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."