Lisa assumes her new job and life. She learns of the possible plot against her - and hatches a wild scheme to identify the players.
Betrayed Ch. 08
by Cherysse St. Claire ©
Chapter Eight: The Noose Tightens
Did I happen to mention everything was moving so fast? People weren't
really surprised Lance Layton took his commission and ran for the door as
fast as he could. There wasn't an employee in the firm who didn't wish
they could produce the same results for themselves. The rumors ran
rampant: he had purchased his own seat and started his own firm; he was
trading through the Internet from his new home in Aruba; his marital
problems had so devastated him, he had quit the business entirely and now
ran a charter boat in Key West (my personal favorite); he had secretly
been Michael Jackson all along, hiding out from the glare of publicity
while attempting to re-build his fortune.
Nor were they really surprised Rob and Jim had 'gone outside' to acquire
their new Executive Vice-President. Lisa Layne had come highly
recommended. She and Lance had been classmates and friendly competitors in
the Finance curriculum at their university, so the gossip went. They had
both gone into futures trading and, according to the departed Mr. Layton,
she had done quite well herself. When he decided to leave the firm, he had
floated her name as his best possible replacement. The two senior
executives had planned to make him their choice for V.P., but valued his
judgment and had tendered her an offer, which she had accepted. Angie had
been proud to come up with, then disseminate, that plum piece of
disinformation. One very real aspect of this move was: Major Trades was
being re-vamped into the "Strategic Trading Group", and its direction
would be the new Vice-President's - my - primary focus.
Another rumor spread immediately, and unbidden; the new Veep was "a real
looker". That rumor probably began in the Transportation Department. I
hadn't known we even had a 'Transportation Department'. Most likely, it
was just three or four guys from Maintenance who had been Shanghai-ed into
going down to the garage, loading Lisa Layne's recently-arrived personal
effects onto carts, then bringing them up the service elevator to the top
floor and delivering them to her new office. She and her Personal
Assistant had been there to supervise the unloading. The guys already knew
Angie. They had been suitably (no pun intended) impressed with Ms. Layton
herself. Add the glowing welcoming memo circulated from the Offices of the
Chairman and President, and everyone accepted the new 'suit' without a
second thought — but not without a second look.
That was Wednesday morning. To preserve the fiction of the 'outside hire'
and thus protect my identity, Angie and I had boxed up all my stuff from
my office Tuesday night, then taken it down to the garage on those same
carts. Employee Relations had fast-tracked the new hire's paperwork after
receiving the memo from Rob. I don't know how the issue of the Social
Security Number had been handled. Angie told me it was best if I didn't
know for now; 'plausible deniability'. Maybe she bought one on the
Internet.
She and I had gone shopping Tuesday afternoon for my new wardrobe. One of
my 'executive perks' was a generous clothing allowance, which came in very
handy. The outfits we purchased were tasteful. Okay, they were largely
tasteful; after all, I was a Vice-President now. With Angie helping me
pick out my apparel, you know there were going to be some delightfully
feminine touches — like... no pantsuits or pantyhose. Somehow, a portion
of my clothing allowance found its way into 'leisurewear'. I even got to
expense my new corsetry — and a few other little 'ups and extras'. Sigh.
The things we must do to get ahead in Business....
At home, Angie boxed up all of Lance's clothes, shoes, and underwear to
make room for Lisa's. She was all set to take it down to Goodwill. I told
her an Executive Assistant did not concern herself with grunt work; I
would have someone pick it up and deliver it. I did - to a storage locker
on North Clark Street, just in case the 'Lisa' thing didn't work out....
The whole girly-girl thing completely bewildered me. I had dismissed my
childhood wonder long ago as exactly that. Now, that wonderment had
sprouted and taken root like a long-dormant seed. It was turning out to be
one of those things you didn't know you were going to like, then suddenly
discovered you really, really do and can't get enough of. It's kind of
like having a compulsion for Hot Fudge Sundaes — without the calories.
Angie loved it. She now had a girlfriend at work with whom she had so much
in common. That her girlfriend was also her supervisor, whom now wrote her
performance reviews, was Serendipity itself. That her girlfriend was
also... well, you get the idea.
Dianna couldn't have been happier for me. Now that 'Lisa' was going to be
around 24/7, she lobbied me heavily to get 'done'. I was tempted, but
worried about the degree of permanence it would attach to this strange new
lifestyle. Was I ready for that? I offered up the thirteen weeks remaining
before the show as a dodge. Would that be enough time? She argued yes, if
we hurried. My lover had been surprisingly understanding about the
'promotion party'. She was not ashamed to admit using sex to get what she
wanted and saw no difference in what I did; it wasn't like I was out
cruising for a new boyfriend. I didn't see the wisdom in pointing out the
'new boyfriend' may have been out cruising for me. I loved her and that
was that.
She was overwhelmed I had thought so much of her, I had immediately hopped
in a cab and come to share it all with her, rather than letting it wait or
not telling her at all. No one before me, she avowed, had ever displayed
such consideration for her thoughts and feelings. She had begun crying
again, and I had to find a creative way to dry her tears and turn her sobs
into shrieks of bliss.
As much as I was learning about her, I still felt Dianna was an enigma. It
wasn't so much what she said as what she didn't say. I had had the
impression before; she was holding something back. I had visited Ringers
and talk to Chantal and the other girls. I learned Dianna, like most of
the girls, held back from everyone, including her friends, to protect
herself from being hurt. Pain — both physical and emotional — was a
constant in their world. I didn't know what she might still be withholding
from me, but hoped it wouldn't damage us both.
***
My attorney called Thursday morning. When I had initiated my proceedings
against Susan, I had specified that my communications to and from him
would be via my cell phone, not through the company switchboard. Although
'Lisa' now had her own cell, I had retained my original one for exactly
this reason. As much as I respected Angie, I didn't want to expose my
'dirty laundry' to her or anyone else in the company. Now, I was glad I
had had the foresight.
The investigator had dug up a goldmine of information which explained a
lot. Jeff Spencer had a major gambling problem. The 'multi-millionaire
star' was in serious debt to the bookies. Susan had been carrying him
financially. Now she too had been stretched to the limit, maintaining the
façade of their star-quality lifestyle. No wonder she wanted me back! So,
which ploy would she use? Live with me, while secretly sucking me dry to
prop up her lover, or tell me it had "all been an awful mistake, and can
you ever forgive me?" - and dump the QB like yesterday's trash? Then
again, if she did dump Jeff, how long would she stay this time before her
roving eye caught sight of fresh meat? No thanks.
There had been another disturbing development. The phone taps indicated a
suspicious pattern of activity between Jeff and another party, presumed to
be female. At first the investigator suspected it was simply one of his
other lovers — one Susan did not know about. The taps recorded
conversation that indicated Jeff was running some kind of sting operation
— and I was the target! The apparent intent was to ruin my personal
reputation in a very public way, allowing Susan to side-step my
allegations of "Open and Notorious Adultery" and clean me out.
It was unknown at that time whether or not Susan was involved in the
set-up, as her voice never appeared in any of the conversations. The
communications were directed to and from a pre-paid disposable cell phone
which the investigator could not trace. He was currently trying to obtain
the cellular records to isolate which cell towers had handled the calls,
to get a better idea of where the third party was geographically located.
In the meantime, the attorney cautioned me to be especially vigilant in my
professional and personal relationships and not involve myself in any
activity which could be turned against me legally and, more importantly,
publicly.
Now he tells me!
This was a conspiracy theorist's wet dream. Jeff's contact was "presumed
to be female." There were a lot of new 'females' in my life of late. Most
of them seemed to be hell-bent on pushing me down a path that was
guaranteed to explode in my face if it was ever made public. That path had
just been institutionalized; 'Lance' was gone and 'Lisa' was a company
executive. Angie had pushed hard, blackmailed me down that road. Then
again, Dianna wasn't exactly trying to talk me out of it, anymore than
were the girls at Ringers. In fact, I met the gorgeous T-girl because she
had 'dated' Jeff. For that matter, this would be just the kind of revenge
Susan would eat up to get back at me for leaving her, even if it was her
own fault.
The conspirators were not necessarily limited to Jeff and one female,
either. That could be just the tip of the iceberg. The firm — that is, Rob
and Jim — leased a skybox at Soldier Field for entertaining current and
prospective clients, politicians, and other notables. Naturally, they were
cozy with the team's management and, on social occasions, player
personnel. It wasn't conceivable they had never met Jeff Spencer, the
team's star. Could they all be in this together?
My employers had taken great pains to be supportive of me through my
crisis with Susan — but dare I take that at face value? Money talks; did
my money — the money I made for them in the course of my work - talk
louder than the team's? I said the team's because they had a substantial
stake in the quarterback's wellbeing. They might not publicly bail him out
of his potentially scandalous problem. That would be a public relations
disaster for both the team and the league. But if they could deflect any
breaking scandal onto another person while helping their 'investment' out
financially, wouldn't they jump at the chance? Who do I trust? Perhaps, as
the cliché goes, I should trust no one.
Key West was looking better all the time.
***
¡Qué Diga! What do you mean, a 'fashion show'? Have you been holding out
on me, Mija?"
"I didn't think it was that big a deal, Angie," I responded, embarrassed.
That's why I've been wearing corsets every day. Paul said I would need
figure training..."
"Get outta town!" Angie barked. "Paul C., the corset-maker, wants you to
model for him? I would kill just to meet him, let alone walk the runway
for him. Our paths never seem to cross."
"I can introduce you," I offered. "To tell you the truth, I think you
would be perfect as one of his models — much better than me."
"What do you mean, 'much better than you'?" my assistant challenged. "You
are gorgeous!"
"Yeah," I countered, "but you have the body for it; I don't. Face it; I'm
just not endowed like you. A lot of Paul's creations feature either demi
cups or no cups at all. I would need a heavyweight Hollywood special
effects artist to craft a convincing pair of boobs and a tush for me to
wear that stuff."
"How about a heavyweight Chicago plastic surgeon instead?" the Latina
chirped.
Not her, too!
"Actually," I admitted, "I've discussed that with friends. With only
thirteen weeks to go, I don't think I could be ready in time."
"Thirteen weeks?" Angie questioned.
Then, her eyes lit up.
"Ohmigod!" she gasped. "You're doing the fashion show at the Mr. Gay
Leather Pageant? Oh, Honey; people come from all over the United States,
Canada, and Europe for that. It is one of the biggest gay/fetish events of
the year! Thirteen weeks is plenty of time if we get on it right now. I'll
get on the phone and clear it with Rob. He will eat this up!"
"Do you really think so?" I gushed, with false enthusiasm. "I can't wait."
I gulped — with luck, imperceptibly — and hoped for the umpteenth time I
knew what I was doing.
I had embarked upon a dangerous game of cat-and-mouse. I wasn't one to sit
back and let events run their course, regardless of the outcome. That is
not what commodity traders do. I was determined to discover the nature of
the 'hammer', and who was dropping it on me.
I had my attorney and his investigator on my side. I had not divulged
anything about 'Lisa' to them; at least, not yet. My attorney would have
had a stroke, with such a revelation coming on the heels of the warning he
had just given me. I could not go to The Media. Publicity was the one
thing I was trying to avoid at all costs. If the story did break at this
point, the conspirators would simply crawl back under their rock and
gloat, having accomplished what they set out to do.
I could not go to the police, either. I had learned enough through Dianna
and the girls at Ringers to know cops abuse transgenders worse than
Society at large. In their eyes, 'Lisa Layne, Executive Vice-President'
would appear to be a T-girl scam of epic proportions. At the same time,
Jeff Spencer was an idol to every macho jerk in Chicago — particularly the
ones wearing badges. Chicago's Finest would more likely take Susan and
Jeff's side than mine, unless I could provide iron-clad proof of criminal
conduct on their part.
I would have to draw the conspirators out in the open to obtain that
proof. To accomplish that, I would need to dangle some bait. Hey, maybe I
was in the fishing business after all.
Rob didn't know that heavyweight plastic surgeon personally, but Jim did.
His ex-wife swore by the doctor's work — and she had reason(s) to know.
Rob gave his enthusiastic Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval and Jim made
the call. Chicago is all about Clout; Rob and Jim had it. Yeah, that's
right; Five PM, that afternoon, offices on Superior Street, for the
consultation.
Before I kept that appointment, I needed to get with Paul, A.S.A.P.
I was glad I didn't have to give up the Mercedes when I gave up 'Lance'.
The ploy had been so simple: When Lance decided to leave the firm and get
a fresh start, he had sold it to his 'friend', Lisa. She had been grateful
to forego the hassle of transporting a car from the city where she had
been living. She hadn't been hesitant to tell people around the company
the elegant E500 Sport was a nice 'upgrade' from her Lexus. Angie was
eating up the luxury sedan as we made our way to Rogers Park. I could tell
she was really getting into the perks of the 'Executive' lifestyle.
Paul was as gracious as ever. If he cast a lustful glance at me and the
even more voluptuous Angie, he kept it a discreet one.
"Lisa!" he boomed. "You look absolutely lovely! You really are going to be
perfect for the show. And who is your charming companion?"
"Paul," I began, "this is my friend, Angie. I was wondering if you could
use her..."
"...in a heartbeat," he finished. "She's in. I would be lucky to have her.
We can get started taking her measurements immediately."
"Paul," I went on, "there's something else. Angie... well, it looks like
I'm gonna get some work done in time for the show; a boob job at least,
maybe more."
The growing smile on his face was precious to behold.
"That's fantastic!" he gushed. That's going to put a whole new spin on
what I'll have you model. The possibilities...."
Then, his face fell.
"Aw, crap!" he barked. "I've already started your garments, based on your
existing measurements. I'm at a point where I can still modify the
dimensions, but I won't have any idea what your new measurements will be
until it's too late! Can you give me some idea?"
"Uh, mmmm..." I hedged.
I hadn't thought of that. I was too new at this; I couldn't quote him
numbers. I glanced around the room, hands raised in exasperation.
"Will mine do?" Angie inquired sweetly. Butter would have melted in her
mouth.
Paul's eyes bugged out.
"You can do that in time?" he asked reverently.
Angie grabbed my arm and snuggled up to me.
"I guarantee we can!" she gushed, before I had a chance to say anything.
"Two of you with the same body?" he queried incredulously. "That body?
Dear God; this is a fetish designer's dream come true. With the two of
you, plus D-"
"Yes, exactly," I interrupted hastily. "Would that work out?"
"Work out?" he asked, stunned. "It will only be my best show ever — and
it's Mr. Gay Leather, too. That is always one of my top-grossing shows.
Lisa, my cup runneth over...."
He glanced down at our respective cleavages and grinned.
"Well," he continued, "mine and a few others. Thank you; you made my day.
Now, let's get Angie's measurements."
Pure reflex had caused me to cut Paul off before uttering Dianna's name in
Angie's presence. I could rationalize my action by citing: in a
conspiracy, divide and conquer; never divulge who or how much you already
know. I didn't really know a thing, but I wanted to keep the suspects
compartmentalized. If I had been really truthful with myself, I would have
admitted I didn't want to complicate my life still further by allowing my
two lovers to know about each other. Betrayal begins so simply....
On our way back to the car, Angie seized my head in both hands and speared
my mouth with a searing kiss. I stumbled, arms flailing, at the sudden
onslaught.
"What was that for?" I finally gasped.
"I can think of about a dozen reasons off the top of my head," she
chirped, "but for starters, thank you for going through with this."
"I haven't gone through with anything," I pointed out.
"But you will," she continued, unfazed. "I know you will because I know
you. Whatever you start, you always see it through. That's just one of a
million things, big and small, I love about you, Sweetie."
I flinched when the words left her lips.
Mistaking my suspicion for hesitation, Angie pressed her body tightly
against mine and ground her pussy into me enticingly. She smiled that
alluring Cheshire smile again.
"You do want my body, don't you?" she purred. "At least, you gave me that
impression Monday night."
This was the same double entendre I had experienced with Dianna. If I
denied her one, would she then deny me the other? Why should this matter
to me when I had Dianna? Did I have Dianna? For that matter, did I have
Angie? Beebeebeebeebeebeebeebee....
"Let's go see a doctor about a body," I sighed.
She kissed me softly.
"I knew you would," she murmured. "You are gonna look so delicious with a
pair of full, firm melons, a tiny waist, and a big, round bubble butt,
just like me!"
As I said: tasteful.
***
Dr. Peter Reagan's offices were in one of those gentrified ex-warehouses.
The airy loft-style office was all bright, freshly-sandblasted brick
walls, glossy hardwood floors and doors, comfortable-but-not-ostentatious
chairs and sofas, framed water colors, brass hardware and the obligatory
potted ferns. The high ceilings were criss-crossed with exposed,
freshly-insulated ductwork. It almost looked like a River North Yuppie
bar, rather than a doctor's office. I half expected the doctor to resemble
Butch McGuire, incarnate.
He didn't. Doctor Reagan was in his late thirties and stood about six feet
tall, with a thick shock of dark brown hair, piercing grey eyes that
missed nothing, rugged good looks and a smile that would melt a glacier in
Antarctica.
"Miss Layne, it is a pleasure to meet you," he intoned sonorously. "You
come highly recommended."
"I've heard that," I sighed, smiling ruefully, then added: "Thank you."
The grip from his large hand was so gentle as it took mine, yet I could
easily visualize it crushing bone. I was grateful when he offered us seats
in his office. My knees were having difficulty supporting my weight in his
presence. I knew he knew at a glance, yet his demeanor was nothing but
quiet admiration. I glanced down and noticed he wasn't wearing a wedding
band. Now why the hell would that interest me?
"Angie," he effused. "It's so good to see you again. Everything is going
okay, I trust? They look beautiful!"
I turned my head and gave my companion a
'have-you-been-holding-out-on-me?' stare. She just smirked and shrugged
her shoulders a little.
"I couldn't be happier with them, Doctor," she replied brightly. "I've had
the nicest compliments about them — which brings us to why we are here
today. My friend Lisa adores them so much, she... well, you tell him,
Lisa."
Nothing like putting me on the spot. Suck it up, Baby Girl. Play out the
string in this tawdry little drama. Lull the Bad Guys into a false sense
of security. When they raise their heads - WHAMO!
"I'm so embarrassed to put it this way," I began, "but I am so enchanted
with Angie's breasts, I... want a pair just like them."
"Just the breasts?" Dr. Reagan inquired bemusedly.
I could feel my face flush from the base of my neck to my hairline. Angie
took my hand in hers.
"She is such a sweetheart," the Latina chimed softly, "and so embarrassed
about all this. She's trying to say she wants it all; boobs, buns, hips,
the whole package. We're already working on her waistline."
Dr. Reagan came around his desk.
"May I?" he inquired, as he reached for my torso.
He felt around for a moment. The only sign of recognition of my confining
undergarment was a twinkle in those grey eyes and a trace of a smile on
his lips.
"She's coming along nicely, too," he confirmed. "She obviously has good
tone to begin with. I could probably help the process along with some
micro-liposuction. Rib removal is an option if you are really serious
about an 'hourglass figure'. Might I suggest we take a little off the nose
here..."
He indicated the point to which he referred.
"...to make it more delicate-looking. Also, I could tuck a bit at the
corners of the eyes to give you a more exotic appearance. Of course, I
would also do a trach shave..."
He ran two fingers up my throat.
"...to eliminate that unsightly bump. I could do all of that in a single
surgery. You would be back to work in a week and essentially healed in
four."
"That's... wonderful," I said hesitantly, steeling myself for what came
next, "but what about the breasts and... the rest?"
The doctor perched on the edge of his desk before us, beaming.
"That's the best news," he crooned soothingly, "if you are willing to have
a little faith in me. I am taking part in a clinical study of an exciting
new body enhancement procedure. There is a new media called Perma-Plast
that may make traditional augmentation procedures obsolete. I can craft
your body to any proportions you desire. There would be no incisions,
therefore no scarring and no lengthy post-op recovery. Angie can tell you
what a pain that can be — figuratively and literally."
"It sounds wonderful," I admitted guardedly. "Enhancement without surgery?
How is that possible?"
"Easy," the doctor continued. "Perma-Plast is injected directly into the
areas we wish to contour. It adheres to the surrounding tissue and sets up
its own matrix, mimicking that of the body itself. It is chemically and
biologically inert, unlike traditional silicone, so it does not trigger
the body's defense mechanisms. Nor does it do long-term autoimmune damage.
"Perma-Plast comes in two formulations. One simulates bone; the other,
soft tissue. I would use the first to build up your cheekbones and pelvic
girdle, giving you those hips like Angie's. The second formulation would
give you the breasts, rounded derriere... and lips, if you so desire."
"Yes!" Angie chirped. "Absolutely!"
"All of it can be done on an outpatient basis," Dr. Reagan assured us,
"right here in the office. It builds up gradually, layer upon layer...."
Layers! Layers! Ogres have layers!
"As I said," the doctor continued, "I can contour your body to any
proportions you desire. Of course, you are welcome to undergo traditional
implantation surgery if you prefer. Angie can tell you exactly what to
expect. You will be mostly in bed for the first two weeks, severely
limited in range of motion for a month, and substantially limited for one
more. If that is your preference, I need to know right away so I can put a
rush on the implant order."
I played along.
"I would certainly be willing to forego the pleasure of being knocked on
my butt for two months. I guess I will go for Door Number One. What is the
schedule?"
"We do the blood work and a Perma-Plast skin test right now," Doctor
Reagan pronounced. "That way, we make sure you are not allergic to the
material. The lab work is done right here in the building, so I can have
the results tonight. If you are one of the very small percentage of the
population allergic to Perma-Plast, you will notice a skin reaction by
tomorrow. I can schedule the surgical procedures for Monday morning. We
can have you back on your feet in no time."
One of his nurses drew the blood from the crook of my right elbow, then
popped a tiny amount of Perma-Plast just under the skin of my left forearm
with a hypodermic needle. I took Angie back to the office to have her
report to Rob and Jim that I would be out the following week. I begged off
from a pre-surgical celebration, claiming I really wanted to relax
tonight.
My head was swimming with too much information. Agreeing to the procedures
had been a ploy on my part. If the conspirator(s) believed I was going
ahead with my procedures, they might become complacent enough to tip their
hand. I would have two days to make something happen before I went under
the knife. If I did, I might not have to go through with the surgery at
all. The taps of Jeff Spencer's telephones would tell the tale. Then
again, what proof did I have Jeff's plan to ruin me had anything to do
with 'Lisa'? I hadn't really lied to Angie; I did want to relax, but not
with any of them.
Out of the frying pan.... I called Dianna. She assured me she wasn't doing
anything that night that wouldn't keep, thanks to my generosity with her
rent. I took her to Geja's on Armitage for fondue. The live classical
guitar music had always been one of my favorite, most relaxing
mood-enhancers and I needed that now. Feeding Dianna forkfuls of steak,
chicken, lobster, and fresh-cut vegetables, flash-fried in the table-top
peanut oil fondue pot, was a flashback to the previous Sunday's pizza
seduction.
When it came time for desert — chunks of Angel Food cake, marshmallows and
fresh fruit, dipped in boiling chocolate — I could see the gleam in her
eye that told me she had other ideas for the confection than feeding each
other with fondue forks. Watching her gently lap dripping chocolate from
the cherry I held before her lips was priceless, and worth every penny of
the dinner's cost. Then she delicately grasped the cherry in her teeth and
tugged it away from the fork, as softly as you please....
At least we made it through our front door before we began ripping each
other's clothes off. The bedroom would have to wait. Our surging passions
deposited us on the deep rug in front of the fireplace. The Dura-Flame log
was ignited with a single long-stemmed match. The log was the only
illumination in the room, but not the only thing ablaze. Our first
coupling was not so much sex as a frantic, desperate fuck, fueled by a
yearning born of too many days apart. I felt so... complete to have her
inside me again. It would break my heart if I found out she was part of
the conspiracy. Right now, I wanted to put all that out of my mind. Just
let go....
***
"Baby, do you know a 'Doctor Reagan'?
This was not my preferred method of being awakened on a Saturday morning.
Then again, Dianna could awaken me by asking me how to throw a knuckle
ball and, coming from her lips, I would think it heavenly. Now, if someone
could just teach the Cubs' pitching staff....
"Yes," I replied sleepily. "Why?"
"His office is on the phone," she informed me. "He wishes to speak with
you."
"On a Saturday?" I questioned, accepting the handset and bidding the
receptionist a good morning.
After a moment, the doctor himself came on the line.
"Good morning, Lisa," he greeted in a tone worthy of commercial
voice-overs. "Would it be much of a bother to come into the office this
morning? I would like to review your test results with you before your
surgery Monday morning."
"Is there a problem?" I asked, concerned.
"No," he assured me. "Quite the opposite. Monday is a 'go', as far as your
body is concerned. I just wanted to confirm what we will be doing and get
the releases signed."
"Uh, I suppose I can pull myself together and be there in an hour," I
responded. "Will that be okay?"
"Perfect!" he confirmed. "We'll see you then."
I had filled Dianna in the night before on my upcoming surgery. She had
been excited, to say the least. She asked about my boob job and how big I
was going to go. I relayed to her the information about Perma-Plast and
that my breast enhancement would be an ongoing thing for several weeks.
Her eyes grew as big as saucers.
"You're gonna get pumped?" she gushed. "Oh, Baby, that's wonderful! We
will be closer than ever."
She hugged me so tightly, I thought she would end up behind me, a la
Groucho Marx. She admitted she, too, had gone that route to figure
enhancement — the 'old school' way. Dianna felt this was just one more
intimacy shared between us, a way of proving to her how much I cared for
her. I hadn't envisioned that when I agreed to the procedure — if, in
fact, I went through with it — but was delighted it pleased her so.
We actually arrived at Doctor Reagan's office three minutes earlier than
anticipated. The receptionist ushered us right in. I introduced Dianna and
we took our seats. The doctor reiterated all the tests showed I was
"disgustingly healthy" — lamenting his lack of time for keeping up with
his own workout schedule. He confirmed and reviewed my upcoming rib
removal, micro-liposuction, rhinoplasty, eye tuck and trach shave, having
me sign the necessary forms for each. Dianna fidgeted in her chair,
growing more excited by the moment. Discretion was not her strong suit.
"How soon can you start pumping her?" she blurted out.
We both gazed at her with the amusement of a parent fielding "How many
days until Christmas?" for the umpteenth time. The doctor turned to me.
"Actually, that was one of the reasons I asked you in this morning," he
pronounced. "May I see your arm?"
I extended my left arm for his examination. The almost-imperceptible bump
was still there; otherwise, nothing.
"I couldn't ask for better," he announced. "There isn't a trace of
reaction or rejection."
He winked at Dianna, then focused on me, smiling.
"In answer to her question," he responded, "there is no reason we cannot
begin right now. Would that be soon enough to satisfy you?"
Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves. I wore mine in my throat.
Dianna was crushing me in an anaconda-like death grip. My rib removal
would be child's play; the doctor would merely have to retrieve bone
fragments.
"Shouldn't we wait until after my... surgery?" I questioned hesitantly.
Doctor Reagan shook his head.
"There is no need to," he assured me. "If we do it today, the receptor
sites will already be set up by Monday morning. Besides, none of them will
be the subject of our surgical procedures. There is one more detail; I
would like to get you started on your hormone therapy as soon as
possible."
"Hormones?" I repeated.
"Yes," the surgeon confirmed. "We can do the figure enhancement without
them, but the results will have an angular, artificial cast to them. The
combination of estrogen and progestin will round out your curves, giving
your body a lush, more natural look. Also, they will aid in the
assimilation of the Perma-Plast matrix."
Caught in my own web of intrigue! Suddenly, I no longer had two days to
sound out the conspirators, make them make a move. I didn't have two
minutes.
Last chance, Pal. You can get a little walk-up with a balcony overlooking
Duval Street. You can take the rich tourists out in the morning, fish and
drink beer until late afternoon, then come home and drink yourself into a
stupor at Sloppy Joe's and stagger home, just like Papa Hemmingway. You
can christen your boat "Busted Flush". Just walk away from all of this
now. Even your eyebrows will grow back. If you change your name to Travis
McGee, no one will ever know....
All I had to do was say: "no; let's wait until after the surgery." Then,
when Monday morning rolled around.... The look in Dianna's eyes was the
most hopeful, anticipatory, loving one I had seen in years. Even
suspecting her as I did, I couldn't bring myself to disappoint her. Just
let go....
"Okay," I softly sighed.
