Note To Self by Belinda LaPage
“I’ll just show you number one and two,” she went on. “One is in the shower and two is in the mirror. Three is in bed, so we can leave that one until we get to know each other a bit better,” she joked. At least it sounded like a joke.
Throwing modesty to the wind, I pulled my tee-shirt over my head to reveal my highly practical and comfortable black Lycra bra, just as she was reaching behind to unclasp that Victoria’s Secret page three special.
Susan shrugged off her shoulder straps, and cupping it in both hands she lowered it to reveal her breasts, full at the bottom with a gentle ski-jump curve on top. With my fingers working at the clasp on my own bra, I froze, an unfamiliar shiver pricking goose-bumps on my arms and making the little hairs stand on end.
Oh my God. They match!
The thought was so clear and real, I wondered for moment if it had come out of my mouth. Her areolae were tiny, about the size of pennies, with small, slightly upturned nipples at the center of each – so small and perfect, it was hard to believe they’d ever seen the inside of a baby’s mouth. But the thing that stopped me was the color; it was the exact shade of pink as her skirt.
My own skin is a Mediterranean olive brown – almost dark enough for skinhead Nazi punks to call me ‘colored’, but really no more than the deep tan that an Anglo can go if they see a lot of sun. I guess I’ve seen white girls’ tits before – mostly at night busting street walkers who won’t get a fucking room – but I haven’t ever been affected like that. It was actually scary; I could feel my jugular throbbing in my neck.
I managed to get my bra off and put it on the counter, hoping that Susan hadn’t seen my reaction to her breasts. I inspected my own in the mirror; full and round at the tops and sides, the extra weight made them sit a bit wider than Susan’s. My areolae are much bigger, smooth and brown and the size of a baby’s hand. I suppose I was so used to my own shape and color that Susan’s had caught me off-guard, but that difference made them seem exotic somehow, maybe forbidden. Looking at them gave me the same feeling as seeing something you’re not supposed to, or not accustomed to, like when a guy has his feet up and you can see right up the leg of his shorts to his underwear.
But I think most of all it was the color, not that it was different to mine, but that it matched her skirt. Those smooth curves of pink that clung to her hips and stretched across the parting of her legs were the color of sex, and there was so much of it, it hurt my eyes to look.
“Number one you can do in the shower, because it’s just by touch, not by sight,” she began, holding her left arm in the air and nodding at me to copy. “So working from the outside to the center,” she continued, pressing into her breast with all four fingers, “move the pads of your fingers in a circle, feeling all of the flesh of your breast. You’re looking for any lumps or thickening of the tissue. And don’t forget the armpit area.”
I copied on my own body, but although I was ostensibly watching her to see what she was doing, I was staring at those tiny button nipples, pink and sexual and perched in the middle of that creamy, soft and somehow virginal flesh. All the while, that expanse of the same pink down below pressed at the periphery of my consciousness like a flashing neon sign saying, “Sex: down here!”
My nipples peaked, but I was able to cover one with my hand and as soon as I rubbed it out, I quickly swapped breasts to conceal the other one.
“What if someone comes in?” It was the first thing I had said since the half-assed apology; Susan had been chattering on enough for both of us.
“One of two things,” she said with a smile, swapping breasts. “Either that we’re doing a breast exam …” I saw her eyes flick down to my nipples, which despite my best efforts had peaked again and stood out thick and proud about a quarter inch.
“Or?” I encouraged her to continue.
“Or we’re a couple of lessos about to get it on,” she finished with a straight face.
I was still aroused and confused and not prepared for that, and I snorted laughter through my nose. That got Susan going, and soon she was giggling, which got me going again. With arms still in the air and feeling our breasts like some kinky topless rendition of Swan Lake, every time we both almost got the giggles under control, one would break – usually Susan – and we’d both be going again like a couple of schoolgirls.
“You know I’m never going to be able to do this again without laughing,” I said, catching my breath and getting myself under control.
“What about me?” she asked earnestly, but still with a big grin. “What if I’m examining a patient and I crack up feeling her boobs?”
I pictured that and it made me laugh again, because it was something that might really happen.
“What’s number two?” I asked. “And don’t say we need to get our panties off for that!” I added sternly.
She almost cracked-up again, but the professional doctor inside took over.
“Okay. Number two is in the mirror. This one is just with the eyes, so do it when you get out of the shower.” She stood with arms by her side, staring straight ahead at her breasts while she talked. “Raise your arms above your head.” We both did. “And look for any dimpling or puckering, especially if it’s just on one side.”
I watched my breasts lift as I reached up, taking it seriously and looking for any differences, my eyes flicking involuntarily to Susan’s pink nipples and then down to her skirt, making my breath feel hot in my throat, and my nostrils flare as I exhaled.
“Good!” she encouraged me. “Now, last one: hands on hips …,” we both did it, staring straight ahead. “… and flex your chest. You’re looking for the same thing, puckering or dimpling as your breasts move.” I watched her do it first, her breasts lifting slightly and minutely closing together. I copied her, but I work my pecs pretty hard with barbell curls, and my breasts leaped up so hard they bounced, closing together almost to the point of forming cleavage.
“Holy cripes!” Susan blurted, “Do that again!” She was watching me, eyes wide and mouth open in what might have been horror or amazement. Showing off a bit, I flexed one side and then the other, making them bounce independently.
Susan took a stunned half step towards me with her hand reaching out before she realized what she was doing and pulled back with a start, like she’d touched something hot.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” she apologized, blinking, but looking directly at me now while I still watched her in the mirror. “Shit, I nearly reached out and touched them … Shit! I said ‘shit’!”
“Yeah, clean up that potty mouth,” I laughed. “You can’t use that kind of fucking language in front of me.”
I watched in the mirror as she looked up at my face and laughed nervously. I flexed my chest on the side closest to her one more time and the breast jumped again, startling a surprised “Oh” from her.
I was still buzzing from the laughter and arousal, and I was charmed by her girlish reaction to my showing off; the next thing I said just came out before I could edit it.
“You can touch them if you want,” I invited.
“What?” She looked back up at my face. “Are you sure?”
I wasn’t sure, but my heart had just kicked up a notch and I was too proud to back down.
“Go ahead, knock yourself out,” I said with a casual note that belied the tension I felt. “Just no tongue, you lesbo bitch.”
That disarmed her and she laughed again, double-checking my smirk to make sure I wasn’t serious.
I kept facing forwards, watching in the mirror as she stepped towards me, looking down gravely at my breasts. Moving like molasses, she brought one hand slowly up, hovering uncertainly below its target before she found a new surge of courage – or maybe it was that professional instinct kicking back in – and closed her palm beneath me with her thumb above the nipple, my C-cup too big for her small hand to support completely.
Oh man, it most definitely did not feel like a doctor holding me. I was standing in a body-builder pose with my feet
“Okay, go,” she said softly. I gave it another hard flex and startled her again, involuntarily squeezing me and making my large nipple bulge out between her fingers and thumb. “Oh jeepers! Your boobs have muscles!”
“It’s just the pecs,” I explained. “They’re behind and a bit above your breast. You can build them up with …” The expression on her face stopped me. She was still cupping me, but now she was looking up at my face, her brows drawing together and a smirk curling at the corner of her mouth. “… a-a-a-a-n-d … you’re a doctor,” I said slowly, a blush spreading up my cheeks as I realized my mistake. “You’ve sat through more anatomy classes than I’ve busted drug dealers.”
“Uh huh,” she smiled. “It was a figure of speech.”
“I feel like a dork,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“You feel like a ripped dork,” she said, impressed. “Do it once more for me and I’ll forgive you.” She smiled again and placed her other hand warmly on the bare skin of my back just above my jeans. I flexed once more and held it, then popped it quickly a few times. She squeezed me gently as it almost jumped from her fingers. “That is so cool,” she laughed, letting me go. “I so wish I could do that. Michael would go mental!”
“Michael’s got absolutely nothing to complain about,” I complimented her as we both reached for our bras. “And guys aren’t as impressed by that as you’d think.”
Her pale cheeks looked flushed as she slipped back into her pretty bra.
What had just happened? Was that two women making friends and sharing personal health advice? Was it a seduction of some kind? Or did we both just discover something about ourselves that we never suspected?
~~~
God, I’ve been writing furiously all morning and missed lunch. And I still have to pick up Jimmy and drop him at Nona’s before my late-shift, so I won’t get this finished today, either.
I read through everything above and felt those same confused feelings all over again. Some of what I’ve written is colored by the dream I had on Sunday night. I guess I was thinking those things at the time – about her nipples and her skirt, and the touch of her breasts on my arm – but I wasn’t conscious of it while I was doing it, and I didn’t walk away thinking about sex or my own sexuality. It’s hard to explain. I was aroused, but I wasn’t thinking about being aroused. I wasn’t thinking about much at all, except how strange it felt … but fun. Susan was fun, and I made a friend. The lesbian jokes we were both making were real; we were joking around and having a laugh; they weren’t just a smokescreen for homoerotic thoughts, although that’s the way it sounds when I read it back.
It wasn’t until after the dream that I replayed everything through a different lens and it made me wonder what Susan was thinking. I know she felt something, but was she ahead of me or behind? Had she felt that way before, or was it her first time, too? And more importantly, has she admitted to her feelings like I am having to? Or are they still bottled up inside that stern-but-pretty doctor’s façade?
I still have one thing to do before I pick up Jimmy; I need to answer her IM about drinks. I don’t drink on work-nights, but I’m back on early shifts from Friday and I have Saturday off. So I guess I’m going … I guess.
@SgtAnna24415: Drinks sound good. Anna
I haven’t pressed Send yet. I’ve been staring at that for a minute or two, knowing I have to leave and I don’t have time to dither. I think she took a chance with her message. I want to, too.
Here’s what I just sent:
@SgtAnna24415: Forgiven. Yes drinks, Fri night. Wear something sexy ;-) Anna
Oh crap. What have I done? The wink smiley was meant to say ‘I’m joking,’ but it could be taken another way. I think part of me knew that before I hit send.
Chapter Three
Private journal of Anna Volakas
Wednesday 24th September, 2014
I feel sick. Susan hasn’t replied to my IM. I’ve been re-reading my journal and comparing it to my memory, and now I’m not sure what was real and what I made up. I think it was all real. I think I felt something and I think Susan did too, but I didn’t start thinking that way until Monday. What really happened?
And we were joking around! My IM was no worse than any of what we said face-to-face, but it’s hard to convey tone in text. That’s why I added the smiley; just kidding! Shit, now she thinks I’m a lesbian.
But what was I trying to say? I don’t think I know any more.
I’ve been looking at that last line for twenty minutes now. I do know what I was trying to say. I was trying to say ‘I’m game, but you go first.’ What a coward.
I don’t have time for writing today. I need to think about this some more.
Or maybe I need to forget about it…
Chapter Four
Private journal of Anna Volakas
Thursday 25th September, 2014
@Susan.Richards.MD: Sorry surgery day 4me yest and missed ur msg. 8pm at ShangriLa tmrw. Sus x
That just came through. I have a late shift tonight and an early tomorrow, so I need to do housework now instead of thinking about her. No time for writing.
Shit. I’ve been sitting here thirty minutes. I need to get moving.
What does she mean? An excuse for not replying earlier; can I take that at face value? Let’s say yes, so there’s nothing in that. There’s nothing about my joke, so that’s bad. If she took it as a joke then she’d joke back. If she took it seriously and wanted to go further, she’d joke back – maybe thinly veiled. But nothing? Did it upset her? Or is she still thinking about it? And then ‘Sus x’; it’s probably just her standard signoff, but would you blow a kiss to someone who just made an inappropriate sexual advance? (If that’s even what I did…)
Anyway, we’re still going out. I think something will happen, one way or another.
I’m not sure what I want any more. But then I never was …
Chapter Five
Private journal of Anna Volakas
Friday 26th September, 2014
I just came off shift and a workout and I’m pumped. Shots fired today; nobody hurt, but it always gets me buzzing. Nick is picking up Jimmy and they’re eating at Nona’s, so I have the rest of the afternoon to myself before I meet Susan. I need to get the rest of this down; maybe then I’ll know what to do. If we’re going to spend the whole evening together alone, then Sunday is going to come up. What it meant to her. What it meant to me. It has to.
I dreamt again last night; the same one. I must have been thinking about what would happen tonight.
Phew! This is intense. I’m trying to think how to start, and that thought is all it took to kick my heart back up to high gear. I can feel my cheeks burning too, with shame or excitement, I’m no longer sure. This process has helped already. I’m more certain of my own feelings towards Susan, even if I can’t yet validate them with her or reconcile them with how I feel about Nick and about my own sexuality.
Maybe this will help.
~~~
It’s hard to get the dream straight enough in my head to describe, because like all dreams, it jumps around a lot and lacks the consistency of real memories. The two dreams weren’t identical, but now they’re starting to merge in my head into one single narrative.
It doesn’t really have a start, but it’s set in the kindergarten bathrooms again. I’m standing in front of the mirror alone – as I was in real life – but this time I’m naked. And horny! I’m squeezing my breasts as I realize it, and I feel a sense of disappointment that I’m not in a place private enough to tend my needs. One hand drops between my legs regar
I want to touch myself, but I can’t – or I just don’t, or won’t – I’m not sure; it’s like a kind of paralysis. I wear panties to bed and I was probably following along in my sleep, which would explain why I couldn’t touch my pussy properly. But I could feel the heat pouring from me, and I knew I needed to find somewhere private. Soon!
“Do you want a hand with that?” Susan asked. I didn’t know she was there, but I guess my subconscious did, because I wasn’t startled.
“I want …” I think I said the first bit, but it was like I finished the thought in my head. She seemed to understand, anyway.
“I saw you doing … it looked like you hadn’t done it before,” in real life she had said ‘breast exam’, but this time it was something else. Nothing would have made sense, of course, except maybe masturbation, so my mind edited it out of the dream. But whatever she said, it wasn’t sexual; it was just an innocent observation that I was doing something perfectly normal.
“I can’t seem to …” I wanted to say ‘touch myself’ or ‘satisfy myself’, but it came out as something else, something that Susan would think was completely innocent and not masturbation.
“Let me show you,” she said, stepping towards me.
I turned to face her and now she was naked too, those tiny pink nipples all but incandescent with arousal. I looked down, wanting to compare the color to her skirt again, but this time she was naked. Her pussy was shaved smooth and open like a tulip, and it was every bit as perfectly pink as her nipples. It sounds erotic, but I didn’t have feelings either way about it, just that the color was beautiful.
Susan cupped my pussy in her palm and I could feel the warmth and pressure of her fingers against my lips, but I could also feel the bulge of a pussy in my own hand. When I looked down again, my hand was cupped over her mound, soft and warm beneath my palm. It was as though she didn’t even notice, and I was curious. I liked the way she felt in my hand with my middle finger running down the length of her open slit. How could she not notice I was almost fingering her? But it was true. I don’t know how my hand got there. I certainly didn’t put it there, but I didn’t want to take it away, either. I just wanted to see what would happen. Would she get wet with me touching her? Even if she didn’t know I was doing it?