As strange as it may sound to some, my best friend is a lesbian. I'm a divorced, thirty-two year old male that flies a helicopter for the Washington State Police. Denise is the twenty-eight year old paramedic/observer that works with me every day. Both of us are sworn troopers and both of us have done street time of course - it's a departmental requirement - but, due to the specialty skills we possess, we found ourselves fast-tracked through the mandatory patrol time and put as quickly as was feasible into the aero-detail. Not that we minded of course, both of us had joined the department with aspirations of helicopter assignment anyway.

It's a job I wouldn't trade for anything in the world. I used to fly for the Navy, anti-submarine choppers off of a frigate, which sounds worlds more exciting than it actually is. Flying a cop chopper not only pays better but is more challenging, more exciting, and all-around more enjoyable. If I can keep this assignment until I retire, I'll die a happy man. Denise feels the same about her role. She used to be a street paramedic in Seattle. From what she tells me it's every paramedic's dream-job to work on a medical helicopter full-time. She not only gets to do that but also has the exciting enhancement of police work to go along with it. Neither one of us have ever taken the sergeant's exam, knowing that if we passed it and were promoted, we would be yanked out of aero-detail and placed back in the streets. That's a thought that doesn't even bear contemplation.

We began flying together two years ago, shortly after both of us were freed from street patrol. Denise, as I've mentioned, is from Seattle. She'd grown up there and lived there all of her life. It was where she'd done her patrol time. I had grown up in Detroit but had been assigned to Seattle in the Navy and had lived there ever since. It was where I'd done my patrol time too. So our department, in it's infinite wisdom, assigned us to the Spokane area as aero-detail newbies, a part of the state that neither one of us was the least bit familiar with. Let me tell you we were a pretty cute team trying to navigate the chopper around unfamiliar ground on the night shift for the first couple of months. In that time we became friends, very good friends. Between trying to figure out where the hell we were or where the hell we were supposed to be, we would have long, sometimes intimate conversations. I learned probably more than most heterosexuals know about the lesbian sub-culture (and more than one tip on proper cunnilingus technique) from her. Our discussions in the chopper have always been animated and without restraint. I've always prayed that we'd never get into an accident, not for fear of physical harm, but so that some FAA investigator, listening to our flight recorder, wouldn't hear what we routinely discuss together in the intimate confines of the helicopter cockpit. They sure as hell wouldn't be able to put a transcript of that in the newspaper.

Being friends with a lesbian is the best of both worlds. I could talk to her like she was a guy but without the macho blustering that is an inevitable part of male-male friendships. I didn't have to exaggerate the size of my cock, or make up fake sexual encounters to impress her, or be afraid to admit to unmanly emotions. I could also talk to her like I would a woman, but without sexual or commitment-orientated undercurrents that define those relationships. Denise could be feminine when the situation called for it, letting me know what women really want, discussing fashions or interior decorating schemes. She could also out-cuss and out-sleaze a long-shoreman. She could give valid advice on how to install a new sprinkler system in my yard or what might be wrong with my car. She could drink most men twice her size under the table. She was the best drinking and barhopping companion that I've ever encountered in my life. She also played a mean game of golf. If not for the sex thing, we probably would have married each other, we got along so well.

A few weeks ago our shift started as usual. We changed into our flight-suits (separate locker rooms of course), put on our uncomfortable and bulky shoulder holsters which contained our department issue .40 caliber pistols, weapons that we were unlikely, at best, to ever need in our current assignment (we were required to wear them on duty but you couldn't wear a gunbelt on your waist in a helicopter), and checked out the chopper before patrol. I did the pre-flight checks while Denise inventoried and tested the medical equipment, police and fire department radios, and made sure our street maps were all there and intact. We put on our flight helmets with the intercom system speakers and microphone in them and then I fired up the chopper and took us up to begin our routine patrol duties.

We came on shift at 3:00 in the afternoon, a busy time of the day, and, as such, we were immediately sent to a call in the City of Spokane to assist Spokane PD with a commercial burglary search. Spokane PD is a separate agency from ours but they do not have a chopper of their own so we spend a lot of our time doing mutual aid for them. The great State of Washington of course charges them by the call, making the decision to call us in that of a sergeant or above, but they were still shameless in their requests. We didn't mind. Spokane, in this particular neck of the woods, was where the action was.

In the two years I'd been assigned there, my working knowledge of the area had improved to the point where I knew the geography better than any other place I'd ever lived or worked before. Without even needing a map consult, I turned the chopper to the northwest and started heading for the location while Denise dialed up that frequency on our radio system and told them we were five minutes out. They gave us the run-down on what they wanted us to do; check the roof of the warehouse in question for suspects, jimmied sky-lights, or anything else out of the ordinary.

"Copy that," Denise told whomever she was talking to on the radio. She then turned to me. "Let me tell you what our plan for the day is."

"What's that?" I asked her, keeping half an eye on the landmarks below us as I cruised at two thousand feet above ground at ninety knots.

"We need to get ourselves a trauma transport today, sometime between now and eleven."

I raised my eyebrows. "Need to practice your skills?" I asked.

"Fuck my skills," she snorted. "There's a new ER nurse at the trauma center. She's a hot one. And I'm pretty sure she's of the sisterhood."

"Yeah?" I said, genuinely interested. "What's her name? Did she tell you she's a lesbo?"

"Her name is, get this," she paused dramatically, "Destiny. Isn't that a bitchin' name? She's the blonde chick I was talkin' to when we brought in that auto accident guy last week. The chick with the nice tits." She sighed for moment as she thought about it. "She didn't actually say that she was gay but, you know, we can tell these sorts of things. The way she was talkin' to me, the things she said. I think she's one of us." She quickly amended herself. "Uh, I mean one of me."

I knew the nurse of whom she was speaking. Denise was right, she was pretty hot looking. I'd wondered about making a move on her myself but hadn't had the opportunity. If there's one thing I'd learned in my career it's that women loved helicopter pilots. They would practically drop down and give you a blowjob right there when they found out what you did for a living. "Are you sure she's gay?" I asked, though I'd learned to trust her instincts on this matter.

"Reasonably," Denise told me. "Like I said, we know these things. There's a signal they give off."

"Well ain't that a bitch," I said, shaking my head sadly. "I was thinking about tryin' a little something with her myself."

"Hey," she said. "Leave her alone. There's so few women in this freakin' town for me to fuck but you got them throwin' pussy at you left and right. She's a sister, I'm tellin' you. Trust me."

"I'll take your word for it," I assured her.

We handled that call, which turned out to be nothing, and several others, which also turned out to be nothing. We were cruising around Interstate 90 east of Spokane, quite close in fact to the Idaho border, when Denise's ears perked up. She'd been listening to the fire department scanner. "There's an auto accident call on I-90 at Brantford Road," she told me excitedly. "Let's head that way."

I knew what she was thinking. If there was a helicopter requested for medivac, she wanted it to be us so she could go see her nurse. "Medi-flight will get the call," I told her, informing her of nothing she didn't already know. Medi-flight was a helicopter, staffed by two nurses (and a pilot), that operated out of the Spokane trauma center. They jealously guarded what they considered to be their calls. It was understandable. They were always under the threat of budgetary cuts or even elimination. The more calls they ran, the more they justified their existence. Our lieutenant, obviously acting on orders from above, had told us long ago not to be so enthusiastic in jumping their calls. Our budget, after all, was not in any such jeopardy and our admin was not so fond of medical or trauma aid calls anyway since they took us out of service for about an hour and half each time.

"We don't jump their shit that often," Denise said, almost pleadingly. "And they can't deny us if we're right overhead, can they?"

I turned my head and looked at her, appraising the near-desperation in her brown eyes. "When was the last time you got laid?" I asked her.

"Too fuckin' long ago," she answered. "I've rubbed myself to sleep thinking about this nurse ever since I first laid eyes on her."

"Good enough for me," I replied, turning the chopper back towards the west and putting on the power.

When the fire department asked for a chopper to be dispatched five minutes later, we were only about ten miles away, much closer than downtown Spokane, which was where Medi-flight was based. Denise jumped on the radio and, giving our location, offered our services. Medi-flight, which had been dispatched, was cancelled and we were added to the call. We were circling over the accident less than three minutes later, looking down at a twisted mess of wreckage that had once been a Volvo before it had slammed into a bridge abutment. Fire trucks, an ambulance, and several state trooper patrol cars, their lights flashing brightly, were parked at the scene.

We had arrived so quickly that we were forced to circle for five minutes before the freeway was shut down and another fire engine arrived to secure a landing zone for us. I then touched down gently on the asphalt surface of I-90, leaving the engine idling as Denise waved over a couple of firefighters to help her with our litter. As protocol dictated, I stood near the tail-rotor to make sure some incompetent fireman didn't accidentally walk into the thing, an act which would have erased his head instantly (and damaged our chopper). Denise, meanwhile, got report on the injuries and supervised the loading of the patient into the patient compartment.

The patient in question was utterly fucked. He still had a heartbeat but wasn't breathing and his skull had been split open, spilling some of his brains out. The paramedics on scene had put in a breathing tube and started an IV before transferring care to Denise so she was left with little to do but compress the bag that supplied oxygen to his soon-to-be-dead body. I lifted off after making sure none of the firemen or paramedics were standing too close and pointed the nose of the chopper to the west, heading for the trauma center at the best possible speed.

As I flew, I looked back at Denise, who was bagging the patient and talking to the staff at the hospital at the same time, informing them about what they were about to receive. Blood was running from the patient's head and onto the floor where it was already coagulating into sticky clumps. I was the one who had to clean all of this up, not Denise.

"You'd better get some tongue out of all this shit," I told her once she'd finished her report. "Or I'm gonna be one pissed off individual."

"I was just thinking the same thing," she replied.

I touched down on the trauma center's helicopter pad, shut down the engines, and a group of nurses helped Denise off-load the patient, putting him on a rolling gurney and trucking him towards the emergency room. Denise went with them to give report to the trauma surgeons that were standing by. I unstrapped myself from my seat, took off my helmet, and then exited the chopper, walking around to the back. It looked like someone had slaughtered a pig back there. With a sigh, I grabbed the cleaning supplies and went to work.

When I had everything back in order twenty minutes later I walked to the ER so I could take a piss and get a drink of water (and maybe find a willing nurse that had an affinity for helicopter pilots). I took care of my bodily functions, washed my hands, and then went looking for Denise. I found her sitting at one of the doctor's desks, writing up her report and chatting with the nurse she had the hots for. It seemed they were rather chummy with each other. Though they had the entire desk, which ran the length of the wall, to themselves, their chairs were only about a foot apart, so close that their legs were almost touching. The nurse was smiling and giggling at whatever Denise was saying to her. Again, I was struck by her beauty (the nurse's, not Denise's) and I sprung the beginnings of a hard-on as I envisioned my partner and her eating each other's pussies or grinding them together in a fit of lust. I'd never quite summoned the nerve to ask her if I could watch one of her encounters, knowing that it probably was a question that she would be deeply offended by, but I thought I might at least hint about the possibilities with this one. I could have a month's worth of jack-off fantasies just by seeing her nude. Two months if I saw Denise eating her box.

Denise caught my eye as I walked towards them and with a slight twist of her head, indicated that this would be a bad time for me to approach. I smiled my understanding. Before I turned away, she gave me a quick thumbs-up gesture. Apparently things were working out. Good. I was glad for her. I headed out of the treatment area towards triage, hoping to find an attractive nurse of my own to flirt with. Instead, a middle-aged, chubby one with bleach-blonde hair found me. She pulled me aside.

"Did you know," she whispered, "that that woman your partner is talking to is..." she looked around, seeing if anyone was listening. "Well, rumor has it that she's a lesbian." She said this last with a faint hiss of disgust. Lesbians weren't as common in Spokane as they were in Seattle and apparently weren't tolerated as well either.

"You don't say?" I said, feigning shock. "You think she might make a pass at my partner?"

The nurse shrugged in an all-knowing way. "She might. I certainly wouldn't put it past her. I've heard she's a shameless flirt with other women." She shook her head. "Disgusting. You might want to pull your partner away from there before something embarrassing happens."

Now it was no secret that Denise was gay. In fact, most people could tell, or at least gleam it just by looking at her. She wasn't ugly by any means but she presented herself in the part of a butch lesbian. Her brown hair was cut very short, shorter than mine was. She wore no make-up on her face and she carried herself in a manner that was not feminine.

"I've heard here and there," I whispered back to the nurse, "that my partner, now this is just rumor, don't tell anyone this, but that she just might be a lesbian too."

"No?" she said, eyes wide.

I nodded sadly. "She went to a Melissa Ethridge concert once."

"No!"

I nodded again, concealing a smile as I thought about this nurse rushing to tell all of her comrades in scrubs the "news" after we left. We were frequent visitors to this place and most of them already knew about Denise's sexual orientation.

"Now remember," I said as I walked away, giving her a wink. "Don't tell anyone."

"Of course not," she assured me.

I decided to try my luck in the nurse's lounge where, even if there were no nurses there, I could at least score a cup of coffee. Halfway there however I was stopped by Denise, who came running excitedly up behind me. She pulled me aside, out of earshot of any passers-by.

"She's going to go out with me," she told me happily. "Tonight. After work."

"Good for you," I told her. "That makes cleaning up that guy's brains and blood out of the chopper almost worthwhile."

"But you have to do me a favor," she said, quickly. "I'll owe you a big one if you do."

"What?" I inquired, wondering what her date could possibly have to do with me. Maybe she wanted me to videotape it?

"Well," she said softly, "her sister is in town and is staying with her and she doesn't want to leave her alone. So she asked if I could..."

"Find a date for her," I finished with her.

"Pleeeeeease?" Denise pleaded. "You don't have to fuck her or anything. Just sit with her and have a few drinks with her. Keep her occupied while I go to work on Destiny." She gave me a meaningful look. "I want this chick bad."

I definitely wasn't into blind dates. It was too much like tossing a set of dice down on the craps table. But Denise was my partner and my best friend and Destiny was very attractive which made it a good possibility that her sister was too. "All right," I said. "I'll do it. But you owe me big."

"I'd suck your dick for you if I was into that," she assured me. "Thanks. Let me go tell her."

The rest of the shift went by without much happening. We ran no further medical transports so we didn't get back to the hospital at all. At 11:30 that night we touched down and secured the chopper, handing it over to the night crew. We changed into our civilian clothes and met out in the airport parking lot. I hoped we weren't going anywhere fancy. I had only a pair of jeans, tennis shoes, and a Mariners T-shirt on and my house was too far away to go change. Denise, however, was dressed pretty similarly so I didn't worry myself about this.