From: [email protected]
Subject: Nurse Jones gets exercised
Date: 14 Nov 92 01:09:45 GMT
Sender: [email protected] (Anonymous Contact Service)
From Nurse Jones, Spring, 1992
I'm such a hypocrite. One week I'm whining about my inverted nipples
and the next I'm showing them to the world. Anita says I'm weird in
the head. I guess she's right. Sometimes I just come over all funny
and do something outrageous.
It was last Saturday when we both went to the exercise spa. We had had
a really good workout with the best aerobics instructor. We took a
sauna afterward and this kid came into the sauna a few minutes after
we did. The same kid that has been worshiping me from afar ever since
I hung my towel over the end of his barbell one day. Well, he was ...
watching ... me. Now he worships Anita, too, ever since we've been
going to the aerobics class together on Saturdays.
Anyway, we went into the sauna after our workout and we were sitting
there at opposite ends of this shelf-bench thing and we were all
demurely wrapped in our towels and this kid comes in and sits opposite
us. Wearing shorts, like they do in the Deep South. I bet nobody in
California covers up in a sauna.
So, the three of us sat there in total silence for ages, baking and
letting the kinks drain away. The light is kind of dim in there; it is
very restful and quiet. I could hear the other two sigh now and then,
and there was a hot tin duct or something that made an occasional
faint metallic ticking noise as it expanded in the heat.
After a while, the kid took his towel and wiped his face and arms.
Anita and I were leaning back against these wooden backrests that are
built into the bench. I suppose it may have looked like we were
asleep, but we were watching each other through almost-closed eyes,
Anita and I. I think the kid was looking at Anita's legs. Anyway, I
was sitting there thinking about how nice a real sauna would be, one
that didn't have a dress code, and I got mildly irritated with the
South for some reason. I don't know what came over me, really. It must
have been the heat. For some reason, I suddenly just didn't care
anymore. I mean, really. It's ridiculous sitting there wrapped up in a
towel, what with it being nearly 200 degrees and all.
I reached up to my towel, to where it was wrapped around me tucked
under my armpits, and I just put my hand there, holding the towel.
Anita was watching me, and after a minute of me sitting there with my
hand on my towel looking back at her, she figured out what I was about
to do and she put her hand on HER towel, too. Neither one of us
changed expression; our eyes stayed nearly shut, but I know Anita and
I can tell when she's keeping a straight face.
Then, at the same time, we both loosened our towels and let them fall
to our waists.
Anita was the only one that could see what the kid was doing. The way
I was facing, he was just barely in my peripheral vision, but there
was total silence. It sounded exactly like the kid not breathing, a
sound I had heard before.
We just sat and baked.
That pipe was still making that ticking noise; it seemed like ages
between each tick. A drop of perspiration ran down my ribs. I didn't
move. The hell with it, I thought. The hell with everything. I relaxed
again. It's The South's problem, let The South deal with it.
Suddenly, the kid got up and left. He practically ran out the door.
Still, neither of us moved. Anita said later that when we dropped our
towels he sat there for a minute, stock still, gaping, and when he got
up to run he kind of held his towel in front of his shorts. Neither of
us moved, though; we just sat and baked. I didn't even open my eyes.
Anita said that after a few minutes of expressionless silence a very
faint smile appeared on my lips. Just for a few seconds. She said my
change of expression was so tiny that it was practically nonexistant,
but she called it a "smirk of faint and positively evil satisfaction."
Now really, it was not. And besides, can I help it if southerners are
so uptight? Whose fault is that, anyway?
She says it's not his fault he was brought up in the South.
Besides, she dropped her towel, too.
But you enjoyed it, she says. She says I like to dissect people. She
says I'm a sociopath. She says I indulge in the social equivalent of
recreational vivisection. She says I'm a psychic vampire. She says it
would be cruelty if it weren't for the fact that I do it to myself,
too.
Well I mean, really. All I did was drop my towel.
Jeez. Psychic vampire?
Nurse Jones,
Vun uff de
cheeldren uff de
night...
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