Hello, 'Claire' here with another autobiographical memoir, a quick but quite unromantic journey into the behavior of a young, borderline sociopath. Harmless deeds, or so I thought, soon got out of control, and were allowed, no - encouraged - to escalate. Of course the names of the participants have been changed.
Prologue
Ignition off...parking brake on...car door locked...unlock side door...bolt it behind me...into the kitchen...drop purse on the table. I was lucky to have made it home, and not simply pulled over and masturbated on the side of the road. I'm not going to make it to my bed...I raise my skirt to my waist, collapse face first onto the carpeted stairs and plunge my hand into my soaked panties. As I furiously begin to work my clit, I recall the events of the last hour, and how I got to this point, pathetically approaching orgasm as those in the framed family portaits on the wall watch me, ashamed.
1
Unlike most eighteenth birthdays, mine, in the early spring of 1990, was most inauspicious, partially spent in the hospital. I wasn't sick, and I wasn't working - at least not for money - I was a 'candy striper', a nostalgically uniformed, volunteer gopher that helped out the busy nursing staff by ostensibly delivering flowers, mail and feeding patients. I didn't exactly volunteer - I was forced into the weekend duty as part of a punishment during my senior year of high school.
The past February, my mother, an emergency room nurse, was not happy when she got a call from the sheriff's department of the next county. I had been found passed out, wasted, adjacent to a pool of vomit in a stranger's garage one Wednesday morning. I was supposed to have gone to the library with a friend to work on a research paper, and Mom was already worried sick that I hadn't come home that Tuesday night. I did work on the school term paper, but the neighbor of my friend had several college football teammates visiting, and we soon joined the drunken, impromptu soirée. Luckily the male partygoers knew I was still underage, or the clothes that kept me from hypothermia and a fertilized ovum may have ended up scattered to the winds. Sadly it was not my first blackout. A happier than average girl, I wasn't burying any demons in the substance abuse. I was petite, subtly curved and pretty enough - fairly short brown hair and brown 'doe eyes' - to be pursued by the horny boys; I just liked to party.
My mother, with minimal assistance from my absent, alcoholic dad - I got my craving honestly - worked full time at the hospital and also on weekends as a hospice nurse to pay for my private school tuition. She had almost zero social life, essentially because of me, and we were living check to check. Of course as a narcissistic and deceitful - I remain so to a degree - teenager, I didn't give a damn about all her sacrifices and had maintained my flippant, shitty attitude. When she arrived to pick me up, I advised her I just wanted to go home and sleep it off. Once we were out of sight of the sheriff's office, she stopped the car just to slap the hell out of me about a dozen times. I had never seen her so pissed off. My head hurt so bad I almost passed out. On the drive home, she refused me any painkillers and took an indirect, hour-long route, pausing only so I could puke out the open car door a few times. She didn't mince words, calling me a lazy, self-centered, conniving, ungrateful slut. She lectured me on the direction my life was going, and the STDs or baby shit-filled diapers that awaited me. Working with hospital patients until summer - and longer if I fucked up again even minimally in the mean time - would give me a new appreciation for how good I had it, she reasoned.
I was given a choice: Finish the rest of the year at the city's rough public high school, or complete my secondary education at the veritable country club I was currently attending, and volunteer at the hospital Saturdays and Sundays. I was already grounded until graduation, so volunteer it was.
There were two shifts for candy stripers - morning - an impossible-to-be-on-time-for 7 to 3 was the busiest. I learned the ropes quickly - like keep a spare uniform hanging in your locker in case you get bloodied or puked upon - or worse. My striped peers mostly considered themselves future doctor or lawyer's wives, and were consumed with trivial social crap. Since I didn't act like a spoiled princess when asked to mop up a puddle of piss off the floor, it made the staff believe I possessed some kind of maturity. They sent me on errands, knowing I wouldn't spend a half hour on a hallway phone gossiping on the way. When looking for supplies the morning of my birthday, I found a spare but functioning computer terminal in a surplus third floor office used for storage. This turned out to be my present to myself.
Spending most of my meal breaks there alone under the guise of reading pulp paperbacks, I figured out an administrator's password after only a few attempts. Computer access level security back then wasn't what it is today. The green-on-black screens gave me menus for nearly everything in the hospital. I was able to create a fake sign on, so my shenanigans couldn't be traced back to my hacking victim, whose password was a numeral added to the name of the boyfriend - who had the audacity to ask me out - she never shut up about. I found and played with the stripers' schedules and had myself moved to the shift that began at 3 P.M. I also assigned myself to the assisted living wing, the calmer, residential, long-term care facility of the hospital, where the patients were stable, partially mobile and those that weren't had generally completed the day's bowel movements before my shift began. I thought my new assignment would be much quieter and at least allow me time to read the aforementioned trashy novels I liked, but found out I was mistaken on the very first weekend.
This new wing was mostly snoozing, elderly women, but there were a few men. One turned out to be my grandfatherly crush, I imagine it could be called, Mr. Wheeler. A widowed, silver-haired man with a missing right hand, he could not speak due to some prior throat surgery and used a cane to get around. One night after nine, I overheard an incident from a partially opened door.
"Mister Wheeler! You stop that now! Oh, Mister Wheeler!" a nurse's aide said in a scolding, angry tone. "Take your meds and I'll be back to clean you up." She said, sighing and annoyed. "I'm getting tired of you doing this at pill time! Do you want me to start sending in a male orderly in here to clean you off? I didn't think so! Now you behave!" I heard a rhythmic wheezing from the old man - all that was left of his laugh.
Cheerfully mopping up a disconnected colostomy bag spill in front of the gagging princesses was one thing, but the intimate cleanup of a shit-filled adult diaper was another. I stepped quickly away, but to no avail. The aide called out to me.
"Oh good! Claire! Accident in two-seventeen!" Mr. Wheeler's room.
Assuming his bowels or bladder contents had cascaded to the floor, I opened the janitorial closet and began to drag the mop and rolling bucket out. The woman explained it wasn't that bad, 'thank God', and all I would need was some wet towels and to help him change his pajamas. Armed with a stack of towels, I stepped into room 217 and shut the door. I looked over at my patient and ascertained the nature of his 'accident', and understood her comment about the unneeded mop.
There was no feces, and no urine. The old man had masturbated, and apparently in the presence of the nurse's aide delivering his meds. Suddenly this job had become interesting.
It should be noted at this time that I was not without interim male companionship. Upon the legality of his actions - the largely un-remarked occurrence of the eighteenth annum of my ungrateful corpus leaving the womb, my ex-boyfriend's thirty year old, mid-divorce boss had been parking his plumbing van a few blocks away, and surreptitiously visiting me when alone at my mom's house. At least one evening per week he thoroughly demonstrated his pipe laying - as the expression goes - and facial ejaculatory skills on me.
Mr. Wheeler's lower pajama top was splattered with translucent white fluid, as was his sole hand which rested next to his still-exposed, semi-erect dick, leaning out to the side like a passed out drunk - ironically it was my familiarity with incoherent drunkenness that landed me in my current situation.
"Ugh! Gross!" I said loudly, back over my shoulder. The old man's chest quaked with his strained, muffled laughter. The old pervert apparently enjoyed torturing the female staff 'at pill time' by jerking off right before - or during - their arrival with his medication, which was of course on a routine schedule each night. To paraphrase an old saying - one girl's disgust is another girl's thrill. I felt cheated, having missed the squirting show that created the archipelago-like pattern in front of me.
His deviant grin flattened when I dragged two bare fingers across the back of his hand, garnering a nice blob of his fragrant semen. I turned my fingers upward and balanced it in midair to keep it from dripping off.
I realized he must have thought I was going to fling it at his face. His expression changed to one of contempt.
"Are you gonna tell on me?" I asked sweetly, then brought my fingers to my jaw. His thick, gray, overgrown eyebrows lifted.
