "Retractor to me!" I barked at Judy and in a lower voice, added,
"Bleeding always stops."

  In my peripheral vision I could see James' head snap up.  "WHAT?" he
asked.

  Pretending he hadn't heard me, I repeated, "Bleeding always stops," as
if talking to a dull child.

  Failing to appreciate the prophetic doom, he repeated, "Dr. Burbank,
this patient is *bleeding*!"

  Shit, I could SEE that!  What an ass.  I elbowed aside his assistant, Dr.
Arbuckle, an old-time general surgeon who fancied himself a self-taught
vascular surgeon but couldn't operate his way out of a paper bag.  I once
had asked him how he'd feel about flying with a self-taught 747 pilot.  Still,
he *looked* good.  You know the type: Grey hair, military mustache, good
dresser with a school tie and a too-hearty laugh.  A fraud.  Still, if you
wanted someone to stroke your ego, give old Arbuckle the assist and he'd
blow smoke in your ear.  

     At the moment, this patient needed more than smoke.  Blood was
welling up in the patient's abdomen faster than it was being pumped in. 
But where in hell was it coming from?  High up, I bet.  I pushed a sucker in
along side the aneurysmal aorta and looked, trying to see the source.  

  Judy said, "Yes, up there somewhere!"

  Judy was a first class scrub nurse.  She'd seen more vascular pathology
than James and Arbuckle combined.  I'd have bet a nickel that it had been
her that suggested calling me.  She pushed a large right-angle vascular
clamp at me and I understood instantly what she was thinking.  Blind clamp
*above* the renals and gain control of the occult bleeding site. 
Interrupting renal perfusion was normally a real concern, but on balance,
renal hypoxia was the least of this patient's problems at that moment.  As
W. C. Fields is purported to have uttered on his death bed, "All things
considered, I'd rather be in Philadelphia."

  James tried to start an intellectual discussion about the various
possibilities.  Jesus!  A godamned differential diagnosis as the patient was
exsanginating.  Fuck!  This was the kind of self-satisfied asshole who liked
to debate how many angels could dance on the head of a pin.  I ignored
him, reflecting the mesentery as high as I could.  

  "Here!  What the hell do you think you're doing?"  James demanded.

  "Sucker to big daddy," I said to Judy.

  She was ahead of me.

  "I said . . ." James started, but I cut him off.

  "Retract, dammit.  HELP me here."

  Before he could object, Judy reached over and hauled up on the
retractor giving me an inch, less, but it was just enough to sneak in above
the renal arteries and do a blind cross clamp.  The blood stopped welling
up in the abdomen immediately.  For the moment, we were OK.  The
whole thing had taken less than a minute.  Then it took no more than
another couple of minutes to slip in a large occlusion balloon and achieve
homeostasis intravascularly.

  Hot damn!  The panic was over.  At least the acute hemorrhage was
over.  Now we had a chance to find the hole in the dike.  I looked at Stan
the anesthesiologist.  He'd done a lot of cardiac work and if anyone could
maintain cerebral perfusion pressure, it'd be him.  

  "Touch and go," he said, "but aside from almost no central pressure, his
cardiac status is stable.  Pray the sumbitch has a strong heart.  I've been
pouring in saline and pressors, but what he needs is more blood."

  "More's on the way," Judy said.

  "Where's the cell saver?" I asked.  No one answered and that was an
 answer.  

  I turned to James and asked, "Can you finish this?"

  It was an unfair question.  He couldn't.  He knew it and worse, he knew
that I knew it.  Still, he had to save face.  What a jerk!  He'd never learn
that you can't save your ass and your face at the same time.

  He sniffed, "Well, since you bullied your way in here against my wishes
and put that damned Fogarty balloon in there, why don't YOU finish the
job!"

  I'd seen him pull this shit before; I wasn't buying.  "Don't think so,
James."  I looked at Stan's monitors; still stable.  "Your case.  I just
answered the STAT call.  But I'll take the balloon out if you want."

  James' eyes popped open in alarm.  He wasn't really sure what he
wanted - besides looking good - but taking out the occlusion balloon
wasn't one of 'em, that's for sure.  He swallowed his pride.  Just a little.

  "Well . . . no . . . since it's in . . . well, could you help me for a few
minutes?"

  For James, that was a major surrender, as close to begging as he'd ever
get.  I wanted to ask him just what he wanted me to help him with, for I
was almost certain he didn't really know what to do.  James had a lot of
flash, but not a lot of substance.  There were those people who, not really
believing in substance, chose appearance every time.

  At root, he was an adequately trained vascular surgeon but certainly not
very experienced and at best he was no more than a barely-competent
journeyman.  Mostly he was a plodder who wanted to look flashy.  But
plodding and flashy just don't go together.  I knew the professor who
trained him and once, thirty years ago, that professor had been famous. 
But like many once-famous surgeons, he was so damned rigid and
convinced there was only one way - his way - he didn't grow.  Couldn't
grow.  James had been the recipient of that hidebound attitude and if
anything, he'd reinforced it. Show James a rut and he'd move in and furnish
it.

  The technical solution to James' predicament had been worked out a
couple of years ago.  It was no surgical secret, but it appears he hadn't
heard of it, or perhaps had and didn't believe it because it hadn't been
taught to him by Dr. God.  I suspected he thought that if it hadn't been
taught to him, it simply couldn't work - a well established, stuffed shirt
attitude.

  I didn't really have contempt for James, even if he was a marginally
trained.  Mostly I quietly disliked him because he was such a pompous ass. 
Actually what he really was was a mostly-adequate plodder who attempted
to substitute time for inspiration.  He thought that if you didn't spend 18
hours a day in the hospital, you were somehow goofing off or worse,
cheating.  We certainly weren't enemies, but we weren't friends either.  I
tried not to think of the deeper reason I didn't like him.

  I made eye contact with Stan who kept a sound system in his anaesthesia
cart.  "How 'bout some goin' home music, Stan?" 

  I operated largely with Judy for the next half hour, Arbuckle fluttered
about and James tried to look in control, or at least busy, but that's tough
when you're not really sure what the hell's going on.  And I wasn't going
to take the time to give him a surgical lesson.  I wanted to get the hell out
of there as soon as possible.  

  After the proximal iatrogenic damage had been repaired and there were
only the distal anastomotic connections of the bypass graft to complete, I
turned it over to Dr. James.  "It's all yours, James.  Thanks for this
interesting referral."  Jeez, was I being a sarcastic bastard today!

  He didn't say thanks.  But I didn't really expect that he would.  He
wasn't trying to snub me; it just wasn't in his personality to be polite.  As I
was turning to leave the table, he said, "Oh, Burbank, would you tell Buffy
I'm tied up with this emergency.  She's waiting for me downstairs.  And
could you give her a lift home?  It's on your way."

  James didn't wait for an answer.  He was used to people doing what he
wanted.  I guess even me and I was senior to him.  Shit, I thought, she's
not the person I wanted to run into tonight, or any night for that matter.

  Buffy was James' wife.  I knew her from the tennis club.  She was a
gorgeous woman but I had developed strong ambivalent feelings about
her.  (That means that I secretly wanted to jump her bones but was put off
by her aloof manner.)  I didn't really understand what that was about.  We'd
been doubles partners several times and we'd consistently played well
together.  She was a natural athlete and a heads-up tennis player who was
able to augment my strength and compensate for my weakness - primarily
an erratic back hand.  We almost always won when we doubled and while
she was vocal and friendly on the court, she reverted to an almost
stand-offish ice queen off the court.  

  I was more bothered by her coolness than I wanted to admit.  Several
times while playing doubles, one or the other of us would say something
insightful or humorous and we'd make eye contact.   It was that laughing,
eye-squinting contact that lent strong testimony to the intensity of the
connection.  Each time I thought something was there, but it was never
acknowledged and each time I extended myself a little bit, I was frozen out.

  For awhile, I'd been painfully off-put by her manner and quite confused.  I
wondered if I had stared too hard at her legs or her ass.  She had a great
ass.  It was true, I loved to watch her when she bent from the waist to pick
up a ball.  I was aware that she had caught me ogling once and thereafter,
used her racket to pick up tennis balls.  Still, it was hard for me to imagine
she'd taken that much offense.  Hell, almost every red-blooded guy over 13
and under 83 had the same thoughts.

  Finished showering and dressing in my street clothes, I went downstairs
to the now almost empty OR waiting room and sure enough, there she was,
looking like a cool million bucks.  I admired her shapely crossed legs from
a distance as I walked down the hall.  Her dark cocktail skirt road high on
one thigh and the deep shadows of the darkened waiting area effectively
hid the underside of her stockinged leg.  I idly wondered if she wore
stockings or pantyhose. I doubted I'd ever find out. 

  She glanced up when she heard my footsteps.  I thought she looked
disappointed for a moment, but she smiled and said, "Good evening, Bill. 
Have you seen my husband about?"

  Sitting in the seat across from her, I replied, "Yeah, I just left him.  He's
up to his ass in alligators and asked me to tell you that he wouldn't be able
to make it tonight."  I saw her face fall a fraction.  Yet another social 
disappointment, another in a long line of disappointments, I suspected.  

  "He asked me . . . actually, he *told* me . . . to take you home.  Said it
was on my way."  

  Again, I felt small for my internal irritation.  We both knew I was taking
a thinly veiled pot shot at her husband.  She wrinkled her nose in mild
distaste and stared at me.  It was unnerving, but yet whatever I lacked in
self confidence around her, I always made up with bravado.  I shrugged. 

"Would you rather call a cab?"  

 I thought to myself, 'you're so fucking gracious, Burbank.'

  For a moment I thought she was going to say yes, but she appeared to
make up her mind and her face softened.  "No, please . . . I mean, thanks.  I
*would* appreciate a lift home."  Then she took some of the pleasure out
of it by adding, "A cab would take twenty or thirty minutes to get here."

  As we walked out of the hospital, I surreptitiously admired her tall, lithe
body.  Nights in Northern California in the Bay Area can be cool and
she'd carried an attractive shawl which she pulled off as she climbed into
my car in the almost-empty Doctors' Parking Lot.  The mercury vapor
lights lent an eerie heightened contrast; highlights were brighter and
shadows were deeper.   It must have been the cool air that made her
nipples so evident.  I tried not to stare and failed.

  I drove an older BMW, a classic coupe, the M-6.  It was a sleeper put
together by BMW's Motorworks division designed to be a wolf in sheep's
clothing without any of those silly, boy-racer lines.  A few weeks before I'd
had a CD unit installed in the trunk, along with a decent speaker system.  I
selected an Enya album as we took the road west of the hospital, quickly
leaving the suburban roads to climb into the up-scale country nestled in the
foothills overlooking the San Francisco Bay.

  "Howie," she began - Dr. Howard James *hated* being called Howie -
"often complains that you leave the hospital hours before he does."

  I knew James often stayed far later than I thought was necessary, but I
didn't know he complained about *my* hours.  "That so?" I replied, clearly
disinterested in what James thought of my work ethic.

  She nodded, almost gravely.  "Yes.  He says it almost like an accusation,
like you weren't being conscientious or something."

  I grunted, watching the road unfold as we swung around a curve.

  "Yet," she continued, "when I noticed that the Complications Report for
last year showed you had a significantly lower complications rate and a
lower mortality rate than he did, I asked him about it."

  I grunted again.

  "Don't you want to know what he said?"

  "Not particularly," I replied, glancing over at her, dimly visible in the
orange glow of the instrumentation lights.  I had a greater interest in
her legs.

  "You don't give a shit, do you?"

  I was startled.  It was common for me to be a bit vulgar at times, but I
don't think I'd ever heard *her* say anything remotely in poor taste.

  "Yeah, I do . . . but not about what *he* thinks.  I don't mean to be rude,
but I find your husband . . ." and I trailed off, not wanting to say how I
found her husband.  

  "That's clear," she said in a flat voice.  

  I couldn't tell if she were offended and I didn't know what to say.  She
continued, "Howie knows it.  You make him feel uncomfortable, even
less-than."

  "Hmmm . . . sorry he feels that way.  The stuff we do . . . well, it's not
easy to think of the social graces when you're trying to keep some poor
bastard from jumpin' in the box."

  "Dying, you mean?"

  "Well, there *is* that," I gave her as I pulled into the graveled
turn-around in front of their rambling, ranch-style home.  Some outside
lights came on automatically as we'd entered.

  "Here we are," I reminded her, just in case she'd forgotten where she
lived.

  She turned toward me and said, "Can I offer you a drink?" 

  "No thanks." I replied, smiling to take the sting out of any rejection she
might feel.  Besides, she was just being polite.  She knew I'd not come into
their house with James away.  Someone else's perhaps, but not James'.

  "You on call?" she asked.

  "Nope.  Outta sight, outta mind."

  "Then please . . . come on in and have a drink . . . or something.  I'd like
to ask you a question."

  "Can't you ask it here?"  I knew I was being distant and formal; and I
suppose part of that was petty retaliation for her ice-queen act in the past.

  I heard her sigh.  "Yes, I *could*, but I'm trying to be friends with you. 
I know I've been difficult in the past, and I want to make amends."

  I was surprised.  I don't think I'd ever heard her say anything so
vulnerable. I turned and looked at her, illuminated only by the soft interior
lights.  I started to protest, "No, you don't . . ." but she cut me off.

  "Yes I do!  I'm aware that I've been cold and distant and I want to
apologize."

  "You don't have to . . ." I started again, and again she cut in.

  Putting her hand on my arm, she said, "Please.  This is difficult enough. 
Couldn't we go in the house?  I'd feel better on my own turf."

  I couldn't think of a way out, short of being rude.  I was keenly aware that
I found Buffy James to be a very attractive woman, sexy even.  I felt it and
I was afraid she'd sense it in me.  I had been single for several years and
more chaste than I wanted.  My hand jobs took a little the edge off, but for
the most part, I was a horny, under-serviced dude.  Oh, there were a few
women friends I could turn to infrequently for a mercy fuck, but mostly I
just 'sat in the sand and ran it by hand.'  As much as I found her attractive, I
didn't want to embarrass her or myself . . . it was easier on my ego to be
distant.

  "Okay," I said.  So much for steely resolve.

  A motion sensor activated and illuminated the front door.  Walking in,
Buffy stripped off her suit coat and threw it over a chair as we entered the
living room.  "Scotch alright?" she asked.

  "That'll be fine." I answered, not caring much one way or the other.

  "You take single-malt on the rocks, as I recall."

  "You recall correctly," I answered, wondering from where she recalled
that esoteric fact.

  Handing me a heavy crystal glass with a token ice cube and a good
measure of an old single malt, she made herself an equally strong drink. 
I'd never seen her drink anything at the club.  Liquid courage?

  I watched her move as she assembled the drinks.  Her blouse was sheer
and I could see the lace of her bra beneath it.  Her breasts bounced a little
when she walked.  When I looked up and made eye contact, she was
watching me.  'Damn, busted again,' I thought. *That's* why I didn't want
to be alone with her.

  She seemed nervous.  "Your drink OK?" she asked.

  "Not much bad you can do to good scotch over an ice cube," I quipped.

  She didn't smile.  I doubt she'd really heard my reply.  "As I was saying,"
she started again, "I've been cool to you without cause and I want to
apologize."  

  I tried to look interested, but noncommittal.  It wasn't difficult.  I didn't
know where she was going with this.

  "Actually," she continued, "there is . . . *was* . . . a reason."  She trailed
off and looked down at her skirt.  That gave me a reason to look as well.

  "Howie's threatened by you.  He admires you and he dislikes you all at
the same time.  I thought I had to be on *his* side, so I was cool toward
you."

  I nodded.

  "Do you understand?" she persisted.

  "I think so.  I can understand your allegiance to your husband, but I'm
*not* on his case, you know.  He's a competent surgeon.  He's OK."  I
wondered if I was overstating things.  I was afraid I might have been.

  "And now you're wondering why I'm even saying this, aren't you?"

  "It had crossed my mind," I admitted.

  "It has nothing to do with Howie," she offered.

  I raised an eyebrow.  "Oh?"

  "No.  This is my stuff.  I might have been influenced by his fear, but he
didn't *make* me do anything.  This is my stuff and I don't like the way it's
making me feel.  You've been more than fair with Howie.  Like tonight, for
instance.  You probably helped him, didn't you?"

  "A little," I granted.  Shit, it was a lot, I thought.

  "So, his stuff is his stuff.  I'm not responsible for him, but I am responsible
for myself.  I'd like to be friends.  Will you accept my apology?"

  "None needed, but yes, of course I will."  In the back of my mind there
was this niggling disconnect.  I understood what James' stuff was, but
she'd never actually said what her stuff *was*. 

  I stood to leave.  I was still nervous.  

  "I know you're being a gentleman," she said, standing, "but please know
that I'm being sincere."

  What I *sincerely* wanted was to take her to bed but instead, I put my
hand on her's and said, "I know you are.  And thanks for bridging the
uncomfortable gap between us.  Now, I really do have to go."

  She smiled, knowing I was full of shit.  I'd already told her I wasn't on
call and she knew I lived alone.

  "Girlfriend?" she asked.

  "What?"

  "You have to go.  Is it a woman?"

  I stuttered, "Uh . . . no."

  "Oh God!  I am sorry.  It's none of my business.  Please forgive me
again?"

  I laughed suddenly.  "You sound just like my sister.  She's always
asking if I've a girlfriend."

  "I've never seen you with a date."  

  "Oh, I date.   But no one steady."  I kept moving toward the door.  I
went to shake her hand and discovered I was still holding the glass of
scotch.  I hadn't even taken a sip.  I must have been balmy.

  "Here, let me take that," she offered.  As she put the glass down, she
extended her right hand and shook mine.  Her hand shake was full and
strong; no limp handed lady here.  I noticed that her nipples were
prominently evident again.  And it wasn't even cold.

  "By the way, we're having some folks over from the surgery department 
this Sunday . . . for a swim and a barbeque.  Can you come?"  She smiled
and then added, "You're not on call."

  She was right.  How'd she know that?  "Uh . . . I suppose so.  What time? 
Can I bring anything?"

  "Two to three PM and bring an appetite.  Will you come, please?"

  I realized right then that I might have said 'yes,' meaning 'no,' but at that
moment, I knew I would come.  I was intrigued with her.  

  We stood for a long moment in the entryway, making eye contact.  She
had electric blue eyes.  I thought irrationally that people with eyes like that
could look right into me, know what I was thinking.  So then, did she
know that I wanted to boink her?  

  "Sunday, then?" she asked, breaking my reverie.  

  I just nodded and turned away, half afraid to speak, concerned that my
hard-on would be reflected in my voice.


                      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


  Saturday afternoon I was browsing in Nordstom's, idly thinking I might
buy something new for the following day.  Who was I trying to impress? 
Then I smiled to myself.  I knew exactly who I was trying to impress.  

  I was holding up a light blue sweater when a voice said, "Not your
color."

  It was Buffy James dressed in some vanishingly short tennis skirt and a
tight fitting pullover, a bit more risque than her usual attire at the club.

  Affecting a denseness, I asked, "Color?  Whadya mean, color?"

  "Earth colors.  That's what you should wear.  Didn't your mother ever
tell you that?"  She smiled one of those dazzling jobs I'd only seen rarely.

  "Maybe.  Probably.  But the only thing I can remember for sure my
mother telling me was to not look down a girl's shirt." 

  I knew I was pushing the envelope here.

  She didn't flinch.  "And did you?"

  "What do you think?"  

  That didn't pull her in.  Instead, she just grinned.  And looked at me. 
Once again I found myself staring into her eyes, my mind running a tape of
imagery, mostly scenes of her in various stages of undress.  

  "A penny . . . ?" she said.

  "Pornographers earn more than that," I countered.

  Wide eyed, she said. "Oh!  One of those thoughts, eh?"

  "Only since you showed up." I explained myself.  

  Jesus!  What in hell was I doing here?  I was talking like some horny
teenager trying to score points with the high school cheerleader.  I was
probably impressing her alright, but almost certainly not the way I wanted
to.

  She defused the tension by picking up a burnt-orange shirt and holding it
under my chin, said, "Yes, earth colors.  This goes well with your skin and
your eyes."

  "International orange?" I asked with fake incredulity.

  "BURNT orange, silly."

  "OK, OK.  I give up.  I'll get it.  I'll even wear it tomorrow.  But please
don't tell *anyone* that I'm wearing *burnt* orange.  Promise?"

  She waggled her hand as if to say, we'll see.  Another dazzling smile and
she parted, saying, "Come early."

  Not likely, I thought.  And get caught with Mr. Cardboard Man?


                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


  I arrived fashionably late the next afternoon.  There must have been thirty
cars scattered about, parked every which way.  I drove right up to the front
door and sure enough, there was a clean-cut teenaged boy there who
jumped up to open my door.  "I'll park your car, Dr. Burbank," he offered.

  "Take care," I cautioned.  He'd probably heard that several dozen times
this afternoon and it didn't deter him from chirping the rear tires as he took
off in an impressive roar.  I winced.  Oh well, that's what insurance is for.

  "This way!" a voice called.

  Looking to the side I saw her again.  What kinda coincidence is this,
anyway?  Buffy was holding open a low wooden gate, waving me over.  I
took in her long legs, almost-nothing two piece bikini and deep tan.  It was
evident what she did with her afternoons.

  My mother *had* instructed me; I kept my eyes on hers, resisting the
temptation to stare at her cleavage as I walked over.

  "You're late.  I was afraid you'd chicken out," she said, pulling me into
a small arbored area next to the house and close to the pool.  I could hear
the buzz of voices and the soft drone of music coming through the bushes.

  Nodding my head, I agreed, "I thought about not coming, but then what
would I do with this beacon of a shirt?"  Rationalization was always close
at hand.

  "Get out of it as soon as you can?" she suggested.  Then,  "Did you bring
a suit?" she asked, looking at my shoulder bag.

  "Yeah, but right now, I'd like to just kick back and look at the . . ."

  "Girls?"

  "That too," I conceded.  

  Burbank, your nose is growing, I silently accused myself.  What *else*
did you wanna look at?

  "Howie asked if you'd come yet.  A couple of times, actually."

   I must have made a face, for she added, "But he can find you himself."
Taking my arm, she said warmly, "Thanks for coming to our party."

  Before I could reply, another couple squeezed past us on the narrow
path.  They were so taken with each other, they didn't even look at us. 
Still, I was jostled into Buffy, my groin nudging her buttocks.  Her ass was
soft and I could feel the deep indentation between her cheeks.  I'd wanted
to feel that for months!

  She looked back at me and said, "It's a good thing we're friends now."

  Looking about the pool area, I recognized about half the people there,
and half of those by name.  Buffy introduced me to her neighbors, then a
woman from her university, and later someone with whom she did
volunteer work.  Shortly, they all blended together; I didn't remember a
single name.

  "Beer?" a waiter asked.  "Or would you rather have some Chardonnay?"

  "Do you have any mineral water?" I asked.  I wanted to keep my wits
about me.  Hell, I was in the Department of Surgery; why'd I feel like an
interloper?  Because you *are*, that voice in my head answered.  You're
lusting after James' wife, you lech.

  I sat at a table in the corner, initially alone, but soon some medical
equipment salesman struck up a forced conversation.  The only reason I
knew we was a salesman was because he'd handed me his card.  "So,
what's your line?" he asked in a loud, too-jovial voice.

  "Line?" I didn't understand for a moment.

  "Yeah . . . whadya DO?"

  "Oh!  Well . . . I'm a maintenance man.  I clean the pool on Thursdays," I
answered, studying the water as if to check for flotsam and jetsam.  

  He looked at me curiously and then couldn't restrain himself.  "How come
you're here?  At this party I mean?"

  "In case someone shits in the pool," I answered, giving him my most
earnest look.  I resumed my pool watch.  Jeez, I disliked pushy salesmen,
particularly those who persisted in running their game at social functions.  I
thought of them as an extreme example of substituting persistence for
talent.

  Before he could lodge a protest, Buffy came over and said, "Oh, Dr.
Burbank could you help me?"

  He was embarrassed.  "You're not a pool cleaner!" he accused in an
irritated tone.

  As Buffy led me away, I looked back and said to him, "You're right. You
aughta see my pool.  It's a mess."

  "Howie's trying to get them to make him some special instruments."
explaining the man's presence I guess.

  "Good luck," I said, knowing most instrument companies' reluctance to
do work like that without a commercial reward on the horizon.  "Where're
you taking me?"

  "I want you to meet a good friend of mine," she answered without
further explanation.

  I followed her through a side door, through a laundry room into the
kitchen.  Seeing the half moons of her buttocks below the high-cut bikini
bottom, I'd have followed her anywhere.  Having played tennis with her, I
knew she had a good butt, but until then, I didn't know now good.

  As we walked into the kitchen, I asked, "Where's you friend?"  I looked
around, afraid I was going to have to meet another salesman or worse,
another doctor.  Looking over my shoulder, I saw her.  Sitting on a tall
stool near the door behind me was a dark-haired woman with striking eyes
and prominent cheek bones.  Her micro skirt rivaled Buffy's for brevity.  

  "That'd be me," she said, extending her hand, "I'm Duffy."

  Looking back and forth between the two woman, I said, "Aw, com'ON! 
Buffy and Duffy?"

  "Yeah, that's what I thought when I first me her," replied Duffy.

  Buffy interjected, "I've got to get back to the party, but I wanted you two
people to meet.  Why don't you get to know each other and I'll come back
when I can?"  With a gay wave, she was off again.

  There had to be more going on here than I was getting.  It all felt so
contrived.  So I said so.

  "Do you have the feeling that you were brought in to amuse me, or vise
versa?" I asked Duffy.

  "Not really, but I've had a greater chance to chat with our hostess, so I'm
more in on it."

  "At the risk of disclosing how dense I really am, in on what?"

  "Sit with me a few minutes.  I'll see if I can bring you up to speed," she
suggested.

  Pulling up another stool, I sat directly in front of this dark-haired woman. 
She was leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, her forearms crossed
and the view down the front of her loose pull-over was breathtaking. 
Again, I ignored my mother's caution.

  "That's part of the reason," she said, cryptically.

  "Beg your pardon?" I was still out in left field.

  "You have the capacity to appreciate women; at least that's what Buffy
told me and the way you were eyeing my boobs just now, I'd have to agree
with her."

  "Sorry," I offered.  "It's an old habit.  Most of the time I don't even think
about what I'm doing.  It's second nature."  I shrugged and conceded, "I
know it offends many women."

  "And it thrills some others.  Like me, for instance.  I take your
appreciation as a compliment.  It makes me feel attractive.  More, it makes
me feel desirable."

  I nodded, liking this woman more and more.

  "And Buffy's the same way," she added.

  "She's not offended by me?"  I said this with a certain amount of
scepticism.  

  Duffy shook her head.

  I continued, "I thought she was.  She's caught me staring at her so many
times, I've grown to feel like the proverbial dirty old man around her."

  "At first, she admitted that she felt some ambivalence around you and that
arose from a perceived inner conflict . . ."

  "Yeah, she mentioned that to me," I broke in.

  Duffy continued as if I hadn't interrupted, "And I bet she didn't tell you
about her response to your vibrations, did she?"

  "Vibrations?  What're you talking about?"

  "Let me answer that by asking a question.  Have you ever 'felt' a woman's
interest in you?"

  "Hmmm . . . I suppose so . . . but I could never tell if that was real or
wishful thinking on my part."

  "I doubt that, Dr. Bill, but I'll let it go for the moment.  Try to imagine
that you *have* felt a woman's interest.  Then you might understand what
I'm talking about when I speak of vibrations.  Or, how about energy?"

  "I'm getting the picture," I replied, still checking the view down her
pull-over top as she rocked back and forth.  I'd ascertained that she was
indeed wearing a bra; I could see the indentation through her shirt under
her arms, but I was seeing only the swell of her breasts down her shirt front
.. . . that and her cleavage.

  "Not *that* picture," she laughed, "although I'm feeling flattered.  See
what I mean?  I don't even know you, and I feel flattered."

  Placing my hand over my eyes as with the 'See No Evil' monkey, I replied,
"You mean when I remove my hand from my eyes, my energy leaks out?"

  "Maybe, but she tells me it sticks out all over you, 'like a porcupine' she
said.  Personally, I could come up with a less prickly analogy," Duffy
maintained.

  "Less PRICKLY?" I enquired, waggling my eyebrows.

  "Oh, groan," she replied.  "How'd you *ever* get to be a doctor much
less a surgeon?  I mean with that sexual single mindedness, I'm surprised
you had anything left over for medicine."

  "Some of us are gifted," I allowed, modestly.

  "Well, she hasn't talked about THAT!"

  "Intellectually, that is."

  "Oh . . ."  

  I never heard so much fake disappointment in an 'oh' before.

  "How quickly you digress," I observed.

  "I'm not completely sure this is a digression, but I'll give you the benefit
of doubt.  What *were* we talking about?"

  "Vibrations?"

  "Oh yes!  Thanks.  Yes, Buffy told me that she was uh . . . excited by
your energy.  But also a little frightened by it too."

  I didn't comment.  Just looked at her.

  "Well?" she asked.

  "I didn't hear a question," I replied.

  "You can comment on a comment, you know."

  "OK . . . I suppose what comes to mind is the fact that I have a pretty
decent reputation.  I mean, I'm not known as someone who hits on women
or makes inappropriate passes, so I don't understand her fear.  Do you?"

  "I'd love to think that you're as dense as you're letting on, but it's too
clear to me that you understand far more than you appear to, or *want* to
appear to.  Admit it.  You *know* what I'm talking about."

  "Duffy, I suppose I can spout psychological jargon as well as the next
guy.  If it's not 'family-of-origin' stuff, it's 'inner child' or 'fear based'
defenses.  You know, stuff like that.  My getting warm?"

  "You ever cop a feel of your friend's wife or his girlfriend?" she asked
suddenly, out of the blue.

  "Not since college . . . and he wasn't really a friend.  Actually he was an
Indian, an Eskimo Indian and you know what they say about Eskimos.  I
thought he'd *want* me to pat her on the ass.  You know.  Like a
compliment.  Like burping after a big meal or something like that."  Then,
looking into her eyes, I asked, "You're husband's friend ever pat *you* on
the ass?"

  She looked at me, wide-eyed, then laughed.  "I deserved that and I'm
not married . . . anymore, that is."
  
  "Me either . . . anymore."

  "Let me back up.  No, let me start over," she said.  "I'm making a mess
of it."

  "Fair 'nuff," I agreed.

  "First, I'm Buffy's best friend.  We tell each other our secrets."

  "Yes, I've heard that's what friends do."

  Still ignoring my prattle, she continued, "I'd like to ask your
understanding and your discretion."

  "I can probably guarantee the 'discretion' part, but I'm less certain of the
'understanding' part."  I smiled and added, "But I'll do my best."

  She rubbed her eyes, the kind of motion that long-suffering people use in
the face of idiots.

  "Second, Buffy loves her husband."  She held her hand up as if to stop
me.  "Oh, I know.  He's a jerk . . . but he's *her* jerk."

  I remembered the affection I once had for the world's dumbest dog.  I
nodded in understanding.

  "Third - and this is the sensitive part - he doesn't appreciate her.  Sexually
I mean."

  I stared at her, expecting more.  "Is there a number four?"

  "Yes, that'd be you."

  "Moi?"

  "Yep."

  "See, I told you!  The understanding part just flew out the window."

  She sighed.  "OK, Dr. Dense.  You DO appreciate her.  You admire her
and she feels it.  You restore her tattered self confidence as a desirable
woman.  She feels good around you.  Get it?"

  "Let's say for a minute, a brief damn minute at that, you're right, or even
half right.  Then why'n hell do I think of her as Ms. Ice Queen of 1997? 
For cryin' out loud, I'm not some fast-talkin' dude tryin' to sell a
roll-in-the-hay to some slow-thinkin' woman.  If she's so damn tuned into
my "vibrations" then why don't I feel it?  Why do I always feel a little like a
snake-oil salesman after talking with her?  Tell me that, Ms. Smarty Pants!" 
I stopped, short of breath.

  "You DO care about her, don't you?"

  "What're you doing?  Exploring the depth and breath of the non
sequitur?"  I was getting a little hot and it probably showed.

  "Good!  I'm glad you have those feelings.  Now listen to me.  Buffy loves
her husband, but she's ready to explore her feelings as they apply to her
sexuality.  And no, she's not looking for a new man.  But she knows that
she has pushed you away, mostly because she's so attracted to you.  And
no, she's not going to leave her husband and no, you and Howard don't
have to duke it out.  Have I forgotten anything?"

  "Aside from your sanity?" I asked. 

  She arose and put a hand on my shoulder.  "Give it some thought." She
turned as if to leave, then paused, "Don't hurt her."  

  Hurt her?  She left the kitchen and more, left me sitting in some state of
confusion that asked what the hell was *that* all about?

  Wanting to do something with my hands, I opened the refrigerator door
and found a Diet Coke before returning to the party.  What party, I asked
myself morosely?

  The hum and burble of the gathering swelled as I walked back to the patio
next to the pool.  Same faces.  Different positions.  Everyone talking, no
one listening.  Nothing much had changed.  I glanced at some jerky
movement to my left and saw his nibs bearing down on me.  Oh shit, I
thought.

  "I say, Burbank!" James started.  "Good of you to pop by."  

  Pop by?  Geez, this guy came from Philadelphia and went to Hanneman. 
Where'd this phony British accent come from?

  I didn't say pip-pip . . . or whatever the hell those guys say to each
other in agreement.  Instead, in a rare moment of civility, I said, "Sure," or
some such equally erudite response.  I idly wondered if he'd ever been
thrown in a pool at one of his parties.

  "That case, the ruptured aneurysm you know, is doing well.  Thought
you'd like to know."

  "Good.  Glad to hear it," I replied, knowing this was about as close as
James could ever get to a thank you.

  I couldn't resist.  "There are people that maintain that we DOCTORS,"
- I spoke it in capital letters - "don't know our patients' names.  That we
refer to them as the 'gall bladder' or the 'ruptured aneurysm.'" 

  I waited.  His eyes looked away. "So, do *you* know that patient's
name?" I prodded.

  "Of course I do!" he blustered and then turned away without telling me.  

  Whew, that wasn't as bad as I feared. I watched him scurry away in his
outlandishly loud surfers' trunks.  Christ, I hope my legs aren't that skinny!

  Buffy, who had far superior legs, intercepted her husband and whispered
something in his ear.  He didn't acknowledge it other than to change course
and scurry in another direction.  

  Oh, I suppose he didn't really scurry, but it seemed to please me to think
of him that way.  I didn't usually mentally pick on other people.  James
must have been put here to be my personal gad fly.

  Duffy cruised up to Buffy and they chatted in an animated fashion for a
few minutes.  Once or twice, the color mounted in Buffy's cheeks and she
glanced in my direction.  

  I saluted her with my Diet Coke.  Suave, huh?

  Judy, that extraordinarily talented scrub nurse stopped by and said, "Hi,
Doc.  Nice job the other night."

  "Thanks to you," I beamed at her.  "You were on top of that train wreck
all the way; thanks for helping me."

  She smiled her appreciation and went over to chat with the Bobsy twins. 
As aloof and standoffish as James was, his wife was the opposite.  She
was well-liked by the nursing staff for her generosity, both with her time
and with her home.  Often the nurses were invited to hold their social
events at the James house.  

  I strolled around, chatting briefly here and there, touching base with a
dozen or more people I particularly liked.  I ended up back in the house,
arguing the merits of this year's Forty Niners with an old-time pump tech I
knew from my student days.  Tired of carrying around an empty Coke can,
I went into the kitchen to help myself to another.  Or was I hunting for
Buffy?

  If it was the later, I was in luck.  She and her side kick were leaning
against the chopping block, giggling.  Why is it, I wonder, when two
women are laughing together, I instantly wonder if they're laughing about
me?  

  "This a private party?" I asked, pulling another Diet Coke from the fridge
and holding it up to signal the question, "This OK?" 

  Buffy nodded and said, "Well it was, but for you, we'll make an exception.
Get anything to eat?"

  "Too many peanuts while I was talking to Ray," I answered truthfully.

  "Judy told me about Friday night," she said in a serious tone.

  "Don't listen to Judy; she exaggerates," I advised, trying to turn this aside.

  "Even when she thinks you're the hottest thing around?" she countered.

  "Especially then.  It's my . . . uh . . . energy.  That's it, my energy!"

  Buffy laughed, "Ha!  Judy's a lesbian and doesn't give a rat's ass about
your energy!"

  "Shows what you know," I shot back, coming close and leering down the
front of her chest.  "Feel that energy?"

  She turned to Duffy and said, "What *is* it with this guy?"

  Duffy looked me up and down, just like I was there, and then turned back
to Buffy and spoke about me just like I wasn't there, "Oh, he does have a
certain stud muffin quality . . . as long as you're not hung up on brains."

  I didn't have a snappy comeback, so I did the next best thing and said
nothing, as if I were above it all.  If I couldn't sound studly, maybe I could
look that way.

  Duffy walked between me and her pal and cupped my balls in her hand for
a moment.  "So, *are* you for real, Dr. Stud Muffin?"

  I choked on my Coke.  Sputtering and red in the face, I turned to Buffy
and held my hands, palms up, as if asking, what in hell is happening here?

  She answered by saying, "Com'ere, stud, I wanna show you something."
She turned away from me and walked into a large pantry; the door swung
shut behind her.

  I looked at Duffy for clarification and she just smiled and asked, "Well,
you gonna help the lady or not?"

  Against my better judgement, I followed Buffy into the pantry and asked,
"What'd you want to show me, lady?"

  "This!" she said and moved into my arms, planting a soft kiss on my lips.
"Thanks for helping Howie the other night."

  "Is *that* was this is about?  Howie?"

  "No!  Shut up and kiss me you big jerk.  What do I have to do to get your
attention?  Take off my clothes?"  She wrapped her arms about me.

  "That'd probably work," I allowed as she pressed her body against mine. 
"But what about . . ."

  "Don't worry.  Duffy's standing guard," she whispered, running her
tongue into my ear.  "BB, I'm not looking for romance or a boyfriend or
even an affair.  I'm so damn itchy I can't stand it!  And mostly I'm not
looking for conversation.  Is that clear?"

  Things started to slow down about then.  I was aware of the press of her
breasts against my chest and how her pubic bone was riding my thigh. 
Suddenly, I didn't have anything to say.  Zero to sixty in a second flat.  This
was about rutting, not negotiation.  

  The scent of her hair filled my olfactory senses.  I could feel her breath on
my neck, her soft lips nibbling.

  She kissed me again, running her tongue inside my mouth, dueling with
my tongue.  She moaned into my mouth and I could feel her warm breath
on my lips.  Lordy it was sweet.

  I ran my hands down her back, cupping her buttocks, pulling her tighter
to me.  She moaned again and humped my thigh in a grinding motion.  I
couldn't resist; I slipped my hand inside her bikini bottoms and run my
middle finger down into the crack of her ass . . . velvet skin over firm
muscle in a deep cleft.  She clenched her buttocks in response when I
touched her anus with the tip of my finger.

  "Yes-s-s," she hissed, arching back at me.

  Reaching farther between her legs, I felt her soft fur and the soft wetness
of her labia.  I slipped my finger into her slit and dragged it back toward
me;  it felt like warm butter.  She was soaked and I was getting harder, if
that were possible.

  "Ungh, ungh, ungh," were the only rhythmic sounds she made as she
continued to slowly hump against my leg.  She reached down and cupped
my balls just like Duffy had done.  Jesus!

  "Let me see it, Billy!  Take it out!" she whispered hoarsely.  

  At this point, I wasn't thinking any longer.  It made no difference if Duffy
was outside the door or the sherif's posse was ready to ride through.  Fuck
it!  With a free hand, I pushed my trunks down and my woodie sprang up. 
She groaned again and fell to her knees, taking my cock into her mouth.  

  I couldn't believe it.  The beautiful ice queen was on her knees, her cheeks
pulled in by the suction of her mouth on my cock . . . right in the middle of
her pantry!  

  When I opened my eyes, I was staring at a large jar of pickles.   Christ!  I
hoped Howie didn't develop a yen for one right then!

  As much as I loved the feel of my cock in her mouth, I wanted more to
taste *her*.  I fell to my knees despite her protestations and cupped her
pussy mound through her bikini.  

  "Buffy, show me! Show me your pussy.  I want to smell you, to taste you,
to lick you . . . now!"

  Eyes wild and unfocused, she didn't hesitate and pushed her bikini down
and off, falling back and opening her legs.  

 While the space was generous for a pantry, it didn't allow for much
spontaneous movement.  It was gonna be right here sandwiched between
cases of enchilada sauce and Wesson Oil or not at all.  That was a no
brainer, even for me.

  "Here!  Is this what you want to see?"  Asked Mrs. Ice Queen.  "Look at
ME!" she hissed.

  And Dr. Stud Muffin, that hip, slick and cool dude with his shorts down
about his knees, dived between her legs . . . filling his head with her
essence. Her scent was like a narcotic.  No, that's not right.  No drug could
ever drive me up the wall as her odor did.  I inhaled her bouquet and with
an open mouth, breathed my hot breath on her cunt.

  "Oh God, YES!" she gasped, humping her pelvis up at me.

  I pushed her legs up until her knees were by her breasts, opening her
completely to my lustful stare.  Her pubic hair was trimmed on top and her
labia were bare.  She was swollen, partially open and dripping down her
leg.  I could see her urethra and the small opening to her vagina where her
white juices were now pooling.  Right under that was her tight, pink and
puckered ass hole.  Bending down, I ran my tongue around her anus,
feather light, around and around, and all the while she kept thrusting her
pelvis at me.

  "Oh God, oh God . . . DO IT!  Do it, Billy.  Don't tease me.  Fuck me.
FUCK ME dammit!"

  Mine was hardly a considered action.  My reptilian hind brain took over. 
I bent my hard cock down to her pussy and with borderline presence of
mind, I asked, "Is it safe?  I don't have a rubber."

  "I'm on the pill."  She reached down, impatiently grabbing my cock and
fitting it to her cunt, growled in a near guttural tone, "Fuck me, you
bastard."

  I sank into her slowly.  "Can you feel it, Buffy?  Can you feel the head
of my cock pushing into your tight cunt?"

  "Ungh . . . yes . . . more!"

  I didn't think of what I was saying.  Considered thought was gone and the
delicious, almost unimaginable pleasure I was experiencing simply
enveloped me.  It was no more than a stream of libidinous imagery to
which I was giving voice, mindless voice.  The ecstasy, the pleasure of it
had caught me up and pulled me into a free-fall vortex of rapture.

  "My shaft's pushing into your cunt; feel it?  Can you feel my cock sliding
into your slit?  Can you feel me fucking into you, woman?"

  She answered by heaving her pelvis up at me in that age-old, primitive,
automatic action that's been going on for a million years.

  Bracing on one hand, I pushed her bikini bra up on her chest with the
other, exposing her tits.  Humping and driving my cock deeper into her, I
reached down and sucked a nipple into my mouth.

  "Yes-s-s-s-s . . ." was her sibilant cry as she bucked against me. 

  She threw her right arm up above her thrashing head. I reached over her
head with my right hand, holding her by her wrist, effectively pinning her as
I continued to pound into her feminine core.  She tipped her face up, her
eyes rolling back into her head.  Her right armpit was completely open and
vulnerable.  I dipped my head down and began licking her from the base of
her breast up to her axilla, swelling in the soft fold of her pit.  When I ran
my tongue against the grain, I could feel her close-shaven stubble.

  She thrashed and bucked in protest, trying to withdraw her trapped right
arm, trying to pull away from the maddening tease of my tongue.  She
could not.  I continued to fuck into her and lick her arm pit for what, ten
minutes?  Christ, I don't know.  How can you tell?  A long time it seemed.
Even my mindless chatter gave way to hoarse, labored breathing as we
rode this wave of indescribable pleasure.  

  I could feel the head of my cock bumping into her cervix and each time
she grunted.  Suddenly she squinted her eyes as if in pain, throwing her
head back, sending a silent scream to the ceiling as her back arched and her
body went rigid.  

  I didn't *want* to cum just then.  I wanted it to last and last, but I had no
power to stop.  My orgasm was ripped out of me with awesome force.  Jet
after jet of hot cum splashed into her cunt.  Her pelvic muscles contracted
and I wanted to tell her I was cumming and I couldn't; the best I could
manage was something that sounded like, "Arrghhh!"

  We both slumped, panting, exhausted and spent, as we drifted back to
reality . . . the reality of the hard pantry floor.  And then I remembered
those damned pickles.  It was painfully evident to me that I was more at
home in an operating room than a pantry.

  "God, oh God, I needed that.  I can't *tell* you how much I needed that,"
Buffy was mumbling, I guess to me.  It wasn't clear.  Shit, at that moment,
*nothing* was clear.

  The pantry door creaked open and I heard Duffy's voice behind me, "You
guys made so much noise!  For a minute, I thought you were going to
drown out the music."  She paused and then continued, "Uh . . . Buffy . . . I
hate to intrude on this romantic moment, but your genius other-half is
tromping around the house looking for you.

  "Oh shit!" I heard her say, somewhat muffled as she was pushing against
me.  "Thanks, Billy.  I hate to . . . uh . . . make love and run . . . but could
you MOVE dammit?"

  My arms were lead as I pushed myself to my knees.  "We've got to stop
meeting this way," I complained as I tried to pull my shorts up.  "What in
hell got into us, anyway?"

  Buffy pulled her head off the floor and looked down at her pussy as she
ran a finger through her slit.  She pulled away a string of white cum.  "I
don't know about you, big boy, but I know what got into ME."

  Standing, I was able to pull up my shorts, catching my softening dick in
the process.  Still pulling up one side, I helped her to her feet. Their was a
big wet spot on the floor.  

 Buffy pulled up her bikini bottoms and trailing a toe through the wet spot,
said, "Looks like we left a hickey on the pantry floor.  Don't worry, I'll get
it later."

 "Yeah, before James comes in here for a pickle!"

 She started to brush past me and then turned back.  "Jesus, I'm rattled. 
I almost left without saying thank you."  She hugged me around the waist,
her head on my chest and added, "We'll talk again.  This is what I wanted. 
What I wanted all along and couldn't admit it.  Gotta go.  We'll talk."  With
that she spun around and walked out, adjusting her bra top.

 Thank me?  Christ, is this what the feminist movement is leading to?  I
waited several minutes but heard no voices in the kitchen and thought it
was probably safe.  I ventured out and found Duffy patiently waiting, still
sitting on a stool right outside the door.  She smiled at me.  You know,
that Cheshire cat smile.

  "Safe?" I whispered.

  "Sure," she laughed.  "Buffy jumped right into the pool before anyone
could notice her disheveled state.  You look marginally better."

  "Ah . . . but I *feel* wonderful," I protested.  Rummaging through the
refrigerator, I asked, "Can I get you anything?"  

  She mumbled something.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I said, 'You're probably all out of what *I* want.'"

  I sat on a stool and leaned against the chopping block, shaken and dazed. 
"I still can't believe what happened . . . *how* it happened.  I mean, no soft
music, no dancing or holding hands, no romance . . . . just WHAM . . . and
it happened.  How'd that happen, do *you* know?"

  "Sure," she replied.  "It's easy.  You were both wound tight, sexual
springs under great tension.  The romance had already been acted out,
goofy as it was.  The build up, the tease has been going on for weeks. 
There's no doubt in my mind, this was gonna happen sooner or later. 
When she told me about it, I thought it'd be better sooner."

  "What happens now?" I asked.

  "Nothin'," she replied.  "I told you.  Buffy loves her husband.  She's not
looking for another husband.  She's just in lust with you.  She'll probably
get shy now and in a few weeks, she'll get horny again.  She'll let you
know."

  "And if I get horny?" I asked, as if someone *owed* me something.

  "It's always a two-way street, Doctor."  

  She stood and took my arm.  "Now, it's *my* turn to monopolize you,
Dr. Stud.  Tell me, how do you like brunettes and will you give me a ride
to the airport?  After you take me to dinner that is?"

                              
                                  ~~~~    The End    ~~~~

  

  















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