The Worst Job He Ever Had

"Are you Jeffrey?"

Carl Simpson looked up from the bourbon on the rocks he was nursing at the end of the hotel bar and toward the pretty blonde that made the inquiry. "No, I'm not. Sorry."

The blonde glanced over first over her left shoulder and then her right seemingly searching for the missing Jeffrey. Returning her gaze to Carl she said, "Sorry to disturb you." She turned again and started to move away.

Carl motioned to the empty stool next to him. "You're welcome to sit here until Jeffrey arrives. The bar is pretty full with the happy hour crowd."

The blonde looked down the bar again before sliding onto the padded stool. She continued to crane her neck searching the surroundings for the absent Jeffrey.

"Blind date?"

She smiled self-consciously. "Sort of. We've talked through Bumble. This was the first time we were supposed to meet in person."

"I'm sure he'll be along any minute."

"I'm a little late. He might have already left. My cell died; I got caught in the rain and I was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago."

"You thought I might be him? He must be one handsome guy," Carl said with his most ingratiating smile.

The blonde laughed and looked more directly toward him. "You know how the internet is. Guys' pictures might not tell the true story of what they look like. Six foot two is really five foot nine. 180 is 210."

"And all black guys look alike?" Carl asked.

"Wow, that was kind of harsh," the blonde replied defensively. "For your information, his pictures look kinda like you only he has a goatee. He's mocha colored; six foot supposedly; shaved head; decent shape. I thought you might be him."

Carl thought back on the man he had seen leaving the bar five minutes before the blonde walked in. The man did have a passing resemblance to Carl. He decided to keep this information to himself.

"On the other hand," the blonde smiled and continued, "Jeffrey said he was in his late thirties and you have to be, what, 45?"

Carl laughed at the dig. "Touché. I'm 35."

The bartender arrived at their end of the bar. "May I get you another Maker's, sir?"

"Sure. And whatever this young lady would like."

Both men turned to the blonde.

"Oh, no. I better wait for Jeffrey."

"Please. I insist. Jeffrey is AWOL and the opportunity to order a drink might not come for another 30 minutes with this crowd."

The blonde seemed to weigh the decision like she was buying a car. Finally she said, "Ok. I appreciate it. I'll have a glass of the Sonoma Courtier."

Several moments passed in silence as the two awaited the return of the bartender. After he arrived and placed their drinks before them, the blonde turned to Carl: "I'm Bridget, by the way. Thank you very much for the drink. I shoulda been more gracious when you offered it. I'm just a little flustered."

"I'm Carl and it is nice to meet you."

Bridget looked once more around the bar. Carl took the opportunity to inspect her with a furtive glance. Her hair was closely cropped on the sides and swooped across the top of her head without a part, exposing her left ear but covering her right. The roots were slightly darker, highlighting her brilliantly blonde strands. Tasteful eyeliner and shadow accented her light blue eyes. A faded but still prominent scar transected her left cheek, accentuating her creamy complexion and raising a hundred questions. A nose piercing with a small diamond protruded from her left nostril, drawing further attention to the left side of her face.

She wore a blue pin stripe suit jacket with matching pants. Muscled thighs strained the fabric of her pants. She unbuttoned her jacket allowing a rose colored camisole to blossom fully into view. The camisole's cut displayed generous meandering cleavage, the kind that only nature can form. The curve of her full breasts disappeared into the shimmery pink lace of the bra peeking out from under the camisole.

She turned back to Carl. "I think I'm outa luck with Jeffrey. My own fault."

The pair sipped on their drinks. Carl's gray suit coat hung from the back of his barstool. His white sleeves were rolled half way up his forearms. The top of his shirt was unbuttoned and his purple tie hung slightly eschew. He rested his forearms on the bar and periodically swirled the brown liquid across the ice in his cocktail glass.

Carl thought that Jeffrey was an idiot for leaving so soon. But maybe Jeffrey's loss would be his gain.

Bridget interrupted his internal conversation. "What brings you to Denver, Carl?" The scent of her perfume was as intoxicating as the bourbon.

"I'm here for a conference. Just in for a couple of days."

"Yeah? What do you do for business?"

"I'm a psychologist. How about you?"

"I am a buyer for a small women's boutique."

"Do you enjoy that?"

"I'm just getting started. I moved here six months ago from San Diego after working in education for a while. I needed a change."

"Yeah, you don't look like a teacher. You look like fashion suits you better--no pun intended."

She smiled in recognition of his white lie.

"What is your conference about?"

"It has all kinds of topics, from depression and suicide, to ADHD, to overcoming childhood trauma. Whatever we think needs fixing in humans but haven't been able to figure out how to fix yet."

A man crossed behind them to go to the restroom. He stopped when he got to Carl's chair and stuck out his hand. "I enjoyed your presentation today, Dr. Simpson." Carl grasped his hand, nodded his appreciation and the man was on his way.

"You were a presenter?" Bridget asked. "Impressive. What did you present on?"

"The presentation had a too-long title. Essentially it was about different sexual habits of humans from generation to generation and how some habits change but others stay the same. I did my doctoral dissertation on it several years ago and this was just a reboot of that."

"Hmmm," Bridget responded. She cocked her head slightly toward him and appeared to want to follow-up with a question. Instead she took a large pull of her chardonnay.

"So what about you? How did you decide to get out of teaching and into fashion?"

"I needed a change. I got my degree in education but really majored in track. I was a pretty- good-but-not-world-class sprinter so there was no real future in it. I tried teaching Phys. Ed to grade school kids for a few years but that was boring and the pay was shit. I always loved clothes and fashion so I went into a manager program at Nordstrom's for a couple of years and then got this job six months ago and moved here."

"Surprising. I wouldn't have guessed sprinter."

Bridget chuckled. "So now you are the one stereotyping me, huh?" Her parted lips revealed brilliant white teeth with just the slightest gap between her front ones.

Carl looked chagrined. "Well, I, uh, I...."

"That's ok. No offense taken. It's the white skin and big boobs that fool everyone. Not your prototypical sprinter's body."

"I didn't notice your white skin," Carl smiled as he took another sip of bourbon. Bridget laughed.

A moment passed before Carl continued: "I've had a couple of drinks and before I say anything else inappropriate, I need to eat something. The conference put me up in this hotel and will cover my expenses. Jeffrey is obviously a no-show. How about we move to a table and I buy you dinner? You can fill me in on the fashion industry."

Again there was an extended pause as she weighed her options. Carl was just about ready to withdraw the offer in exasperation when she nodded, picked up her nearly-empty glass, and headed to the receptionist with Carl in tow.

The happy hour crowd had wandered away and after a short wait the couple was shown to a table in the middle of the restaurant portion of the grill. Bridget had a look of consternation. She then asked if they could be seated at a corner booth that was opening up. The receptionist acceded to her request. The receptionist placed two menus on the table, told them that Paul would be their waiter, and retreated back to her station.

Bridget and Carl looked over the menus, sipped on another round of cocktails delivered by the efficient Paul and exchanged more superficial information. Carl was from Seattle and had settled there after attending the University of Washington for graduate school. He had a growing private practice and saw patients with all types of problems. He was divorced, no kids. He played sports growing up but, once he graduated high school, he became more academically oriented. He worked out to stay in shape and look good rather than towards improving in a sport.

Bridget had never been married. She enjoyed Denver in the summer but her first winter had been brutal. She was starting to enjoy hiking and other outside adventures but still got more enjoyment from working out in the gym, including heavy lifting. The boutique she worked for carried fairly conservative, expensive clothes for career women. With some resistance from the owner, Bridget had started introducing more of a modern, sexy, look in hopes of branching out into sophisticated evening wear. The new looks were becoming popular and the owner's resistance to her ideas was waning. Hopefully, Denver would either be a short stop along her road to success or she would be able to find financial backing to open up her own shop in Denver.

With the chit-chat and the second glass of wine, Bridget seemingly became more relaxed. She took off her suit jacket and placed it to her side. Her cut biceps were on full display as she reached for her nearly-empty wine glass. The fullness of her breasts stretched the bodice and appeared to put the entire combination of bra and camisole in danger of catastrophic failure.

The small talk continued over the entrées--salmon for Carl, brook trout for Bridget. With Bridget's jacket now lying next to her, the waiter became annoyingly attentive and he interrupted the conversation often to fill water glasses and check on their affection for the meal.

The conversation between Carl and Bridget remained casual but there was some unspoken tension between them. Bridget's mood seemed to vacillate often between being flirtatious and being reserved. Carl couldn't figure out whether he had a chance with this girl or whether he would be going up to his room alone following a curt handshake at the end of the evening. Only time would tell.

Bridget was half-way through her third glass of wine when Carl asked whether she would split some desert with him.

"Between a C and a D," she said.

"What? What's between a C and a D?" Carl asked while taking the last bite of his salmon.

"My bra size. That's what all men I talk to want to know, whether they ask it or not. And I wax so you don't have to wonder about that either. I just thought I would save you the trouble."

Carl was befuddled. For a reason that he could not fathom, Bridget seemed perturbed as she spit out the answers to these unspoken questions. He didn't think he had been all that untoward when admiring her obvious beauty.

"I only asked you if you wanted dessert. I didn't ask you about your indecisive breasts or the appearance of your mons pubis," he said pointedly, "but thank you for clearing up those issues. Now, do you want some cheesecake?"

Bridget lowered her eyes at his sharp response. "Sorry. I'll have just a couple bites of yours. Thanks," she said softly.

Awkward moments of silence passed between them as their dinner dishes were bused away and the dessert order placed. Tensions eased. Carl leaned back, spread his arms along the top of the booth's upholstery, and tried to project an air of openness.

"I'm not sure what pissed you off or what I may have done to offend you. I've enjoyed talking with you for the last couple of hours and I've had the impression that, from time to time, you've enjoyed the conversation as well. I also get the impression that you want to ask me something and are nervous to do so. Am I reading you wrong?"

Bridget looked away momentarily and responded quietly. "No. I got defensive for no good reason. You're reading the situation right. I've enjoyed your company probably more than I've let on. I am not pissed off at you. I'm just pissed at myself for not having the courage to ask you about something that I've never discussed with anyone."

She paused momentarily before continuing. She leaned across the table toward him with a solemn look in her eyes. "I want to discuss something about me but I don't want you to think that I had dinner with you just so I could ask you a question about my psychological issues. As I argued with myself as to whether to ask you, I got angry and took it out on you. I'm sorry."

She leaned back; her face relaxed; she hesitated before adding, "But in my defense, there is a difference between what is acceptable for women to talk about socially and what is acceptable for men to talk about."

It was clear to Carl from Bridget's comments that a curt handshake was going to be the likely ending to their evening. Still, Carl was intrigued as to what possible psychological issue Bridget could have. Carl tamped down his sexual desires and switched into his professional psychologist mode. "Go ahead. Ask away. No judgments."

Bridget remained quiet.

Carl nodded toward Bridget's purse, "Here, give me a dollar and we will establish a doctor-patient relationship. I'll keep our conversation confidential and never discuss it with anyone. And, by the way, I have talked to people with just about every psychological issue that you can imagine. Nothing will surprise me, much less shock me."

"I'm a millennial. I don't have any cash. I could Venmo you but my phone died, remember?"

Her earnestness made Carl laugh. "Ok. I will loan you the dollar. Tell me what is bothering you. I'll listen and try to answer whatever questions you have. From now on, our relationship is purely professional. The psychological code of ethics would not allow otherwise."

The waiter arrived bearing the cheesecake, two spoons and two cups of coffee. When he left, Bridget took a spoonful of strawberries and in the same motion scooped up some cheesecake. Taking the spoon out of her mouth she shifted closer to Carl and leaned in conspiratorially.

"I have trouble with penises," she said quietly.

Carl almost succeeded in keeping a neutral expression on his face.

"What do you mean trouble? Do you not like them? Are you gay? Do they not fit with your anatomy correctly?"

Bridget sat back and took another bite of cheesecake. "Is there someplace more private we can go to?"

Two hours earlier Carl would have rejoiced at the question. Now, having set the boundaries of their relationship, he gave the question the professional response it deserved.

"I have a room upstairs. It has a desk and two chairs. If you are comfortable going up there we can use my room. Otherwise, I can ask the manager to open one of the conference rooms."

"Your room would be fine. I trust you."

Carl winced inwardly at the contrast between his lecherous thoughts and her faith in him.

Carl signed for the bill and followed her to the elevator bank. She was nearly as tall as he was and he looked down to the stilettos she was wearing. Her pants tapered at the ankle and accentuated her sinewy calves. The rhythmic rise and fall of her butt cheeks beneath the fabric of her pants mesmerized him. He imagined her working out in tight fitting stretchy exercise gear. He envisioned her smooth vagina sitting at the apex of those perfectly formed thighs. He felt an involuntary rush of blood to his penis. Carl moved his suit coat to his front of him to hide his erection.

On the eighth floor they got out of the elevator walked a short distance down the hallway. Carl stopped and swiped an electronic key in front of a room door. The light turned green and he led Bridget into the room. She put her jacket on the bed with her small purse. "I hope you don't mind if I take off my shoes. These things kill after a while," she said taking a seat at the table and loosening the straps around her ankles.

Carl removed his tie and sat down across from her. The flush of her cheeks from the wine contrasted with her pale scar. Her exotic looks along with the bedroom setting caused some additional warmth in his loins. He ignored it as much as possible.

"So tell me, what's your problem with penises?"

Bridget averted her gaze from his. She spoke slowly and quietly. "I really, really, really like dicks. I don't mean that I like guys who act like dicks. I mean, I like dicks."

She raised her eyes to meet his. She sensed no condemnation coming from him and so continued with far more enthusiasm. "I love the look of dicks. I love the feel and the taste of them. I love circumcised one and I love uncut ones. I love them when they are erect; I love them when they are flaccid. I love big ones; I love small ones, I love medium ones. That's my problem. I love dicks."

Carl fumbled over which question to ask next. He finally settled on: "So what exactly is the problem? How does this interfere with your life?"

"See, that is just it. I don't know that it does interfere with my life but everything that I hear and see in the media tells me that it should. Magazine articles say that I don't value myself. The television shows lecture about morals and let me know that I should feel like a slut. But I just don't feel bad about it.

"Ok, sometimes I do get distracted at work. Some guy will come in with his wife and I start thinking about what kind of dick he has, whether he grooms or goes wooly, or how big he is. Women can pick up on that sort of thing and I have to make sure they aren't threatened by my thoughts. But overall, I think I am just the 29 year-old female version of teenage frat boy."

"Do you act on your thoughts?" Carl wasn't sure whether he asked the question for diagnostic or rakish reasons. He felt like he had a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other.

"Yes. Often. Every couple of weeks I will either go on line or go to a bar and look for a guy to have sex with. That's what I was doing tonight. If I go longer than a couple of weeks, there is like this pressure that builds up inside of me. I start thinking constantly about having a dick penetrating me. I can only get release from the pressure by getting impaled by a man."

"Have you had any long term relationships? Do your actions interfere with those relationships?"

"I've never had a relationship that lasted more than a month. After a month or so, no matter how great of a lover the guy is, or how great a guy he is, I need to get a new dick in me. I need the excitement of reaching into a new guy's pants and pulling out a surprise penis. It is like opening a new package on Christmas. I want to see whether the color of his penis matches his skin tone. I want to watch it grow to see when it will stop. I want to fondle it; to see the first drops of fluid ooze from its head. To taste that fluid and to run my tongue down the length of the shaft. I want to suck on the very tip of the dick with just my lips and then devour the entire length until I gag. I want to feel it throb in my hand. I want to guess whether it will slide in smoothly or stretch me painfully. Then, I want to open up and let this new unique precious dick enter my pussy."

Bridget looked like she had entered a dream world. She took a breath and collected her thoughts before continuing: "I just have this overwhelming desire to know what a new guy has in his pants and to feel whatever he has inside me. I never found a boyfriend who was ok with my need for variety. I stopped trying to find that guy after I left college."

Silence filled the room. Carl furrowed his brow and contemplated her barrage of words.

Once again, Bridget broke the silence. "Just thinking about it gets me worked up. My thong is drenched."

Carl's mind averted to envisioning the sliver of fabric trapped between Bridget's round globes. In his mind he saw the whale tail surfacing to frame her over-developed musculature that carried her speedily down the track. In his daydream he saw himself pulling the fabric from the crevice and draping it over her left butt cheek. He then envisioned bending her over and his own dick disappearing into the pink opening at the far end of the crevice.

The angel on his shoulder snapped his attention back to the psychological issue at hand.

"Do you feel like you have missed out by not having any conventional relationships?" Carl asked.

"Not really. As I said, I tried some relationships but I never wanted to go behind my boyfriend's back to get what I really wanted. And when I tried to raise the subject, it was always a non-starter. So I would rather be a happy so-called promiscuous slut than trapped in a one-dick relationship."

"Do you want a family? Do you think your lifestyle will interfere if you do want a family?"

"I don't want kids now and I don't think I will want them in future. If I do, I'll cross that bridge when it comes up."

"Do you feel guilty about having so many sexual partners?"

"No. If I feel anything it is guilt about not feeling guilty."

Bridget looked at him pensively awaiting the next question.

"Have you ever felt like you were in physical danger from any of you partners?

"I'm very careful. When I was in my early twenties I wasn't as careful as I am now. There were a couple of times when the guys I met didn't realize right away that I would gladly give them what they were looking for and they didn't need to take it by force. I was never hurt but I could have been. But I learned from those mistakes and have a good sense of how to stay out of those situations now. It has been several years since I ever felt like I was in a dangerous situation."

"Are you afraid of contracting any diseases?"

"Again, I'm pretty careful. I've been vaccinated for hpv. I get tested at the clinic once a month for other diseases. I go so often they think I'm a sex worker. I buy condoms by the case and use them 90 percent of the time."

The devil on Carl's shoulder reentered the picture. Carl couldn't help but visualize Bridget's thighs squeezing his ears as he lapped at her bountiful juices. He pressed on in furtherance of his own curiosity. "Is it just penises that you like? Do you like foreplay or other sex acts that don't involve penises?"

"I'm not sure what you are asking but, yeah, I mainly get off on just handling a guy's penis and then being penetrated by it. I know some girls love getting eaten and orgasm from it. That doesn't do it for me although I will engage in it if it gets a guy revved up. I don't like anal--tried it a couple of times and all it did was hurt. I don't masturbate because all it does is frustrate me. I don't even use dildos because they don't feel the same as the real thing. But put a hard dick in me, especially one that I haven't had before, and I am one happy climaxing camper."

Carl nodded to encourage any further answer to his question she may have and to show his attentiveness.

"I got to pee," Bridget said abruptly and got up from the table. She walked to the bathroom and shut the door. Carl took the opportunity to readjust in his seat and relieve some of the discomfort from his now painfully erect, but trapped, penis. He took a deep breath and mentally reviewed the presentation he had attended that afternoon on situational ethics. Unfortunately, the lecture didn't provide him with any loopholes that ethically would allow him to plunder Bridget and release the pressure building inside both of them. He cursed to himself.

Carl heard the toilet flush and the faucet flow. Bridget returned carrying her bra in her right hand. Her marbled nipples clearly protruded under the thin fabric of her camisole. Her breast swayed provocatively from side to side with each step. She threw her bra on top of her jacket laying on the bed without a hint of chagrin. "You don't know how uncomfortable women's clothes can be after ten hours of work. I figured that I should be comfortable when I tell you my most embarrassing secrets. I hope you don't mind." Unabashedly, she resumed her seat at the table.

Carl took a moment to regain his composure. He was thankful that he had taken the opportunity to readjust his own uncomfortable clothes during her absence.

"You said you like all penises. Surely some have to be more attractive to you than others."

"I gotta admit that the big ones are visually exciting. You may have noticed that I have a big, well-developed butt. It takes a guy with a long dick to be able to fuck me doggy. And I love being fucked doggy. But I have found that sometimes big is just too big and it hurts when the guy bottoms out or stretches me too much. On the other hand, if a guy has a small to medium dick, I love straddling and riding him. Those smaller dicks hit my g-spot in just the right place and I come quick and hard. Like I said, I like them all."

Carl changed gears. "Did you suffer from any abuse growing up?"

"Nope. I love my mom and dad. I see them twice a year or so. Dad never wanted to play doctor with me or anything. I didn't have any creepy uncles that wanted me to sit on their laps. None of that."

"Is your family religious?"

"Not overly so. It's not like I'm a preacher's daughter that is rebelling against her religious upbringing. I was allowed to date and have guy friends in high school. I don't think I am going to hell. So that is not it."

"When did you lose your virginity?"

"I was a senior in high school. The guy was a track guy who was going off to college. He was a nice guy. It was my idea. I wanted to try sex. It was a good experience although he barely got in me before he splurted all over."

"So, tell me what you perceive your problem to be? Why did you want to discuss this subject with me?"

"Well, you said when I met you that you gave a presentation on changing sex habits, or something like that. I guess I have always just want to know, am I abnormal? Am I screwed up?"

She averted her gaze and her breath quickened awaiting his evaluation.

Carl sat back in his chair before giving his edict. Bridget had crossed her arms beneath her breasts and was leaning forward. Rounded tissue spilled from the sides and top of her camisole. It was hard for Carl to concentrate on the questions posed to him.

Finally, he said, "Those are two separate questions with two separate answers. Most people, especially women, seek long-lasting relationships. They value being emotionally close to a sex partner at least as much as they value the physical pleasure they receive from that partner. In fact, most women use sex and physical pleasure as a way to foster their emotional relationships with a partner. So, to the extent that you value sex with random men more than you value building relationships, yes, you are unusual.

"On the other hand, your lifestyle choice does not seem to have interfered with your happiness. You mentioned at dinner that you engage in activities and work out with friends. So it is not like you are reclusive. You're careful about the men you meet and recognize the potential danger that your choices put you in. You have voluntarily chosen to take that risk. That is no more screwed up than someone who chooses a dangerous hobby like car racing or sky diving because it makes them feel alive. As you pointed out, if you were a man, no one would give a second thought to the choices you have made. We would all be ok with them.

"So, based on our brief interaction, I would say: Abnormal? Yes. Screwed up? Absolutely no."

Bridget took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Carl intently watched the rise and fall of her breasts as she did so. He shook his head in disbelief as to what could have been if only he just told her he was a salesmen in town calling on customers.

"Thank you, Dr. Simpson. You don't know how much that helps me. I'm very relieved. I've worried for several years about what someone in your profession would say about me."

Bridget reached down to gather her shoes. She got up from her chair and took two steps toward the bed. Again, Carl marveled at her exotic look and sexy form. He rose from his chair to escort her to the door. He wondered if she would return to the bar to find a lucky guy to relieve her inner pressure. He resigned himself to taking matters into his own hands to gain his own release.

As she picked up her bra and jacket, Bridget turned toward Carl. "I so appreciate your talking with me and your assurances. You are a special man for spending so much time with me knowing that there could be nothing in it for you."

"Yeah, unfortunately for me, I am too nice a guy. Patients are off limits physically, no matter how beautiful and enticing they might be."

"So the whole sex thing hinges on whether someone is your patient?" she asked.

"It doesn't matter whether you ever pay me that dollar you owe me," he said with a half-hearted chuckle, "I can't have sex with patients."

Bridget smiled. She laid her jacket back on the bed and put her bra beside it. She dropped her shoes to the floor. She turned to directly face Carl and drew close to him. With her right hand she grabbed the fabric surrounding his still prominent penis and squeezed. She raised on her tip toes and put her mouth close to his ear.

"If that's the case," she whispered, "You're fired."