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Doctor’s Office Slut

I hardly ever go to the Grove anymore. It isn’t fun without Sue Doughnym, who enjoys watching me chase girls I will never fuck. Never is a strong word. Maybe ‘no time soon’ would be more precise and feel better to say. But I was on my way home from there one evening when I had hunger driving down 3rd street which I knew I would starve before I stopped at any overpriced shithole and paid for a 25 dollars for one vegetarian egg-roll and be forced to look at the decor my 25 dollars was paying for while having to share space with the women who want to be seen looking class and sophistication before they vomit their small portions and run home to guilelessly watch American idol which they have recorded on DVR.

Their borderline queer male company, scurrying back to the apt by Runyon canyon, wondering why they were dismissed so early in the evening. There is nowhere else to stop for food (that is safe to eat) on 3rd street so I kept driving. And the detailed awareness and knowledge of these Runyon canyon people made me start to feel physically sick. I was subconsciously trying to lose my appetite.

That is, until I saw the neon sign in capital letters BR. I stopped for my favorite pralines and cream malt. The counter was high for a short man like me, but I could see the girl working was very beautiful. She had way too much green eye shadow on, but it was in a sorta 70’s look like Amy Winehouse wears, and looked very hot on her. I wanted to solicit the girl, but her manager, who was wearing a yarmulke and looked like Jeff Goldblum in the fly halfway into his metamorphosis, obviously wanted to fuck this girl and i don’t blame him cause so did I. he was obviously tortured by the way she was looking at me. So she made me my malt, all the time being breathed on by the fly, so I quickly grabbed my receipt and scribbled my phone on it, trying to be coy as I handed it to her saying “there is something i wanted to ask you”. I left with my malt and something else to imagine later and for possibly days to come.

The next day I received a text message:
Hi, this is Marian from BR, you wanted to ask me something?

I did the text message game for awhile when I found out that Marian wanted to see me as soon as possible. She was working in Hawthorne, and suggested I come visit her at work. We made the date for 330pm. It is of importance to note that this went very easily. There were no games at all which made me thoroughly happy and slightly suspicious. So I arrive 3:00. The buildings were doctors’ offices. I was a half hour early. Oh, come on, wouldn’t you be?

She answered the door in her green scrubs giggling nervously that I was a half hour early, and had scared her. She had spilled something wet all over her scrubs. She told me the doctors all went home at noon and then she was all alone the rest of the day.

If I was Eddie Murphy this would’ve been the moment where I looked directly into the camera and grinned. The spill had come from the 40 of corona she was drinking to get hammered in preparation for me. that was a hilarious scene. It was like a Saturday afternoon in her living room. She had food, booze, and montel on the TV in the waiting room. I chilled on the couch while she finished preparing. She was in the back for awhile.

I did have daydreams on that couch of what was to come next. But the daydreams, as with all over thinking people quickly transited into myself, drugged, waking up with an organ missing in a tub full of ice with a phone and a note saying “call 911”.

The economy IS taking a dive… I AM in a doctor’s office…Then I began to wonder if that was going to be my lot in life. Always caught between nymph-psycho organ thieves and the Runyon canyon people. Were these my choices? And I vowed RIGHT THEN the thought of being squeezed between these two horrible options would not weaken and drive me to marry.

Finally she came out, and she giggled and flirted and I pretended to watch Montel with her. She was so giggly and every time she acted cute this way I grabbed her ass. When she was making the malt for me the counter was very high and I could not see her figure, but it was perfectly voluptuous. She was a Latin Scarlet Johansson, except she was not pretending to be smart. She’d giggle about something, I’d grab her ass, try to kiss her. She’d say she wasn’t ready and run to the back.

This went on for about an hour and a half. She flirts, I go in, she pushes me off like she didn’t invite me over to fuck me and she’d run to the back. And finally, when she could take no more, she got pissed at me saying something to me about how she thought I was different; she thought I had my shit together. I barked back at her that if she would stop acting like she was 12 years old and actually engage me in a conversation worth having that I wouldn’t be trying to fuck her as often.

And that was the revelation. That was what I had been thinking for so many years with so many girls and, now, at 30, I finally said it exactly the way I meant it. There was no confusion and no debate that followed. The girl must’ve been smart enough to know what I was saying because she teared up a little. After that we talked on the couch for awhile seriously and then she gave me tour of the doctor’s office and a little pussy. We didn’t have sex but she made me come twice. She was a nice girl. The second time we fooled around on a very awkward machine, my holding onto a protruding medical device while she extracted the sample.

I then laid on the waiting room couch, watching daytime happily for the second time in my life, the first being when I had been suspended from school once in the 7th grade and given a free vacation. We talked some more. This is a strange doctor’s office I told her, I’ve never been any doctor’s office that looked like this. The machines are odd looking contraptions. “They are gynecologists” she told me. This is a gynecologist’s office, she repeated. I don’t know how long I laughed. This girl was obviously slightly disturbed. I asked her where she lived. She told me Crenshaw and Beverly. Two streets in Los Angeles that DO NOT intersect. There was some suggestion in her every move that was dying to be saved from something. And she was going to lure me. Was she living here? Was she sleeping with the doctors? Was she trading sex for free gyno? Free ice cream? BOTH? Later, she cut me a picture of her in a sexy pose from when she was 19. She was now 24, she said anyway.

I dosed off. When I woke up it was almost dark. She was nowhere in sight. I went back to look for her, she was hitting the pipe in the stirrup room. The pipe was glass and the smoke coming out was whiter than Hillary Clinton and had no smell at all. I asked her when she started smoking that shit. She said yesterday. I asked her what It is. She said the master Kush. I asked her if I could hit it. She would give me a hit only if she was evil, she said. If I wanted to be with her for real, could she stop smoking that shit? She said, with a sly grin “maybe”. I still wanted to fuck her. I tried one more time. Nope. She kicked me out with my organs intact.

In the week or two that followed I had brief chats with her. She was working or going to this party or that. Not available. I began showing my friends her picture, as the reality that I would see her again dwindled. Though she was texting that she missed me, and all the other stuff people say sappy. I was ready to exploit her. I was very proud of telling my friends I had met this gorgeous girl, and with the picture as proof. A few more weeks went by and the story became truer in its telling. She went from the gorgeous girl to the gorgeous meth whore.

Finally about a month or so went by and she texted me frantically that she wanted to see me before I went outa town for my friend Brock’s wedding. So I told her I would come get a malt and we made plans for when she was next working. I drove into Hollywood to meet her. There were two girls working and the creepy manager was there, but no Marian. So now instead of explaining details of my failure with the slut from the doctor’s office to each friend, one at a time, here it is in one entertaining story. If you visit the Baskin Robbins have a pralines and cream malt and make sure to say hello to her for me.