CONVENTIONAL WISDOM
BY
CHERI CRYSTAL
CONVENTIONAL WISDOM
© 2013 By Cheri Crystal. All rights reserved.
THIS ELECTRONIC ORIGINAL SHORT STORY CONTAINS EROTIC CONTENT AND ADULT THEMES. READERS MUST BE OVER 18 TO PURCHASE.
PUBLISH DATE: 2ND EDITION OCTOBER 2013.
THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES, AND INCIDENTS ARE THE PRODUCT OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, BUISINESS ESTABLISHMENTS, EVENTS, OR LOCALES IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.
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FIND CHERI CRYSTAL ON THE WEB AT www.chericrystal.com
“I want to please you and tease you, lick you and fuck you.”
A psychologist by day and a smut writer by night, I was typing on my laptop when the captain announced it was time to turn off all electronic equipment before our final descent onto the runway at JFK International Airport. Five years ago felt like forever. That was when my parents sold our house, chock full of my childhood memories, and retired to Boca. I didn’t blame Mom and Dad for cashing in on a booming real estate market, but they sold a huge chunk of my life along with it. At twenty-five, I wasn’t ready to move into a retirement community, nor could I afford to live in the city alone, so I took a position as an outpatient Clinical Psychotherapist at the Women’s Mood Disorder Clinic in Baltimore, Maryland, and found a great deal on a condo. Since then, I hadn’t been back to the Big Apple.
I was born and raised in New York City and figured I’d live there my whole life, but plans change. The new job was a challenge. My patients were mostly young, otherwise healthy, privileged women who did themselves unthinkable bodily harm with grueling exercise routines, fad diets, laxatives, Ipecac, cutting, drugs, alcohol, and starvation. I spent every waking moment searching for the life-saving tools that would become the gold standard for treating those afflicted under my care.
I didn’t mind not having a social life. The men I had dated were total boars. Besides, I wasn’t looking for a relationship, or marriage, or a quick liaison to satisfy my pesky libido. I did the next best thing; I wrote steamy sex stories in my spare time and took advantage of self-erotic play fueled by an overactive imagination. It was safe and efficient, and for the most part, it took the edge off. I’d have self-combusted otherwise. The extra pocket change from my writing venture was a perk, but the real benefit was ridding all this pent up sexual frustration I didn’t even realize I suffered. At least, not until I attended a convention where I met a woman who would change my life.
It was a short flight from Baltimore to New York, and I could already visualize relaxing in a hot tub before the meet and greet at the Manhattan hotel hosting the convention. As the plane lost altitude, my stomach lurched and my ears clogged, but that didn’t dampen my mood. Looking out the small window as the plane flew over the Verrazano Bridge, and then the Belt Parkway, I noted how tiny and distorted all the joggers appeared through the double-plated panes. Just as they didn’t see what was real, many individuals pounded the pavement on the promenade along the ocean, oblivious to the surrounding beauty, focused instead on unattainable goals of looking like the Photoshop anorexics in display ads, with sixteen-inch waists, longer limbs than humanly possible, and flawless features. How many of them suffered mental anguish from warped notions of beauty and how many just wanted to stay in shape? I guessed the teeter-totter was heavier on the side of disorders.
Touchdown was abrupt. A sigh of relief escaped my lips, and then jubilation took over as I announced to the stranger in the seat beside me, “It sure is wonderful to be back in the greatest city in the world.” I was so excited to be home that I had nearly flown to the airport without the aid of an airplane. I only opted for the jet and the AirTrain to get me into the city and to the convention center the fastest way possible. Writing helped pass the traveling time. Don’t get me wrong; I had a nice townhouse in the Baltimore suburbs, a satisfying job and even a few friendly acquaintances, but I missed my real home. I missed New York.
I stood waiting by the luggage carousel, when a chance glimpse at a fetching femme stealing a kiss from her handsome butch lover gave me an idea. Always handy, my journal had two pages left to scribble another wild fantasy that made my clit twitch. God, that was hot! Had it been forty-eight hours since my last self-induced orgasm? Were my needs becoming an obsession, or was this gnawing in my gut from hunger? I seemed to get so turned on every time I spotted a voluptuous woman showing off an obscene amount of skin in a low-cut blouse, tight skirt, and spiked heels. As a result, I began to have serious doubts about my sexual orientation.
As part of a therapist’s training, we spent time in analysis. My sexual preference had never entered into the realm of discussion. Why should it? In those days, I was too busy establishing my career, writing sex stories to blow off steam, and not concerned that all of my hot tales had lesbian protagonists. Whenever I tried to address the overwhelming issue of my sexuality, life conveniently got in the way. Besides, plenty of straight women, and men, wrote girl on girl, didn’t they? Pseudonyms came in handy to disguise the identity and alter ego of an author.
I had recently begun to suspect that I was indeed a lesbian and became inept at suppressing my innate desires. I hadn’t had a boyfriend in years and decided to explore and confirm my discovery. I had never made love to a woman, but I had no trouble fantasizing and writing about it. Nope, no trouble at all. The moment I stopped ignoring the fact that I had to have a woman to test out my theory, my stories became unwittingly personal, they received rave reviews, and my fiction started flying off the shelves.
The human brain is either a powerful ally or a treacherous foe. My mind joined forces with my body as my entire being had plans to get me laid one way or the other.
As I left the air-conditioned building and walked toward modes of transport to the hotel, the hot, balmy air rivaled with my sex drive and hit me hard.
The hotel was nicer than I had imagined. From the outside, it looked like your typical skyscraper, but once inside, the lovely traditional furnishings, tall, live plants that reached towards vaulted ceilings, and exquisite shops and restaurants, felt like a different world. They had a breathtaking atrium. I must have walked past the hotel hundreds of times, but this was the first time I had ventured inside. After greeting a few colleagues I recognized from my local affiliations, I checked in at the front desk.
There had never been any reason for me to stay alone in the city, and I found the freedom exhilarating. For once, I wouldn’t have my parents making plans for me to go out with every eligible bachelor, nor would I be tied up with family obligations. For the first time, I was my own person, with my own plans. There would be hundreds of women in all shapes and sizes for my viewing pleasure and a whole week after the convention to be quite the tourist.
I opened the door and couldn’t miss the hiker’s backpack in the corner by the double bed near the window. With the subtly ruffled comforter and one pillow exposed, it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that my roommate for the week, a stranger I’d been paired with, was not only an outdoors girl, but she had checked in before I did and marked her territory.
I placed my suitcase on the bed with a grunt and started to unpack. She had first dibs on the closet. Neatly arranged and in descending order, the carefully pressed shirts, pants and shorts were color-coded in neutral shades of khaki, black or denim. Not a pastel or print in sight. It was generous of her to leave me two hangers. I hung up my dress suit and gra
bbed a handful of panties. The rest would have to wait. It was a good thing I was easy because she had chosen the top drawers, too. What a hog!
I sighed and kicked off my pumps, leaving them where they landed. Of course, her Keen sandals, cross-trainer athletic shoes, and a pair of polished black dress shoes were all lined up, too. There were no heels on her side of the closet. In fact, there wasn’t a skirt or dress to speak of. Then, surprised, I spotted a tuxedo and quickly glanced at the keycard envelope. Either I had the wrong room or my roommate was a lesbian. I hoped for the latter, but decided unpacking and pondering her sexuality could wait until later.
Leaving a cluttered mess, I briefly checked the mirror, satisfied that I looked presentable enough. I tucked my sleeveless pastel print cotton shirt into my tan slacks and adjusted the belt. After rummaging in my bag and tossing out a few items, I located and switched my nylon knee-highs for cushiony socks and a pair of sneakers. I was anxious to see if the hotel amenities lived up to the ads.
With my nose a centimeter from the mirror, I removed my glasses and plucked a long errant eyelash. Next, I checked out my hair. Typically wispy and a flyaway mess, it had waves and bounce thanks to hair products. That done, I was ready to explore unchartered territory, going where no woman had gone before, conquering mental illness at a single bound. I was definitely overtired and giddy.
Just as I threw open the door to leave, I was face-to-breast with a solid, towering mass of sweat-soaked, human flesh wearing a sport bra and nylon shorts that sat just below her belly button. When I glanced up, her dimpled grin exposed even white teeth in a face that exuded the tomboyish charm of an athlete adorning a box of Wheaties cereal beneath the slogan, "The Breakfast of Champions." I swallowed my gum.
She swiped the small towel draped over her shoulder and cleaned off her hand before extending it in greeting. “Hey there.” Her legs spread equidistant to her broad shoulders; she was easily six-feet tall, counting her spiked, reddish-brown hair. Her eyes were aquamarine blue. Something about her was familiar. I was sure of it, but couldn’t place the face. She was a knockout, and I nearly went down on the carpet right there on the threshold. Just when I needed it most, my voice faltered. It felt like days before I spoke, but I managed to accept her hand.
“I’m Chaz,” she offered, when I still hadn’t uttered a peep. She cocked one eyebrow and her dimples deepened in response to her smile.
How did I remain upright? My cheeks flushed when my grasp slipped from hers. To hide my embarrassment, I said, with my heart lodged in my throat, “I’m Janet Weiss.”
“Hi, Janet. It seems you’re stuck with me as your roomie. Have any plans for dinner?”
I mentally whipped my senses back into shape, cleared my throat, and threw out as self-assured smile as I could muster. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
She smirked, but an underlying interest sparkled in her eyes. “I doubt we’ve met. I would have remembered you.” She moved in for a closer look. “Are your lashes real?”
I blinked a few times in disbelief. The scent of her musk combined with the sheen on her skin made me dizzy. “Of course they’re real.”
“I once dated a woman who wore eyelash extensions. They looked almost as lush as yours.” She shrugged. “I was just wondering.”
So, she was a lesbian. And very open about it. Well, good for her. Then it hit me. “I remember where I saw you!”
Her dimples practically winked at me. Another pesky flutter kicked me in my stomach, and I promptly ignored it. Sort of.
“I saw your picture in the newsletter in reference to your journal articles,” I continued. “Weren’t you and your team responsible for the groundbreaking research that virtually put a hole in the theory that women desire, seek and partner with other women because they can’t find a man?”
“Thanks. That would be me.”
“I especially appreciated your paper about the role societal pressure to conform plays in relation to rises in drug and alcohol abuse in those who are outside the norm, particularly, homosexuals. Excellent work!”
I wasn’t sure how much more my visceral reaction could withstand in such close proximity to this drop-dead gorgeous hunk of a woman. I didn’t usually get turned on this easily. Surely, my body was misinterpreting signals from my brain, but I couldn’t for the life of me get my mind off what she’d look like naked. “How do you like that? I’m rooming with Dr. Olivia Chase.”
“Chaz.”
“Okay, Chaz.” I grinned at the noteworthy researcher. “The findings of your research were revolutionary. You've really broken ground on dispelling the myth surrounding an established stereotype and changed many psychologists’ perception, too. We were all discussing its merits. I’m curious how you managed to collect a most impressive sample size.”
“Thank you, but you’re giving me too much credit here. However, I’d be happy to discuss it further over dinner.”
She was smooth. I looked at my watch for lack of somewhere less incriminating than her breasts as I pondered the possibility of picking her brain. I found myself sexually aroused in an arena I hadn’t a clue about. It didn’t help that her top was damp and revealing or that my nose was literally parallel to the fine peaks protruding through skin-tight material.
“Dinner could work. I was just going to have a look around the hotel.”
“Great. I’ll grab a quick shower and meet you in the lobby, say five, five-thirty?” She stepped out of her running shoes and peeled off the sweat socks. Her toes were aligned in descending size order. Nice feet.
“Fine.” Had I contemplated changing before the reception, there was no way I could stand under her gaze another moment without helping her out of her clothes, especially after she gave me the once over followed by an appreciative smile. I was suddenly on fire and in need of a quick dunk in a wintery Atlantic Ocean.
She had her hands on her hips with her fingertips dangerously beneath the waistband of her shorts as if ready to remove them. I turned around so fast she might have caught a breeze had she been a few inches closer.
“Catch you later,” I said, my voice cracking like a pubescent boy. Not to waste any time or more accurately, to distance myself from these unsettling feelings, I left. I could not stand still, let alone wait for the elevator, and ran down the emergency staircase. I didn’t realize then that I was going to look back on the stairwell fondly.
Vigilant and anxiously awaiting Chaz’s arrival, I had trouble concentrating on anything except for my gut reaction to her. More the scientific type, I’m not superstitious, nor do I believe in magic, but if someone had said that Chaz had cast a spell on me, I would have believed them without theorems. Yet, I couldn’t trust a spontaneous physical reaction no matter how powerful. I decided to proceed with caution. Nobody falls in love at first sight. That happened only in fiction.
Later, when she entered the lobby at five sharp, I had to remember how to breathe. Her navy polo shirt and khaki pants looked infinitely better on her than on the hanger. The casual outfit and the comfortable air about her was almost as alluring as her freshly scrubbed face, gelled hair and warm smile.
“Hi there.”
“Hello yourself.”
“When you didn’t come back to the room to change clothes, I didn’t dress up for dinner either. We could always go back up if you have something fancier in mind.”
The statement was innocent enough, but why did I suddenly feel naked beneath her gaze? I know I wanted to test my lesbian theory and get laid, but now that my fantasy was in the realm of possibility, I was getting frostbitten toes. I gulped. This wasn’t going to work. I couldn’t room with this woman. I didn’t trust her, and I certainly didn’t trust myself. I felt trapped and immobilized without an escape route.
Concern clouded her eyes. “Is everything okay?”
“Um, yeah,” I stammered. “I’m not really that hungry, and I may just go lie down.”
“I’ll escort you back up. We can order room service.”
; That was a horrible idea. “You know,” I started, “I am hungry after all. Why don’t we beat the rush and find a restaurant outside the hotel?” The walk and some car exhaust would be just what I needed to clear my head and take my mind off this insufferable instant lust. I am a New Yorker. Cautious to a fault. I wouldn’t have sex with someone I didn’t get medical clearance on, right? I’m usually level-headed and know exactly what I want, how to get it, and I’m decisive. What the heck was this Chaz doing to me? The internal rant would have accelerated further had she not interrupted.
“That sounds great. I’ve only been to the city once before, and I was too small to remember much.”
I couldn’t picture this larger than life person being small, and I hadn’t thought about her being an out-of-towner. An excellent idea occurred to me. “I grew up here. Allow me to be your guide.”
There were those dimples, only this time, I had armor. I loved showing off my hometown.
“Excellent!” she said. “My cousin is marrying a guy from New York at the end of the week. I’m in the bridal party. She’s more like a sister, so I’m sure I’ll be back often.”
“Now I know why there’s a tux in the closet.”
“Sorry about that, but I called housekeeping after I had unpacked and put in an additional order of hangers. I saw you had a few packed. That was smart. Anyway, I didn’t mean to hog the closet.”
Here was another reason why first impressions weren’t always accurate. I was starting to really like this woman, but still, I had to go slow.
“Where is the reception?”
“Tavern on the Green.”
“That’s in Central Park. I’ll show you.”
“Thanks. That would be great. The convention worked out well because the wedding is at the end of the week.”
The early evening was balmy. We walked and talked, carefree, and I soon found her not only fascinating, but totally adorable and not at all obsessive the way I had originally thought. Here I imagined a scholar of her magnitude would either be arrogant or socially inept. Neither was true.
Conventional Wisdom Page 1