I’ve always had a thing about voices. It comes from my mother, who was a music teacher. As a child she instilled in me a love of fine vocal performances, especially from Broadway shows. Moreover, my appreciation of the human voice helped naïve little me make friends whom I thought were aesthetically sensitive, sophisticated, socially refined…”cultured,” if you will. It was, in my sheltered suburban environment, a perfect way for a shy, though vain and opinionated, girl to feel as she grew toward adulthood.
My name is Deirdre, a fourth-generation Italian-American woman who’s 32 years old. Friends and family call me Dee. I’ve been married to Frank, himself of Italian lineage, for almost 10 years. Since college we’ve both worked, he for an insurance company and I most recently as a manager in a dental office. We have no children, not that we haven’t tried to be parents. It’s just that Frank’s been unable to sire a family because of a low sperm count. Until now that’s caused us no problems. We’ve merely accepted it and have been waiting until we were firmly established so that we could perhaps adopt babies.
Then one day I got a call from a prospective patient, requesting an appointment. His voice was deep and resonant. It wasn’t booming, though my knowledge of vocal development told me that, if challenged, this man could break glass with his volume. It was a soft bass, modulated superbly so that certain words and phrases were almost musical. Additionally, his vocabulary was impressively broad, and he seemed to choose his words carefully in response to my many questions as I plied him for information. I found that my mind wandered from what he was saying, my ears attuned only to the pitch and timbre of his sexy voice as he told me about his dental problems and history. More than once I had to repeat certain questions to get the facts straight, apologizing for having missed his responses.
I set up an appointment for him – Mr. Jack Taylor – and shortly afterward we ended the conversation. At my desk, which is just behind the high counter fronting the waiting room, I experienced a pervasive numbness that left me breathless and weak. This I’d felt perhaps only three times in my life…always with men. I was embarrassed to discover that my crotch was moist, and I looked at my work mate – Mandy, our financial person – asking her to watch the phones for me while I took a break and went to the restroom.
The feeling I’m trying to describe is something that starts in the pit of the stomach and progresses immediately to the extremities. It made me nearly faint as the blood pounded in my ears. On the few previous occasions I’ve felt it in my life, it’s always preceded sexual intercourse, the most recent occurrence being when I was very excited with my husband, Frank. That was a few years ago.
In the restroom I cleaned between my legs and patted dry. I then looked in the mirror. Not bad, I thought, for a woman of 32. I’m 5’3” tall, 115 pounds, and have a nice body, if I do say so myself. I’m a 34-C, with full breasts starting above my armpit line, high on my chest. With no children and a constant exercise regimen, there is no sag to them. My waist holds at a constant 24”. My hips are curvaceous and taut but, with my round bottom being the real offender, they measure 36” at holiday time. As my loving father is fond of saying, when teasing me at family reunions, I’m “built for comfort, not for speed.” My best asset, though, is my legs. Long for my height, they are well toned and shapely, nipping in nicely at the crotch to show off my supple thighs and private parts. It’s this feature that first attracted my husband to me.
My characteristically Italian, light olive complexion has been my lifelong grooming project and that has paid off. I have no wrinkles yet, just a few light crow’s feet. Dark brown eyes with long lashes match the natural color of my thick, straight, shoulder-length hair that curls under, though that’s been stylishly embellished with blond and copper streaks. My oval face – like Modigliani’s models, says my dad – is set off by a small, straight nose and mouth emphasized by very full lips. Not bad at all, I thought again, trying to convince myself. It’s at this point that I stifled a sob and two tears ran down my cheeks. “Damn!” I cursed quietly, the strongest word I allow my conservative self to use. What’s happening to you? I asked my image in the mirror. Acting like a schoolgirl! I thought you’d gotten over those hot flashes! It’s just a sexy, soothing, disembodied voice! He’s probably an ugly dwarf!
He wasn’t…uhh, isn’t. I was leaning on the counter with arms folded under my chin, talking with Mandy and two of our dental assistants, with my bottom thrust toward the empty waiting room, when he walked in on the day of his appointment. I didn’t hear the door open and close, and so was unaware of his presence. One of the girls gestured with her head and I turned around to see him. I straightened up, pulled in my bottom, and asked, smiling, “You’re Mr. Taylor?”
“I am,” he said, in
that
voice.
He looked about 40, over six feet in height, with straight, sandy hair that probably had been blond when he was younger. His eyes shone light blue, emphasized by a deep tan, indicating an archetypal WASP ancestry. If he’d been wearing a suit, its size would probably be a 44 or 46 Long, one of the trivial bits of knowledge taught me by my haberdasher father. And it would have covered a broad-shouldered body that was maybe 45-33-35. I envied him his slim hipline, snugly clothed in well-starched chinos. On top he wore a high-quality lambskin leather jacket over a button-down shirt.
“You’re a bit early,” I said. “I’m Deirdre. Call me Dee. This is our dental history form. Please fill it out as completely as you can, then you can see the doctor.”
“Thanks, Dee Dee,” he breathed melodiously, for some reason causing my heartbeat to increase. I’d
told
him to call me Dee.
Sitting down, he proceeded with the paperwork and, from behind the counter I could glimpse his head as he checked boxes and wrote brief responses. He had a blond moustache. His hair was neatly cut, parted on one side, and combed slightly over his ears on the sides. It dropped lightly on his high forehead and invited a woman’s attentive touch, not to straighten it…perhaps just to show affection.
Handing me the completed form over the counter, he towered over me as I sat. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll enter this into our database and in a few minutes the doctor will see you,” glancing up at him and noticing a few fair hairs peaking out above the top of his shirt.
He looked me in the eye and said, too deeply, “Okay…thanks, Dee Dee.”
I was right. He’s 40, and divorced, according to the form. He’s six-feet-two, 200 pounds, recently moved to town – to a neighborhood close to our office – and is president of a design and engineering firm. Interesting, I thought, since we’re planning to remodel our large, old Prairie-style house. Wonder if he does that kind of work? Come on, Dee, I thought – catching myself – just stick to the business at hand!
“’S’cuse me, Dee Dee,” he said, startling me by looking down over the counter. “May I use your restroom?” he asked quietly, making it sound as if it were my own, intimate, powder room.
“Sure, Mr. Taylor. Right there,” I pointed. As he passed, my eyes followed him until Mandy caught me looking at his tall, rugged frame. Our bookkeeper and financial specialist is about 50, a divorcee, slightly pudgy, and is my mother-confessor. She travels regularly to Hawaii and returns to tell me about her bedroom escapades. Mandy’s a very sexually active woman. Her smirk and knowing eyes told me that she’d caught me in a compromising daydream, which caused my face to flush hotly.
Mr. Taylor emerged from the bathroom and, after a few minutes, I escorted him into one of the six dental cubicles in the office’s exam wing and introduced him to the dentist. As Dr. McCarthy examined him, data about what needed to be done came through the computer network to Mandy’s machine, since she’s electronically linked to each cubicle. This way she can price out the work to be done and the costs are presented to patients before they leave. “Hmm,” she said, as the screen began to fill with tasks. “Looks like Mr. Taylor will require several sessions,” she said from her small, glassed-in office, hoping to elicit a response from me.
“What’s that?” I asked, wanting to appear occupied. “Oh, a good customer, huh?” I must admit that I was looking forward to helping him schedule his appointments.
Within 45 minutes, Mr. Taylor came out and was summoned into Mandy’s little office. She asked me to join them and slid the glass door closed, something she never does. She explained to him that she’d estimate the costs and I would schedule his work. Her office has only two chairs and a small workstation with a monitor that patients can see. With three people in the enclosed space, my only place to stand was very close to the seated Mr. Taylor, with my left hip nearly touching his right arm. As Mandy explained procedures, I looked down at his soft, sandy hair, so neatly combed, and imagined myself running my fingers through it. I smelled a hint of expensive after shave lotion, blended with a whiff of his apparently new leather jacket, and felt light-headed. I looked at his large, strong, masculine hands and was sure that he could feel the heat of my hip so close to his upper arm, which caused a fluttering palpitation in my chest.
“How long have you done this, Mandy?” he asked my work mate in mellifluous tones.
“Mmm…about 30 years,” she grinned, somewhat disarmed by the question. “I worked for the young doctor’s father, then left, and when junior joined the practice, they asked me to come back,” she stated, modestly. “Don’t really need to work. My grown daughter tells me I should retire.”
“I’m sure they’d be lost without you,” he soothed, flatteringly. “And what about Dee Dee?” he asked rhetorically, almost as if I weren’t present. “I have several upcoming sessions and would like to schedule ‘em conveniently. Do I just slip her 100 bucks?” he asked, trying playfully to get a rise out of my nervous, tongue-tied mouth as he looked up at me with those steely blue eyes. His glance started with my face, then panned down over my breasts, which I’d clothed in a black, ribbed turtleneck that morning.
My face got hot again, and all I could say was, “Oh, I really needed that!” trying unsuccessfully to match his attempt at humor. This guy is flirting with me! I blushed. What nerve! Almost the first thing he says to me, other than a salutation, is a devilish slam! Reminds me of my father, I mused, searching for a good-natured parallel.
“Fridays are good for me,” he purred deeply, capturing my eyes again, which caused me to think through what he’d said for a moment. This time his eyes scrolled down to my hips, which I’d dressed in straight-legged black wool pants to match my sweater.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I murmured, accommodatingly. “Are you finished, Mandy? Maybe we can switch places so I can go over the open slots with Mr. Taylor.”
