LISA
I
never should have opened my mouth.
But it was late; Greg had dominated the bitch
session for most of the
night and I could see by the swiftly lowering levels of malt in
his
glass that Jimmy was getting fed up with listening to the Great
Doctor House’s View of
the World as much as I was.
Honestly,
Greg’s brilliant at what he
does, but his utter lack of bedside manner still
astounds me.
It’s
as if he’s got some grudge about patient contact, a personal
phobia
that he enjoys flaunting in our faces. I KNOW he can do it—be
caring and
compassionate that is—but it only pops up once in
a
while, and under internal cues
known only to HIM. So just to derail
his latest rant, I give him a pointed stare.
“You know, I’d really rather hear about your sexual fantasies.”
Bingo.
Greg widens those big blue eyes
of his and next to me Jimmy’s sitting up a little
more now,
his
slow sweet grin spreading wide. I take another sip of my martini,
letting
the vermouth sting a little on the way down. We’re
stuffed
in a circular booth in a bar
only a few blocks from work, exhausted
yet in need of company, and I’m between my
boys right now.
Greg on
my right, Jimmy on my left; close enough to have our personal
spaces
overlapping like Venn diagrams.
It’s
nothing new—the three of us
have done this before. Sometimes I go out with Jimmy;
once in a very
great while with Greg, but more often than not it’s the three
of
us,
sometimes in good moods, more often in quiet or melancholy ones.
Not dates, in any
formal sense of the word—just a drink, or a
bite
to eat with a colleague. I let Jimmy pay
when I’m with
him—he
insists. When it’s Greg we split the bill right down to the
tip.
Works out well, and in both cases the company’s not bad.
When
it’s Jimmy and me, I hear a lot
about Julie, (and Debbie for that matter) during
dinner. In turn I
tell him about my rotten luck with Docmixer.com and we laugh a
little
over it. He keeps threatening to set me up with his cousin. When I
eat with Greg he
grouses about his team, or hospital politics, or the
endless annoyances of his day. I let
him roll on and counter the more
outrageous comments when I can.
Cheap
therapy I suppose, but when Greg
finally winds down there is a softness to him
that I appreciate, and
he’s actually pretty charming under the façade of
Vicodin
and
cynicism. He’s usually twice as irritating the next day,
as if
to make up for his lapse, but I
let it roll off my back. It’s
just
his way.
My
boys. When we’re out all together
like this, it’s an amazing blend. Jimmy is sweet,
Greg is
tart, and
right between them I manage to keep the peace, egging them on,
letting them vent, getting in a few zingers myself. They listen to me
during these nights
out; really listen to me, and I come away from
our sessions knowing I won’t find
anything better than the
two of
them to keep me on a steady course. They make me feel
smart, and
needed and . . . attractive.
Because
they DO flirt, both of them.
Jimmy’s stopped himself from making full passes
at me, but
his
gentle flirtatious moves do my ego good. He helps me with my
coat,
strokes my hand on the table, hugs me goodnight and nuzzles my ear.
Just enough
sexy little moves to remind me that I’m a woman
and
he’s a man. Just enough to leave
us both knowing there could
be
something very good between us.
Greg’s
flirting is less direct, but
devastating at times. He looks at me with those baby
blues, and
sometimes he lets the hunger show through. That intense little
glimpse of
appetite makes me squirm. He tucks his cane under the
table and never fails to let the
shaft of it rest between my feet in
a Freudian show of dominance that amuses me. He
looms when he sees me
to my car, and although he never hugs me back when I hug
him,
sometimes I can feel his erection muffled through layers and denial.
Jimmy and Greg—they each want me, a little bit.
And
I want them. Theirs are the faces
that come to mind when I rub myself to orgasm
in the lonely darkness
of my bed. I might think of someone else at the beginning, but
gradually my thoughts return to my boys: Jimmy’s beautiful
hands;
Greg’s fascinating
lips. They each have appeal, each have
charms
that attract me to them. Either would
be a good lover, I know that
instinctively.
But together . . .
JIMMY
I
can see by the gleam in her eyes that
Lisa is about to yank Greg’s chain, and I surely
don’t want to
miss this, so I sit up a little and watch. It’s an easy habit
to
fall into; just
watching them. They’re oil and water, cat and
dog,
fire and ice—although usually Lisa’s
the ice and
Greg the fire.
Watching them bicker is good entertainment, actually,
because when
Lisa gets worked up—
--Well,
I do too. A little. Not that I
can do anything about it, but still it’s a tiny inner thrill
I
savor. She’s beautiful, in her fine-boned intensity. Elegant.
And
even though we’ve
pretty much always kept things at a
hands-off-let’s-preserve-the-friendship stage I’d
be
lying if I
didn’t admit I’ve thought of her in a few fantasies.
I
happen to know for a fact Greg has
too; his confession coming over a bottle of scotch
we split a few
years back. I’m sure it’s an admission he regrets
making, but
what the
hell. He’s hoarded enough of my secrets
that’s it’s
only fair I get some leverage in kind. Between us we’re a
catalog
of regrets and screw-ups and misdeeds, but neither of us
carries the
load alone.
And
now Lisa’s in the club too; a
damned nice addition to the mix. Lisa’s sharp, and
funny, and
she
can keep Greg on his toes; the show’s fun to watch once it
gets
started.
“My
fantasies?” I hear Greg repeat.
The tone’s full of bluff and insinuation, but under
it
I can
hear
the little bleat of surprise. I grin into my glass, waiting to see
what nonsense
he’s going to spout. Probably something about
naked
cheerleaders—that’s usually his
first line of
thinking.
“Anything
but cheerleaders,” Lisa
warns, and I feel my grin widen. Good girl—get him
on the
ropes
early. Greg gives a mock-sigh and shoots me a look that I’m
supposed to
respond to. I shrug—he can try his Angelina Jolie
line
if he wants. Under the table I feel
Lisa’s lean thigh resting
alongside mine, and the sweet warmth is good. I like her thighs.
“Well,
I do have this one that
involves an upclose and personal judging of
supermodels,”
I
hear
Greg begin, warming to his subject. “Along with tropical oil
that
needs to be
applied in liberal amounts to exposed skin. Nothing like
gleaming supermodel thighs to
make a man happy to be alive.”
“Just
you and all those supermodels?”
Lisa asks. I love her slightly cynical tone, and I’m
imagining the
little cyberchips of her brain fetching images and calculating
logistics for
Greg’s fantasy. She’s highly
analytical when she
wants to be, and that’s part of her
charm too. Good about the
details AND the big picture; undoubtedly she has to be in
order to do
her job.
That’s
one of those factors that
attracts me, to be honest. Lisa’s direct. She flirts,
she
gets
flustered at times, but by God she hasn’t got a coy bone in
her
body. No wonder
her Internet dates go bust on a regular
basis—no
computer chat could ever prepare a
man for her refreshingly blunt
approach face to face.
Call
me shallow, but I’m glad she
hasn’t managed to hook up with anyone yet. I like
having her
here,
with us. I like the way she shoots me an intimately amused glance
now, waiting for Greg to respond to her question. Her eyes are smoky
blue, and they glow a
little in the candlelight.
“Just
me. Doctor Wilson can dream up
his OWN fantasies,” House rolls out loftily.
“Besides, he’s not
into supermodels. They play hell with his guilt.”
“Guilt?”
I snap, feeling my face
flush a little. Trust Greg to get a dig in a tender spot
without even
trying. So I kept marrying, even when I shouldn’t have.
Serial
commitment,
my therapist called it. Looking for Love in All the
Blonde faces, Greg called it.
Asshole.
I pick up my glass, but Lisa
shifts her thigh to rub mine in a comforting way,
and instead of
downing the rest of my whisky I sip it. Greg continues.
“Me,
I’m guilt-free. I can indulge
in a multi-layered orgy of personal delight under a
tropical sun with
young and eager bodies lushly begging for the personal
satisfaction
only I can provide . . . “
“You’d
fry like a slice of bacon on
a griddle,” I point out, staying mild, but smirking.
“All
that
pale middle-aged skin under blazing rays . . . Melanoma City, Greg.
Oil has no
SPF you know.”
“Jesus,
it’s a FANTASY!” he
growls, “A mental indulgence that doesn’t require
UV ray
protection OR condoms OR HIV tests for that matter! In our own minds
we are GODS,
Jimmy.”
“Or
goddesses,”
Lisa
points out,
her voice low and amused. Suddenly I get an image
of her, flowers
woven into her long flowing hair as she rides in over the ocean waves
on
a scallop shell: AphroCudd-dite, naked and tempting. Wow.
That’s
enough to make me
cough a little over my mouthful of whisky.
GREG
I
have no idea what the hell’s gotten
into these two tonight, but whatever it is, we need
to drink it away.
I’ve already had my daily dose of frivolity from Bibbity,
Bobbity
and Boo
this afternoon, and right now the itty bitty frayed nerve
endings along my temper and my
femur are wearing ever thinner.
It’s
sure as hell not helping that Cuddles is wearing her
amused face
along with a sweater so low I can damn near see her navel. That part
I’m
not complaining about—the low cut one
anyway—but the smile
has me a tad worried.
Since
when did she ever want to hear
about my fantasies? I’ve watched her alcohol
intake, and
it’s
been nowhere NEAR enough for a question like that. Cuddles has
never
been the type to encourage the general raunchiness Jimmy and I can
create out of thin
air. No, she generally listens in for a moment and
then either changes the subject, or
caps us good, leaving both of us
sulking in our beers. Or tequila. Or whatever we’re
imbibing.
She
does NOT bring the smut to the
table; no, that’s OUR job. Ergo, something’s
up
with Princess
Plainsboro, and I intend to find out what it is. At least I
didn’t
spring the
one on her about the Astroglide, the latex gloves and
Clara Barton in full dominatrix
gear. Even Jimmy can’t grasp
the
breathlessness of THAT combination.
To
wit: Jimmy is sliding into mildly
marinated, and I can see he’s getting used to being
without
his
wedding band because he’s not fiddling with his fingers at
the
moment.
Cuddles has both elbows on the table and that brings the
Golden Globes into play nicely—and distracting as those sweet
things might be, I need to keep focused.
Damn
it. That smirk in soft rose
lipstick knows too much now. Tonight I might as well
give it
up—I
sense a capper coming, even in the fantasy department. The best way
to
slink out of it is to hit to left field, so I do.
“All
right Jimmy Bob, resident
Radiation Sheriff of the Table, what’s YOUR fantasy,
hmmm?
Bimbo A
La Carte?” I toss his way as I prop an elbow on the table.
This
brings
my face lower, and damned if I don’t have to look over
Cuddle’s pretty chest to see
Jimmy. What a shame.
Jimmy’s
squirming now, not making eye
contact with either of us, and I have a pretty
good suspicion why.
It’s not just that Luscious Lisa is here, although
that’s
probably
part of it—it’s that he’s got a
hankering for the
slightly unconventional. I know this
through careful observation
through the years. The odd conversation, the telltale signs
here and
there: James Evan Wilson might laugh at my Clara Barton daydream, but
I’m
willing to bet my Official Best Buddy here has had more
contact
with leather than
Cuddles and myself put together.
He
blushes and looks down into his
drink, but before I can call him for stalling he clears
his throat
and speaks in a low tone.
“Getting kidnapped and, um, used by a motorcycle babe—happy now?”
I
blink, surprised he’d admit THAT
much. He must be drinking more than I thought, or
just feeling brave
tonight. Cuddles gives an approving nod.
“Very
hot . . . chains jingling,
boots, tight cropped teeshirt—“ she croons and all
of a
sudden
I’m fighting a serious surge of interest from Mr. Up. Crap, I
do
NOT need that at
the moment. From the look on Jimmy’s face
he’s
got the same damned problem.
“Yes
well what can I say—forceful
women fascinate me,” he mumbles into his whisky. I
snort
loudly,
shifting to give myself a little lap room, as it were.
“Fascinate—is that a code word for whip you with their--?”
“---Shhhh, no dissing someone else’s fantasy Greg.”
I goggle at Cuddles. “Did you just say ‘diss’?”
Now
she turns a slightly irritated look
my way, and those smoky eyes glitter a little. “Yes,
diss. As
in
slang for dismiss, all right?”
“Well
shuckies there, Miz Cuddy, I
never did have much book larning,” I drawl back.
Jimmy’s fighting
back a laugh now, which is good. The waitress sails by, but none of
us
are taking another and she disappears again. A little moment of
quiet settles in with us
and I look at the two of them.
I
don’t know when it happened, but it
was slow, and steady. My social life, which was
never huge to begin
with, telescoped down into a very narrow field of focus, fueled
by
the damned infarction, and later Stacy driving away in her Volvo. I
ignored calls, and
threw away letters and lost touch with everyone.
Everyone but these two.
Jimmy,
who takes my barbs and brushes
them off, then waits to hear more, and sweet,
sweet Cuddles, who sees
me exactly for what I was then and am now.
So
it boils down to a friend I sure as
hell don’t deserve, and a woman I can never have. I
guess
it’s
true what people say—I AM one sad and sorry fuck.
Might
as well make a night of it, so I
turn my best leer to She With the Ultrahot Hooters.
“So,
Doctor
Cuddy, what’s YOUR sexual fantasy? Talk slow, I want to catch
EVERY
word.”
LISA
I
take a breath—this is it, a very
make or break moment here. They could end up
laughing at me, and even
if I joined in . . . but I brought it up, and damn it, I can piss
on
the wall too. At least I’ll have said it, and I can live with
myself for that much.
I hope.
I
shoot a look to my left, then my
right; rapt attention from them both. Jimmy looks
genuinely
interested, and Greg has a smirk already starting. I wait until he
begins to
take a sip of his drink, then give a low, breathy sigh.
“Mine is to sleep with both of you—at the same time.”
Perfect
timing! Greg’s choking on a
mouthful of scotch burning down the wrong pipe,
and Jimmy has sucked
in so much air the candle on our table is wavering.
“Jesus
Christ! WARN a guy before you
spring something like that on us!” House
coughs. Jimmy has
this
adorable flush over his cheekbones, but he’s very, very
quiet. I
look down, working on my demure expression, but I know I’m
pretty
pink myself right
now. Greg is still gurgling a little and I give a
little happy hum.
“Oh come on, it’s harmless—I just have this warm and happy dream about snuggling up between the two of you.”
“Just . . . snuggling?”
It’s Jimmy who asks, not Greg—interesting.
“In the beginning, yeah. All safe and cozy under some big blanket in the dark.”
“So
. . . is this a one-at-a-time
thing, or are we all . . . involved?” he continues, and
I
smile at
him. God I love Jimmy’s persistence. That’s why
he’s the head
of Oncology; he
doesn’t give up until he has the answers. I
prop my
chin on my hand and toy with my
glass.
“Oh
all of us, the first couple of
times. Nice slow intense lovemaking. Lots of touching
and tongues,
powerful climaxes. After that I pair off with each of you while the
other one recuperates.”
“Oh
God,” I hear House wheeze,
“Yeah, those first ten rounds are a bitch. Who’d
have
thought you
had such a dirty imagination, Cuddy? And bear in mind we’d
need a
damned big bed—California King at LEAST for that sort of tag
team
action.”
“I
know,” I sigh, “but since it’s
a dream that’s no more a problem than your tanning
oil,
right?”
“Riiight,”
Jimmy reassures me, his
eyes twinkling. “Just a mental
indulgence—involving
the three of
us.”
“I
feel so USED,” Greg complains,
but I swear I hear a little—fear?—in his
voice.
Carefully I make
it a point to shoot him a more serious look.
“Weren’t
you the one pointing out
it’s just a fantasy, Greg? Those never come true
anyway,
right?”
I check my watch, which is one of our signals, and reluctantly
Jimmy
slides out of the booth to let me get out. I toss down a ten to cover
my drink and wriggle
into my coat, wanting to slip away now that
I’ve
spoken up. I feel embarrassed but a
little proud too—and at
least
they know now.
Jimmy
almost says something, but I
shake my head, trying to keep my expression soft.
There’s
something
about the way Greg’s looking at me that’s bringing
me close to
tears,
and I’m not going to let him know it, so I lean over
the
table and pat his bristly cheek.
“Don’t worry, it’s only sexual harassment if your job’s on the line, right?”
“Snuggling—“ he snarls softly. “You devious, devious woman.”
And
I feel it; almost imperceptibly he
pushes his cheek against my hand, seeking the
caress. Gently I let my
fingers trail away. I turn to Jimmy, hugging him, feeling the
response of his body to my words, my proximity.
Sweet.
I
walk away from them, tossing a casual
“Goodnight, doctors” as I make my way out
to
the
door. My car’s
visible through the window and I know they’ll watch me get in
and
drive off, linger a little once I’m gone.
I bet it’s an interesting conversation I’m leaving behind.
JIMMY
Wow.
Just—wow.
Talk
about a bombshell of amazing
proportions—not only did I have NO idea I was a
featured
player in
a fantasy of Lisa’s, I didn’t know it would be a
ménage a
trois to boot! I
settle into the booth again, needing a moment to
let my erection die down, but it might
be a while.
Still
stunned. Flattered. Wishing it
was myself, Lisa and say—Cameron, but still, not my fantasy I
suppose so I’ll have to settle for the split with Greg. God,
the
three of us in a
bed, entangled, giving in to urges . . .
“Yo!
Ground Control to Major WILSON!
Get your mind off the launch pad in your pants
for a moment
here!”
comes Greg’s snarl and I stare a little stupidly at him.
He’s
gulping
his drink now, and I wince, knowing how that burns.
“Slow down, you’ll fry your esophagus at that rate.” I tell him. He shrugs.
“What
are you, a doctor? Oh, wait,
yeah you are,” he sourly comments, slamming the
glass down
lightly
on the table. I wait, sensing more is coming.
I don’t wait long.
“She
did that on purpose. Sat there
between us and just, just BAITED us. Women are
devious, Jimmy. And
Cuddles is the queen of them all.”
“Cuddles?”
I question lightly. I
don’t care how outraged Greg’s getting; Lisa
was
probably more
honest about her fantasy than we were with ours. I mean, yeah I HAVE
entertained thoughts of being cuffed and dragged off by a motorcycle
babe, but what I
didn’t mention is that I’ve
mentally cast that
role a few times. Once in a while my
motorcycle goddess is Ann
Margaret. Occasionally she’s Traci Lords. MOST of the time
though,
I fantasize that it’s—
“—Not
like I have a PROBLEM with
more than two players on the field as it were, but I
wasn’t
planning on you being ONE of them.”
I sigh, letting go of my daydream for a moment and try to focus on Greg.
“Right.
Give me a break, Greg. We
HAVE seen each other naked. Not like either of us
are prime hunks
here.”
He
grunts. I pause a moment, and it’s
odd, because in that little moment of silence I
suddenly figure out
what really bothering him about Lisa’s revelation. The
thought
makes me feel sympathetic and oddly compassionate, so I choose my
next words
carefully.
“In fact, she’s probably already seen YOU naked.”
Greg’s
glance shoots up at me, sharp
and confused, I pick up my drink and swirl the ice
in it a little and
continue. “Come on, she was your attending for the
infarction.
Pre-Op. Post-Op, she probably got a good eyeful of your manly charms
while you were
unconscious.”
“Fuck,”
Comes his little dry moan.
“Lying there with filet ‘o thigh and enough
morphine in
my system
to be drooling like an idiot. Yes, THERE’S a great image to
jerk
off to. I’m
sure my dick was a gorgeous sight with a catheter
shoved up it.”
I
feel my eyes roll as exasperation
floods through, replacing my compassion. “Damn it,
Greg—Lisa just
admitted she’s got a fantasy starring the three of us. Can
we
concentrate on the positives here?” I grunt a little. He
squeezes
his eyes shut for a
moment.
“I’m
still trying to process that.
Not that she has the fantasy, but why she TOLD us
about it.”
This
irritates me. The man can’t
accept anything at face value, particularly compliments.
It’s
as if
he has some built-in bullshit detector that never shuts off and seeks
out motives
all the time. I know Greg’s accused me of being
an
excessive optimist, but you’d think
the one default any man
would
have would be when a woman’s fantasy is unveiled.
Particularly THIS woman.
“You
know what? I don’t care. She
had the courage to do it and if I ever have to share a
woman with
you, she’d be the one. Lisa’s smart enough to keep
you from being
an utter
asshole, and sexy enough to keep both of us satisfied, Greg.
Face it, one weekend with
Cuddy and we’d BOTH we walking with
a
limp.”
GREG
Fuck.
I
am still trying to get my synapses
around the concept of Cuddles wanting a threeway.
With US, no less.
This SO does not compute—We’re talking about the
head of
Princeton-Plainsboro; a woman who thinks in terms of hourly billing,
and intern
schedules. I mean yeah, she showcases a hot lil’
bod and
has a naughty smile I’d love
to leave cream on, absolutely,
but
doing it with Jimmy AND me?
I pick up my drink once more, wondering how it got empty. I can’t go yet—Mr. Up is still saluting the fantasy, so I just growl a little.
“Har-de-har-har.
After the two of us,
I think SHE’D be the one limping, Jimbo—after
all,
neither of us
are currently laying pipe anywhere but our own showers.”
Jimmy
grunts a little in return,
acknowledging without admitting and for a moment we
sit there in the
semidarkness of the bar. I know he’s hard, and he knows
I’m hard,
but
we’re not discussing it.
Just one of those guy things.
Finally
I sigh and make it a point not
to look at him, even though I can see his profile.
Jimmy’s
almost
painfully handsome at times; a hell of a lot better looking than I
am.
“So,
ever HAD a threeway?” I
demand. He blinks a little, mouth smiling as he runs a
hand through
his hair.
“No. That one’s not in my repertoire,” he looks at me. “How about you?”
I
pause, knowing full well I could spin
a web of bullshit right now and Jimmy would
never know how much was
true and how much wasn’t, but my heart’s not in it.
Just
remembering Cuddles’ cool hand on my burning cheek, the
hungry look
in her eyes . . .
“No. Hard enough with a one-on-one most of the time.”
“Amen
to that,” Jimmy agrees and I
feel a little of the tightness in my chest start to
leave. We
don’t
say anything for a couple of minutes, and I find myself wondering if
I
actually could handle trading off with Jimmy.
He’s
more athletic, I’ll give him
that, and probably has a slightly faster recuperation, but
I’ve got
the edge with a better capacity for concentration, and staying power.
And a
slightly bigger schlong.
“Although
if it WERE to ever happen—“
I offer cautiously now, keeping my voice low.
Jimmy tips his head up,
looking towards the ceiling and I can’t quite tell if
he’s
laughing
or exasperated, so I keep talking. “—Then
I suppose we
COULD make a hell of a tag
team.”
“Of
course. You could pass the
condoms out, and I could make up for your
shortcomings.”
I
glare at him, wishing like hell I’D
said that; Jimmy looks at me and flashes a smile, his
deep-dimpled
REAL one this time and right then and there I forgive the
smart-ass
bastard. He laughs softly, and begins to get up.
“Come
on, Greg, it’s late. Both of
us are going to be a little hung over tomorrow. Go
home, masturbate,
sleep it off and I‘ll see you in the morning.”
I
get up, a little stiff in more ways
than one, and brace myself with the cane. The drugs
have filed off
the edge of pain and I’m not as bad off as I might have been.
I get
out my
wallet and pay—damn it, I’m really off my
game if I’m
doing THAT.
Jimmy
falls into step beside me as we
walk out of the bar; the chill is refreshing after the
humid
closeness inside. I take a deep breath.
“She set us up, you know.”
“I know,” Jimmy sighs.
“Some
day we’ll have to return the
favor,” I add. Jimmy claps my shoulder laughing
softly as he
turns
for his car.
“Fairy
tales can come true—“ he
snorts, and heads off into the darkness while I fish my
keys out and
think again about Cuddles, naked. About screwing her while
Jimmy
watches us. About watching Jimmy do the same. It’s shockingly
sweet, and I’m a little surprised at how arousing the images
are,
how intimate and powerful.
Crap.
I’m not gay. I’ve never had
any attraction to men in a sexual sense; I’ve seen
enough
plumbing
in my line of work to know I’m firmly, nay, rigidly het. But
the
thought watching my best friend make love—my two best friends
making love—and being a
PART of that---
--Because they WANT me there--
Damn it. I pull up my collar; it’s going to be a long night.
