The Missing Mail
Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Consensual, Lesbian,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - The second of the Heritage County tales. Follow Jim Hartman, a paramedic, and his partner, the aggressive lesbian Sydney, as they go through their respective days and nights.
It was yet another hot day in the Sacramento Valley, the late August sun driving the temperature to 90 degrees by 10:00 that morning, to 104 by 2:00 that afternoon. The same atmospheric conditions that made it so hot - namely a high-pressure system sitting directly over the northern half of California - also served to trap the stale air inside of the valley. The pollutants from the factories, automobile exhaust from cars, dust from the agricultural region, and the smoke from several grass fires in the metropolitan area combined with ozone to make the air an ugly shade of hazy brown. You could almost taste the particles as you inhaled on days like this.
"Christ it's hot," Jim Hartman complained to his partner, Sydney Redding, as they sat beneath a tree in a municipal park. Sweat was dampening his forehead and staining the T-shirt beneath his uniform shirt. The air conditioner in the rig was turned to high as they idled, the vents blowing a gust of air that reduced the air temperature in the cab a full 15 degrees, to about 89 or so. "Who the hell decided to build a city in this place anyway? I mean really, what's attractive about it? We get Africa heat in the summer, enough pollen in the spring to choke you to death, and during the winter, if it's not socked in with fog, it's fucking flooding. I think our founding fathers were a bunch of morons."
"They were here to rape the land, remember?" Sydney replied from the driver's seat. She had her checkbook open and a stack of bills on her lap. She had unbuttoned her blue uniform shirt and pulled it open, revealing the sweaty white cotton T-shirt beneath it. This was a violation of company rules of course but she didn't think that the supervisor was going to be pulling his lazy ass out of the air-conditioned office to come check on anyone. "They didn't give a damn about the weather. There was money to be made, Indians to kill, species' to make endangered, all that shit. What you should be asking yourself is why your parents decided to move to this miserable place and why they decided to raise you here."
Jim scoffed, picking up a large bottle of spring water from the drink holder between their seats. "My parents were morons too," he said. He unscrewed the lid and took a large drink of the lukewarm water.
Sydney smiled. "Hell," she said, "I could've told you that. Anyone who votes straight ticket Republican year after year has got to be a little fucked in the head."
"You got that shit right," said Jim, who preferred to think of himself as apathetic when it came to politics. He hadn't voted for anything since he was nineteen years old.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sydney continuing to scratch out payments for her electric bill, her car loan, and her various credit card bills. As Jim watched her frowning over the process he was reminded of something that he had wanted to discuss with her.
"You wanna hear something strange?" he asked.
"I haven't got any mail in the past six days."
She looked over at him. "You haven't got any mail?" she asked incredulously, knowing that her partner was continually inundated by multiple credit card bills - the legacy of his marriage to a methamphetamine addict.
Though the nightmare of the marriage was over, the nightmare of life after the marriage was still going quite strongly for him. When the assets and liabilities were divided up between he and Debbie during the divorce it was determined that they had less than ten thousand dollars on the plus side (most of that being the value of the two cars they had owned) and more than fifty thousand dollars in liability. Fifty thousand dollars his wife had managed to charge and borrow over the years. The vast majority of this debt consisted of credit card bills. She had managed to open more than sixteen different high interest accounts, all of which she had charged up to the maximum limit or beyond. She had charged everything from television sets to microwave ovens to complete computer systems and she had sold all of it for less than ten cents on the dollar to a variety of fences in order to finance her expensive habit. Jim's lawyer had argued vehemently that since Jim had been unaware of these debts and had not signed any of the applications - although his name had been forged very neatly on a few of them - that he should not be responsible for any of them. The judge commiserated with Jim's plight but did not quite see things the same way as the lawyer. He ordered the assets be divided equally, with each party getting one of the automobiles and that the debts similarly be divided equally. With a tap of the gavel Jim had found himself with one car, a few furnishings, and more than twenty-five thousand in high interest debt.
Debbie had quickly sold her car, undoubtedly using the money for her favorite pastime. Since she was not terribly concerned with how good of a credit rating she maintained she simply ignored her half of the debt and the companies eventually wrote it off. Jim on the other hand, did have to worry about his credit rating. He had hopes of someday establishing a somewhat normal life for himself and his daughter so he had no choice but to try and pay off what he was responsible for. Every month, in addition to the alimony and the rent and the childcare expenses that he paid he had to put out more than six hundred dollars in credit card payments. And this was barely enough to keep ahead of the interest. The principal never seemed to get any smaller.
But so far he had never been late on anything and had never had his credit rating dinged in any way. He just didn't have any disposable income for savings or enjoyment or food beyond hotdogs and bologna sandwiches. It was however, extremely unusual for even a day to go by without any mail appearing in his box to let him know when his next payment was due.
"It's kind of starting to scare me a little," he admitted to Sydney now. "I know for a fact that two of the credit cards are due in a few days and those fuckers never forget to send the statement. And then there's the childcare bill. Julie over at Day and Night Care..."
"That cooch," Sydney said distastefully. Julie Langhorn, who ran a rather lucrative daycare business that catered to emergency services workers and their strange hours, was the wife of Ron Langhorn, a night shift paramedic at WLS. Neither one of them were particularly well liked by their clients or their co-workers.
"Well, she's the only daycare in town that stays open after 6:00," he said, with a what-can-you-do shrug. "Anyway, she told me she mailed out the bills last week and I haven't got that one yet either."
"That is kinda strange," Sydney told him. "I can pretty much guarantee that Julie didn't lie about sending out the bill. That bitch likes money too much."
"Julie's not really the problem though," he said. "I'm sure she'll be happy to tell me how much I owe her. Those credit card places though... the payment amount changes every month and there's so many of them that I have a hard time keeping track of which one is due when. If those bills don't show up pretty soon, I'm gonna end up not paying one and the next thing you know, my credit rating goes all to hell."
"I was you, I'd start looking into it," she suggested. "Call the post office and find out if there's a problem or anything. Have other people in your complex been getting their mail?"
"I've seen them coming and going from the box with mail in their hands," he said. "I'm just wondering if..."
The beeping of their computer terminal interrupted him. A call had just popped up.
"All right then," Sydney said, quickly stuffing her bills and her checkbook into her open backpack. "Let's go fight some death, shall we?"
"Right on," Jim said unenthusiastically. He turned the screen towards him and pushed the acknowledgment button. He then read what their latest cry for help was about. "2314 Jergens," he said. "Unconscious 30 year old. No further info."
"No further info," Sydney grunted. "You gotta love that. Where the hell is Jergens at?"
Jim looked the address up in the mapbook and told her how to get there. She pulled out onto the street, flipping on the siren and the emergency lights at the first intersection. A four-minute drive brought them to a semi-rundown working class neighborhood on the border of Lemon Hill and Whispering Oaks. The houses here were mostly rentals, many of the yards sporting chain-link, that curious symbol of a declining residential tract.
2314 Jergens was a single story house located on the corner of two streets. It appeared that it was in the process of renovation. A ladder stood against the garage roof and the majority of the wooden shingles had been ripped off the roof and tossed into an untidy pile on the front lawn. Scattered among this pile were more than a few beer cans. The fire engine that had been dispatched had just pulled up as well and the fire crew was exiting the cab. A fat blonde woman with large, jiggling breasts and a cigarette stuck in her mouth rushed up to the captain and was talking excitedly. She pointed upward to the roof and Jim saw that there was a man lying up there, just near the peak.
"The asshole's on the roof," he said disgustedly. "Goddamn it! I don't ever remember them telling me when I got hired here that I'd have to climb up on someone's freaking roof in 104 degree heat."
"I don't even remember them telling me that I'd have to work when it's hot," Sydney put in as she set the parking brake and undid her seatbelt. "Where does it say that in our contract?"
Still grumbling, they stepped out of the cab and into the blast furnace that was the outside air. They pulled the gurney and all of their equipment out of the back of the rig and wheeled it across to where the captain and his crew were still talking to the blonde woman.
"Hi Jim," the captain greeted. "It looks like your patient is up there on the roof."
"So I see," Jim said, glancing up at him. "What's the story?"
"He's been up there pulling shingles all day for a roof job," the captain said. "His wife here came out a little while ago and saw him lying down. She's been yelling up at him but he won't respond to her."
"How long has he been up there?" Jim asked her.
"About three hours," she said. "I told him not to go up there in this heat but he didn't listen to me. He never listens to me. There was this one time that he wanted to go to..."
While she explained how he she told him not to ride the Matterhorn at Disneyland because he was too drunk but that he insisted on doing it anyway and subsequently vomited all over the crowd waiting in line, Jim looked over at the beer cans on the ground, taking a quick inventory and seeing six of them in plain sight. "And has he been drinking anything besides beer up there?" he interrupted.
"Nope," she said. "All he ever drinks is beer. He was telling me that his stomach was cramping a little bit ago but all he did about it was drink another can. I told him he shouldn't drink so much, but does he listen to me? No, it's like the time he wanted to drive home after this party and I..."
Jim and the captain shared a look with each other as she launched into her next story. "Heat stroke?" the captain asked.
"I'm thinking," Jim agreed. "We'd better get up there and have a look. Can we use his ladder or do you want to use one of yours?"
The captain looked over the man's ladder for a moment and then shook his head. "It looks a little flimsy," he said. "Why don't we use one of ours?"
They pulled one of their extension ladders off of their engine and set it up in place of their patient's. While the engineer held it in place, the firefighter, then the captain went up. Jim grabbed their blue equipment bag from their gurney and tossed it up to them. He then mounted the ladder himself and followed them to the shaky roof. The temperature up there seemed to increase by about ten degrees.
"I can't believe he was up here for three hours in this heat," the firefighter muttered as they walked up the fifty-degree slope.
"No shit," Jim said. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's a dead motherfucker."
It turned out that he was not a dead motherfucker, just a very sick one. His skin was reddened and hot to the touch, without so much of a drop of sweat on it. He was breathing rapidly and shallow, his tongue dry as a bone and his lips cracked. His pulse was rapid and thready, barely palpable at the wrist. He groaned a little when Jim shook him but otherwise made no response.
"Yeah, he's in a bad way," Jim confirmed. He looked at the captain. "We need to get him cooled off and rehydrated like yesterday. How are we gonna get him down?"
The captain looked around for a moment, trying to think it through. "How about a backboard?" he suggested. "We strap him to it nice and tight and then angle the ladder to 45 degrees or so. That way we can just kind of slide him down."
"Let's do it," Jim agreed. He walked back to the edge, where Sydney, the engineer, and the wife were all waiting. "Grab us a backboard and pass it up," he told his partner. "We're gonna strap him to it and slide him down the ladder."
The process took about fifteen minutes to complete. Sydney handed up a board while the engineer extended the ladder to its full length and brought back the foot of it to the end of the driveway. Jim rolled the nearly comatose man up onto his side and the firefighter shoved the board beneath him. They rolled him back down and used the Velcro straps to secure him tightly to it. They then pulled him down the roof to the point where the ladder met the rain gutter. The firefighter climbed out onto the ladder and went down a few rungs while Jim and the captain lifted the board and placed it on the handrails, feet towards the ground. Very carefully, the firefighter backed down the ladder, his hands holding tightly to the bottom of the backboard. Jim, holding onto the head portion, helped ease it down from his end and then mounted the ladder behind it. When they got close enough to the ground, Sydney grabbed hold of the sides to keep it steady. At last they were safely back on the cement. They placed the backboard on their gurney and strapped the man in.
"Go turn on the garden hose," Jim told Sydney as he picked up the cardiac monitor. "Let it run until it's cold and then bring it over here."
"Right," she said, heading off.
Jim pulled out the EKG patches and began applying them. The wife hovered over his shoulder the whole time, explaining how she had told him that he shouldn't be up on that roof, how she had told him that he shouldn't be drinking that much beer, how she had told him that he should hire a contractor to do the roof.
"Let's see what we got here," Jim said, turning the machine on. When the display popped up he saw huge peaks in the repolarization cycle of the complexes. This indicated a significant chemical imbalance in the body chemistry. "Jesus," he said, "he probably doesn't have any sodium or potassium left. It's amazing his heart's still firing at all."
"Is he going to be all right?" the wife finally thought to ask.
"We'll do what we can," he told her, trying to sound hopeful. "We need to get his temperature down and some fluids in him. I can put back some of the salt he lost but he's gonna have to wait until he gets to the hospital for the potassium."
Sydney came over with the green garden hose in her hands. "Wet him down?" she asked.
"Everywhere," he confirmed. "Drench him."
By the time they loaded him into the back of the ambulance he was dripping wet. Jim turned the back air conditioner on high and aimed the vents directly at his wet skin. As they drove to the hospital he started an IV in the man's arm with the largest needle that he carried and opened it up wide. As the fluid ran into his vein he taped ice packs to the tubing, cooling it. The trip to Valley Medical Center took about ten minutes and by that time he'd managed to run a liter and a half into his patient. He still didn't wake up.
His temperature turned out to be 106 degrees rectally, very close to what would cause permanent brain damage. The hospital staff immediately began a series of radical cooling measures such as ice water enemas and a cooling blanket borrowed from the cardiac wing. They also began running potassium directly into his veins as fast as it would go.
"Think he'll be all right?" Jim asked Doctor Harling, a crusty twenty-year veteran of emergency medicine.
Harling shrugged. "Time will tell," he said. "So he was actually drinking beer up on his roof in this heat?"
"That's right doc," Jim confirmed.
The doctor shook his head. "I don't think the gene pool would suffer too much if this gentleman didn't get to contribute to it," he suggested flippantly.
Jim gave a dutiful laugh and then made his way over to the registration area to inform the clerks of their arrival. Robin - the clerk that he had taken out to The Faraway Club the previous weekend - was pulling the duty behind her desk. She was dealing with an irate person on the other side of the bulletproof glass when he entered, explaining to her that in the emergency room people were seen in the order of the severity of their complaint, not in the order that they arrived.
"Don't you be givin' me that shit," the woman said angrily, pointing an accusatory finger. "My momma been here for four hours now and all kinds of people been going in before her that ain't nearly as sick."
"Ma'am," Robin said patiently, "there's really not a lot I can do. I can..."
"My momma is sick, you hear me?" she demanded. "She's had that cough for almost two weeks now!"
"Like I said, I can get the charge nurse to talk to you if you want, but that's about all that I can do. Would you like to talk to her?"
"Yeah," the woman said righteously, "bring her on or I'll be takin' my momma somewhere else an' shit!"
"Just go wait over by that door and I'll have her paged over," Robin said.
"She better hurry her ass up," the woman said before stomping off towards the access door.
Robin sighed a little and then picked up the phone to have the charge nurse placate her. When she finished, she turned around and saw Jim standing there. She gave him her smile. "Hi Jimmy," she greeted. "What did you bring us?"
Jim was no longer awkward around Robin as he had been the first few days after their date. It turned out that his fears of her claiming rape or wanting to engage in a long-term relationship with him were groundless. She had not even mentioned the night to him afterwards except to tell him that she'd had a good time and to hint that she might be open to another such date. Other than that, everything about her was unchanged. She was the same smiling, flirting, panty flashing bimbo that she'd always been.
He told her what he knew about his heat-stroke patient (which wasn't much, he hadn't paused to get the man's name or date of birth or anything else) and she thanked him professionally. Just as he was about to head out to the ambulance bay to get the clipboard and the call times, she grabbed his sleeve.
"You know Jan, don't you?" she asked.
"Jan Sanders?" he asked. "That works for us?"
"That's her," she said. "She was asking about you a minute ago."
"Asking about me?" he said, raising his eyebrows a tad. Jan was a relatively new paramedic that had been hired about two months before from another agency in the San Francisco Bay area. Since her arrival at WLS she had created a bit of a stir among the male members of the workforce. A buxom brunette, just on the borderline of what would be considered chunky, she made no bones about the fact that she liked sex and would perform it with anyone who thought they could satisfy her cravings. It had been reported that she had taken John Gillian home with her after their shift one night and boffed him until well into the morning hours. It was also reported that she had boffed Steve Enders right in the back of the ambulance on a slow night shift.
"She heard about our date the other night," Robin said softly, with a little giggle.
"She heard about it?" Jim said. "From who?"
She giggled again. "Well, I might've let a thing or two slip out," she admitted. "Don't worry though. I gave you a good review."
"Uh... well... thanks," he said, unsure what else to say. In truth he wasn't really sure what to feel about Robin telling other women about his exploits.
"No problem Jimmy," she said, turning in her chair and giving him the briefest glance up her skirt. "She's probably still here doing her paperwork if you wanna talk to her. And if you ever want to go to Faraway again, you know who to ask, right?"
"Right," he said, nodding.
Sure enough, when he got to the back of the emergency room after getting his clipboard, Jan was sitting at the desk that was designated for EMS use, writing a patient care report. Jim took a minute to examine her form as he walked up. She was tall and big-boned, the kind of girl who jiggled all over when she walked. Her breasts were her shining assets. They were truly huge, at least double D's, and they pushed out her light blue uniform shirt alarmingly, as if they were going to break free at any moment. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail to comply with uniform regulations. She spotted him and broke into a friendly smile.
"Hi Jim," she said, scooting over a bit to give him room next to her. "Have a seat. How's your day going?"
"It's hot," he said, stating the blatantly obvious. He set his clipboard down and grabbed a seat. "How's yours?"
"The same," she told him. "But that's okay. I like it hot."
He flushed a little, his composure breaking just the tiniest bit. "That's uh... good to hear," he finally answered.
"Now let me get this straight," Sydney said as they drove to their next post twenty minutes later. "She told you that she liked it hot, and you didn't follow it up with anything?"
"Well," he said weakly, "we talked about calls and stuff, but..."
"Calls and stuff?" she asked, outraged. "You fucking wimp! You could've been slamming her right now in some bathroom or storage closet if you'd a played your cards right. That chick has got a pussy that's perpetually wet!"
"I don't want to fuck someone in a bathroom," he protested, although it was a lie. His favorite fantasy during his masturbation sessions involved just such an act.
"You don't have to fuck her in the bathroom," she said, exasperated. "You could've set something up for after work, or for tomorrow." She shook her head sadly. "What the hell am I going to do with you?"
"I'm telling you Sid," he said, "I just wasn't getting those kind of vibes from her."
"You wouldn't know a vibe if it opened your pants and started sucking your dick," she told him. "I demand that you set something up with her the next time you see her. I fucking demand it. If you don't, then you don't have a goddamned hair on your ass!"
He looked at her in amazement, never having heard that particular affront to his masculinity before. "I don't have a hair on my ass?"
"Not a single one."
He laughed a little. "Well then," he said. "I guess I'll have to see what I can do."
Before he had a chance to do that however, they got a call that ended up affecting Sydney's social life instead.
It came across as a fall with an ankle injury. It was dispatched as code two, which meant that they were to drive there without lights and sirens on.
"Fucking ankle injury," Sydney grumbled as she looked up the address in their mapbook. "What the hell could you do to your ankle that needs an ambulance? When I was a kid I broke my goddamn femur and my mom just piled me in the car and drove me to the hospital."
"I'm telling you," Jim said, "the worst thing they did was give people an emergency number to dial that they could remember. I bet if you still had to dial a seven digit number to get an ambulance we wouldn't get half of the bullshit calls that we do."
"And this is Whispering Oaks we're going to," she said. "It's not like it's the ghetto. Those are nice, middle-class, normal people that live there. They oughtta know better."
When they arrived at the call however, they both developed a little more sympathy for their patient. He was a thirty-four year old man that had been playing basketball with some of the neighbors and had stepped into the drain trying to save the ball from going out of bounds, snapping his tibia and fibula at mid-shaft. His entire lower leg was angulated thirty degrees to the outside and the sweat that was pouring down his face was from pain and not from the heat.
"Now that's a broken leg," Jim commented upon seeing it for the first time. The fire crew had already splinted it into place with a piece of rigid cardboard but there was no disguising the gross deformity.
"It hurts," the man grunted in an almost whining voice. He was shirtless, displaying an impressively cut chest and abs. "Will they have to... you know... operate on it or anything."
"Could be," Sydney said, hardly looking at the injury. She, like the firefighters, was paying more attention to the man's wife, who was kneeling beside him, stroking his hair. She was in her late twenties and dressed in a pair of short shorts and a half shirt. Her small breasts poked alluringly outward, obviously unencumbered by a bra. Her face was stoic, framed by her short blonde hair.
She glanced for a moment at Sydney, the way that one does when someone speaks, and had halfway turned her eyes back to her husband when she froze. Slowly she looked back at her, her expression unchanging but her eyes widening a little as she took in the short, masculine haircut and the bulging biceps. She stared for perhaps six seconds, long enough for Sydney to notice the gaze, before her eyes flitted nervously away.
"How about a little something for the pain?" Jim asked the man, casting a surreptitious glance at his wife as well.
He shook his head, feigning toughness. "I'm all right," he said through gritted teeth. "Just put me in the car and my wife can drive me over to the hospital."
"Honey," the wife said, her eyes darting once more over to Sydney before landing back on his face, "I think you should let them take you. I'm not sure you'd fit in the car like that."
"I'll manage," he said. "These people have better things to do with their time than..."
"Sir," Jim said, kneeling down next to him, "I'm not one to make work for myself, but I think that maybe your wife is right. That's a nasty break. Why don't you let us take you in?"
"And I'm not sure I could drive right now," she said, her voice sounding feminine and helpless. "You know how I am in an emergency. You'd better do what they say."
At this point the neighbors chimed in, all of them encouraging him to take advantage of the services that the county offered for those with broken legs.
"C'mon John," one of the sweaty basketball players told him, "let 'em take you. Don't make Laurie try to drive you."
"Yeah John," another basketball player piped up. "That'll be for the best."
The encouragement of the neighbors seemed to mollify him. "Well," he grunted, "if you really think it's for the best."
Sydney cast another glance at Laurie, the wife, catching her looking at her again. She suppressed a smile. "We really think it's for the best," she assured him.
"Okay," he said.
"And how about that pain medicine?" Jim suggested. "It'll take the edge off and relax you."
"Well... maybe a little."
"Could I ride with you?" the wife asked Sydney timidly. "Like I said, I'm not sure I could drive right..."
"You bet," Sydney told her with a smile. "You can ride up front."
"Can't she ride in the back with me?" John asked.
His wife cast a small glare at him, hardly seeming to realize that she'd done it.
"Sorry," Jim said, completely unaware of the exchange of looks between his partner, his patient, and his patient's wife. "Riders have to go in the front. We don't have any seatbelts or anything for them in the back."
"But on TV they always get to ride in the back," John protested.
"Real life's not like TV," Sydney told him, allowing herself one more look at what she was starting to think of as her prey. "So let's get you loaded up now, okay?"
They loaded him up and started heading for St. Vincent's hospital - a twenty-minute trip. Jim started an IV and then shot him up with ten milligrams of morphine. It didn't seem to help all that much. In order to give more than that, he had to call the physician on duty at St. Vincent's hospital for permission. He got him on the rig's cellular phone and gave a quick report of what he had.
"It's an obvious tib-fib fracture with gross deformity and severe pain," he explained to Doctor Matthews, a relatively new ER doc. "I've given him ten of MS and it hasn't touched it yet. I'd like to go ahead and repeat the dose."
"You want to give him another ten?" Matthews asked, his voice somewhat incredulous.
"Uh... yes," he confirmed, unaccustomed to being questioned in matters such as this. "That was my request."
"I don't think that's such a good idea," the doctor told him.
"You don't think that's a good idea?" Jim responded, his voice flirting with insubordination.
"No," the doctor said. "After all, we haven't X-rayed it yet and we don't know for sure that it's really broken."
"It's broken doc," Jim told him. "It's about as broken a leg as I've ever seen."
"Well," Matthews said condescendingly, "I appreciate your evaluation, but there's really no way of knowing until we get the X-rays. Hold off on any more pain medication for now."
"Shit," Jim muttered, although loudly enough for the phone to pick it up. "I copy no more morphine," he nearly spat into the mouthpiece. "See you in about fifteen." He pushed the "end" button and threw the phone back onto the shelf. He turned back to his patient. "Sorry John. Shot down."
Meanwhile, up in the front, Sydney was driving as slowly as possible, both to minimize the bumping for the patient in the back and to extend the time she had available with his wife. She was sitting shyly in the passenger seat, her legs crossed and the seatbelt outlining her small breasts. She was being very chatty over there, her concern for her husband seemingly forgotten. She had asked a few perfunctory questions about the treatment he would be receiving in the hospital and had then started directly in on some of his faults.
"He's very competitive," she told Sydney in a confidential voice. "He's always getting involved in sports and everything else with the neighbors. He's always got to win."
"Really?" Sydney said sympathetically, running her eyes over the alluring form and feeling herself getting moist between the legs.
"They play basketball, golf, softball, even football in the winter. He likes to play the tough guy you know, to be better at it than everyone else."
"Men can be like that sometimes," she said, making point to emphasize the word "men" in a negative tone. "They're all locked up in that competition thing. Sometimes I think that's what wrong with the world today."
"Oh I know," she said. "That's how he ended up with that leg like that. They were playing two on two and he just couldn't let that ball go out of bounds. He had to do that fancy little jump to go after it. It was awful. I heard his bones snap when he landed."
"Maybe this'll mellow him out a little."
She shrugged, a pout flashing across her pretty face. "I doubt it," she said. "It'll slow him down for a while, but as soon as he's healed, he'll be right back at it." She lowered her voice a little. "It kind of a Freudian thing, you know."
"Really?" Sydney said, raising her eyebrows a tad.
She giggled a little. "I shouldn't tell people this," she said mischievously. "He really is a good husband in most things. But he's got the big four-wheel drive truck with the monster tires, the most expensive golf clubs, the most expensive entertainment center, a whole bunch of guns, and all of it's compensation for... you know."
"For a uh... shortcoming?" Sydney said.
She giggled again, holding her thumb and index finger about three and a half inches apart. "It's only about this big," she whispered.
"A big guy like that?"
"I was pretty shocked the first time I saw it," she told her. "I've got him convinced that it doesn't really matter, but... well... you know."
"Sometimes it does matter," she said.
"Sometimes," she agreed, a little sigh of frustration escaping this time. "And it's not just that you know. If he would do... like... other things, it wouldn't make that much difference to me maybe. But I don't think he ever really learned to... do it like it's supposed to be done."
"Men can be like that," she said, sensing the kill.
"You sound like you know a lot about it. You must have lots of experience with that sort of thing."
"Well, to tell you the truth," Sydney said slyly, blessing the Gods for providing this opening, "me and men don't really get along all that well. I kind of swing the other way, if you know what I mean."
She did a respectable job of appearing to be surprised. "You mean that you're a... a..."
"A lesbian," she confirmed, offering a shrug. "It happens."
"Wow," Laurie said, her eyes widening. "I've never really met one of you... I mean... uh... well, you know - Heritage isn't exactly San Francisco. I figured there were... uh..."
"Lesbians, dykes. You can say that in front of me. It doesn't offend me."
She blushed a little. "Lesbians," she finally blurted. "I figured there had to be some around here, but I've never met any."
"There's a lot of us in this business," Sydney told her. "About a third of the females here are gay."
"Really?" she said, far from offended or outraged by this revelation. In fact, she seemed downright excited by it. "Why is that?"
"I don't know exactly. This job just kind of draws us I guess. Plus we're accepted here by our co-workers in a way that we aren't in most regular jobs. We're just part of the scenery and nobody seems to have much problem with it."
"That's very interesting," she said, her eyes shining thoughtfully. "I hope I'm not... you know... bothering you with all of my questions and all, but I just love to meet different people and... talk to them and all."
"Not at all," Sydney assured her. "I'd be happy to uh... talk to you any time about it. Any time."
She gave an embarrassed smile, blushing even more. "I think I'd like that," she said softly.
Sydney then took a chance, knowing that if she didn't set something up in the next five minutes, she would probably never have oppurtunity to do so again. "Your husband is going to have to have surgery on his leg," she told her. "He'll have to stay overnight in the hospital."
"Is it that bad?" she asked, although she didn't seem to be particularly upset by this information.
"It's that bad," she confirmed. She took a deep breath. "I get off at eight o'clock. That's about the same time that visiting hours are over at the hospital. Maybe I could... you know... kinda stop by your house on my way home and... check on you. Make sure you're doing all right."
She trembled a little in her seat, biting her lip nervously. Nevertheless her eyes showed a definite interest. "That would be nice," she said softly.
"You're gonna go by her house after work?" Jim asked her in disbelief. They had just pulled away from the ambulance bay and were on their way to their next post.
"Damn right," she said with a grin. "Am I the freakin' master, or what? Goddamn, my panties are wet just thinking about it."
"How did you do that?" he asked, obvious respect in his tone. "She's not even a lesbo."
"That's what's so fuckin cool about it. She's what we call bi-curious. Her husband isn't doing it for her and never has so she wants to check out what the other side is all about. I'm tellin' you, we dykes fuckin dream about chicks like that crossing our paths. Especially ones that look as hot as her."
"Have you ever done that before?" he asked her, actually becoming aroused at the thought of his partner munching on the cute married blonde.
"A couple times," she said. "They're few and far between though." She gave him a stern look. "Don't you be shooting off your mouth to anyone about this. I'm flirting with an ethics violation by going over to a patient's house you know."
"It's not really an ethics violation," he said. "She wasn't the patient, just the patient's wife. But I won't tell anyone."
"Thanks Jimmy, you're the best."
"Could you do me a favor though?" he asked.
"Videotape it for me?"
She punched him in the arm playfully. "Don't you wish," she chided.
She took a shower at the WLS deployment office and, since she didn't have any regular clothes with her, put on the spare uniform that hung in her locker. She didn't have any make-up to apply since she never wore it and since her hair was shorter than most men's, there was a minimum of fussing there. As such, it was 8:14 PM when she emerged from the women's locker room and out into the garage where the evening shift change was in full swing.
"Oh Sydney!" cried Bob Barkins, the on-duty supervisor, as he spotted her heading for her car. "I need to have a word with you." Bob, like all of the supervisors at WLF, was little more than a management plaything, a low seniority paramedic who had given up his union protection and rights for an extra three thousand dollars a year and the illusion of power over his former peers. He was a small, wiry man with a ridiculous mustache that looked more like a fungal growth than facial hair. He took to his job with a fervor, never failing to spout the company line or sing the company song when the occasion called for it. He was called Weasel by the field employees he watched over.