Girl Friday - Part Two
A story by Dreamspinner about muscular woman romance
published at Muscles of Dee Kay with kind permission of the author
Girl Friday - Part Two
It took six months before Arthur Carmony phoned me to say that he and his staff had decided to accept my proposal. "David!" he boomed. On the phone or face-to-face, he was too loud. I wondered if he spoke too loudly in order to keep people at arm's length. If that was his intent, it worked with me. "You're in!" he thundered. "After much discussion and consultation with the trustees, we've concluded that yours is a good idea!"
It had been worth the wait. I was pleased. "I'm glad, Arthur. What's the next step?"
"Make an appointment to meet with the chiefs and me in a week. We'll tell you then in more detail how you're rotation will dovetail with the others. Wait a moment and I'll transfer you to Mary, my girl Friday."
My heart leapt into my mouth. "I thought Helen was your 'girl Friday.'"
"Funny thing about Helen," he said, for once, in a normal tone. "She resigned shortly after you were here the first time. Said she had some things she had to take care of and wanted a job that wasn't so stressful. Anyway, water over the dam. Here's Mary. She'll make you an appointment."
I heard the familiar voice above the murmur of voices in the lobby. "David Anderson! As I live and breathe! Turn around and let me look at you!"
Elizabeth Rosen was as dazzling as ever. Black hair, gray eyes, milk-white skin. Brilliant, she had been a classmate of mine in medical school. We had had a torrid but short-lived affair. I kissed her on the mouth, right in front of our chatting colleagues at the annual conference in Albuquerque. "You look fantastic, Liz." I said, watching our stuffy fellow analysts' reactions to my display of affection out of the corner of my eye. I had her by the upper arms. They were as hard as I remembered.
Elizabeth leaned in to me. "I see you still like female muscle," she whispered.
"You're damned right," I whispered back.
She pulled me aside. "Speaking of female muscle," she began, "I've been seeing Helen Montague twice a week now for five years." 'Helen Montague.' At once, my fantasies about her returned. Nearly two thousand days and hundred dreams after I had seen her last, the sound of her name brought it all back, fresh as if I had seen her yesterday.
"Really. Do tell."
"She's one of the most interesting patients I've ever had. In fact, she reminds me of myself before I was analyzed."
"Hm. Sounds very interesting." I was afire with curiosity. "Is she better?"
Liz took my hand. "Yes, thanks to you." I shook my head. "Yes, I said, thanks to you."
"But you're her analyst…not me."
Liz grew pensive. "I have to stay within the limits of confidentiality, David," she said, "But I think I can tell you that if you hadn't given her my name she might well be dead."
"Yes. She was absolutely wracked with guilt when she came to see me. The first thing she told me was that she was seriously considering suicide."
Elizabeth Rosen and I had lunch together that noon. She told me that Helen had become a different person in the five years since I had seen her. Helen was no longer Ms. 'Prim and Proper', Liz said, but acted literally as if she had been freed from prison. She wore her hair down and she had an entirely new wardrobe. "No more tweedy, button-down look for Helen," my colleague said. "You wouldn't recognize her if you saw her." My mind was reeling.
Liz reached across the table and laid her hand on my arm. "The change in her wardrobe is the most convincing proof of her transformation!" she declared. I nodded my head, dumbly, not knowing what she might say next. What I had heard so far had been well, remarkable. "On second thought," she said, "Maybe I'm getting too close to breaking confidence." My heart sank.
Liz waved her hand. "Oh, hell! I'll tell you anyway. Her new clothes show off, not conceal her body!" Liz laughed. "I bet you wish you were me, seeing that lithe package lying on the couch! If I know you, David Anderson…and I do…" She winked. "You'd be sitting there with a hardon the whole fifty minutes!"
"Actually, Liz," I said, "I've got one right now!"
She blushed. "I remember it well, David." Then she stood, brushing the crumbs from her tailored skirt. "Well, we better get back inside. It's 12:58."
I had long ago developed the habit of talking to myself when no one was around. "Early retirement." I mused, staring at the spectacular view of Albuquerque, spread out in the valley below my house on the ridge. "Who would have thought I'd been able to take it, ten years ago, when I made my proposal to Arthur Carmony and the heads of the departments. Who would have thought it?"
Not me, that was certain. But, who could have known that my proposal for a rotation at the analytic institute would have led to a full professorship at the medical school, and who would have predicted that I would have been invited to write a column for the morning daily, and who could have predicted my column would have become syndicated, and on and on and on.
Then the invitation to write chapters had come in. Then the solicitations to write texts came in. A dozen books later, I was wealthy. So, I decided to pack up and move from the frozen Midwest to sunny New Mexico. I had fallen in love with the place five years ago when I had come to Albuquerque for an annual conference, and had sworn then that I would be back. "I never dreamed it would happen so fast," I was saying, when the phone rang.
"Is this Doctor Anderson?"
"Yes. Who's calling, please?"
"My name is Helen Montague. I don't know if you remember me, Doctor Anderson, but we had a date ten years ago, and you referred me to…"
I cut her off. "I remember like it was yesterday, Helen." It was true. Her bifurcated biceps, her fine, small head, her long graceful neck-they all came back. I remembered how she had reminded me of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's as she cried over coffee. And I remembered Liz Rosen telling me how she had changed. "You wore a little black dress the night we saw an avant garde dance production."
"I can't believe it! What an eye for detail you must have!" You have no idea, Helen. You have no idea. "I guess you're wondering why I'm calling after all this time."
"I'm in town for a conference at the Hilton, and I heard you had moved here, and I wanted to call you and…"
I decided I would test her. "And what?"
"And see if you wanted to get together." This was not Ms. Prim and Proper. That was very clear. And it was equally clear that I very much wanted to "get together."
"I would, Helen, I would like that very much."
"Good. Any suggestions?" Liz had done a very thorough job. I made a mental note to write her a long complimentary letter.
"Yes. There's a restaurant I like very much called 'La Comida de las Diosas.' It's only a few block from the Hilton. I know the owner very well."
"Sounds wonderful…David. Will you come by at 6:30?" Liz, if this goes like its sounding, I will do more than write you a long letter.
"I'll see you then, Helen. Oh! By the way, how will I recognize you?"
"You'll recognize me, David…trust me. You will."
I had nearly fallen over backwards when I saw Helen in the lobby of the Hilton. She was standing by the concierge's station, looking for all the world as if she had stepped from the cover of a magazine that reported the activities of the ten most beautiful women in the world, and I told her so. "Helen," I said. "You look absolutely fantastic."
She took me in her arms and kissed me right in front of the concierge. "I owe my life to you, David. To you and Elizabeth Rosen, I mean." She began to cry.
I took a handkerchief from my pocket and began to dab her tears. "You'll spoil your makeup, Helen."
"I don't care." She stepped away and pirouetted. She was ageless. Anyone passing by would have thought she was twenty-five years old. "Look at me, David!" She demanded. "I'm alive, thanks to you and Doctor Rosen. Do you see?"
"I do." She was not only "alive," she was as lithe and as muscled as a panther. The arms I had admired ten years ago were as remarkable as they had been then. Her calves were balletic, her rump high and protuberant, her shoulders broad and square, and her hair-the hair that had once been tied back with such force was now worn loose; its wavy tresses framing her small, fine-featured head.
José Velasquez, the owner of La Comida and my good friend, had come to our table to welcome us. He bowed dramatically and took Helen's hand. He kissed it theatrically. "Encantado a de conocerle-I am enchanted to make your acquaintance!" Helen blushed crimson.
"Thank you, señor Velasquez. I am happy to meet you." José gave me a conspiratorial wink and a roll of his eyes. He had seen me with many a woman, but something in his gestures conveyed more than simple appreciation. "The meal is…how you say, 'sabrosa,'" Helen said.
"I am happy you enjoy it," said my Mexican friend. "I cook it myself-my friend David he call me on the telephone to say he was bringing someone very special with him. Now I see he was correcto!" Helen blushed again.
My friend bowed again and excused himself. "I must go back to the kitchen. Again, I must say, I am enchanted!" And with that, he was gone.
Our meal was long finished, but we lingered over a glass, then two, bringing each other up to date. Helen said she had taken a job as the administrative assistant to the dean of the university after a short stay as a transcriptionist for Simmons, of all people. Her analysis with Liz Rosen had been remarkably fast-moving, and she soon found herself bored with transcribing. With a solid recommendation from Simmons, she interviewed for and got the job as administrative assistant to the dean of the university. As her analysis progressed, she had found that her secret fantasy life before the mirrors in her basement had lost its appeal, and she hungered for a relationship with a real man for the first time in her adult life.
She began to date, she said, but had found most of her companions boring. "They lacked the fire I seek in a man," she said finally, finishing her third glass of wine. Clearly, she is giving me an invitation. But first, I must clarify my motives for what I had done, or 'not done' years earlier.
I reached across the table and took her hand. "Helen, are you familiar with the Greek myth of Pygmalion?"
"Yes. It is the story of a man who sculpts his ideal woman. Then she comes to life. It is what 'My Fair Lady' is based on." She frowned. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I found myself in that 'Pygmalion situation,' if you will allow me to put it that way, when we met years ago."
"I don't understand."
"I knew you were-or could be, my 'ideal woman' when you sat across the table from me after we had seen that avant garde dance. I said 'could be' because I knew at that time you were too inhibited-you needed to be 'freed up,' as we say. But I was conflicted."
"You were conflicted? I didn't think analysts were conflicted."
"Well, we are human after all, Helen!" We both laughed. "As I was saying, I was conflicted-on one hand, I was filled with desire. But I knew on the other, that I would not-or could not, I should say, be the one who freed you. It would have been unethical. Furthermore, I knew that I would be preying on you if I were to take advantage of your vulnerability at that moment."
She was obviously puzzled. "I'm lost, David."
"I made a difficult decision that night, Helen. I gave you Elizabeth Rosen's phone number in hopes that you would follow through. And when I did, I abandoned any hope that you and I might one day be together-much as I might have liked. I abandoned my Pygmalionesque fantasies about you, Helen. I had no idea that we might meet again when I gave you that number."
My Mexican friend had ordered another two glasses of wine sent to our table. Half of her fourth glass later, Helen was ready to confess. "David, I must tell you, I've thought about you countless times since that night so many years ago. I've told Liz how disappointed I was that you didn't take me home and fuck my brains out that night. But now, I know why." She was drunk. "You are a man of honor, David Anderson. A true man of honor, and…" And with that last word, Helen passed out cold and fell on the floor.
José called a cab and the two of us put Helen in the back seat. The cabbie was Mexican, and my friend told him in no uncertain terms that he was to take her directamente, as he put it, to the Hilton. There, the cabbie was told, he must make sure she made it safely to her room-inmolestado. I had long suspected that my friend Velasquez was more than a simple restaurateur. At the moment my friend gently touched the cabbie on the chest when he said the Spanish word that meant 'unbothered', the color drained out of the poor man's face. My suspicions about Velasquez were confirmed in that instant, and any doubts I might have had about Helen's safe return to the Hilton vanished in the same moment. "Momentito," I said, before the cabbie put his car in gear. I took out one of my cards and wrote "Call me tomorrow" on the back. I gave the card to the cabbie and told him to make sure it was put into Helen's mailbox at the Hilton. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Velasquez nod to the cabbie and knew it would be done-exactamente-as I wished.
Helen called at eleven o'clock the next morning. "David, I'm so sorry about last night."
"Don't be-it happens."
"Do you still want to see me?"
Here, it seemed, was the opportunity of a lifetime. I wasn't going to let it pass by. "Yes, I do. Why don't you come to my place after your conference ends this afternoon? We'll have supper together and finish last night's conversation."
"OK. Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. See you then."
Helen Montague did not pay attention to the presentation at her conference that afternoon. Her mind was full of anxious questions about what lay ahead that evening. Will he kiss me? What will I do if he does? Will he want to make love to me after all these years? Will he judge me harshly after what I did last night?
As she changed for dinner, recollections of Elizabeth Rosen's admonitions not to fight off natural sexual impulses pushed the earlier questions to the side. Most importantly, Helen recalled the first time her analyst had suggested that acting out secret sexual fantasies might be far less enjoyable than a real sexual encounter where the fantasy might be reified. That had been a frightening idea at first, but as she came to trust Elizabeth Rosen, Helen had become comfortable with the idea, and began to dream of it. "I wonder if it will come to pass this night?" she wondered aloud, as she took one final look in the mirror.
"The woman in the glass is Ms. Prim and Proper no longer," Helen said aloud. "She is a free woman, ready to act at last!" she declared.
On the taxi ride to David Anderson's house, the one worry that had resisted all Elizabeth Rosen's analytic skills came into Helen's mind. Will he find my muscled body attractive, or will he be repulsed, as I fear he will?