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Message-ID: <37997asstr$1030162203@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Al Steiner" <steiner_al@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} NEW: The End of the Dryspell by Al Steiner (MF) 1/2
Date: Sat, 24 Aug 2002 00:10:03 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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This is the second of the stories I published at ruthiesclub.com since
finishing Aftermath.  This was originally published on February 18, 2002 and
is the first of my Heritage County Tales series, that features the exploits
of a group of emergency services workers in a fictional Northern California
county.  Since this tale, ever story that I've written for ruthiesclub has
taken place in Heritage County in one way or another.  I hope you enjoy it,
and, as always, comments can be sent to steiner_al@hotmail.com and all of my
newer stories, all of them illustrated (not to mention illustrated versions
of many of my older stories, including Doing It All Over), can be found at
www.ruthiesclub.com







HERITAGE COUNTY TALES

By Al Steiner







THE END OF THE DRYSPELL









"So what's this one for?" Sydney Redding, the EMT or emergency medical
technician, of Medic 8 asked her partner.  She was driving the blue and
white ambulance at sixty miles per hour through the moderate mid-afternoon
suburban traffic, the red lights flashing, the siren blaring.



"Unresponsive person," replied Jim Hartman, the paramedic assigned to the
rig, as he read the text from their dash mounted computer terminal.  The
"Mobile Communication Terminal" or MCT as it was called was state of the art
equipment for Western Life Support, the great empire that they worked for,
which was to say that it was a product of early 1980's technology.  The
screen was four inches across and was capable of displaying nothing but
monochrome text.  The memory was a staggering 32 kilobytes.  "Caller states
that an 84 year old man is down and does not appear to be breathing."



"Does not appear to be breathing?" Sydney asked with a groan.  "Great.
Another CPR.  We had one last week goddammit, I thought we were good for the
month."  The reason for her annoyance was that, as the EMT of the unit, she
would have to be the one to clean up the mess after the call was over; and
running a CPR made a huge mess of both the ambulance and their equipment
bags.



"It might not be a CPR," Jim said with a shrug.  "Maybe he's been down for
awhile.  I'll pronounce him dead, we'll call the coroner, and let the
firemen babysit him until the little white van shows up.  Be optimistic."



"There's no such thing as optimism in my philosophy," she replied, changing
the pitch on the siren and blaring the air horn a few times to get a woman
in a SUV out of their way.



They traveled on, Sydney piloting the converted Ford van through
intersections, around stalled traffic, and occasionally on the wrong side of
the street.  When the call came in they had been posted in the suburb of
Springwood, about ten miles from the city of Heritage, that bustling
Sacramento Valley railroad and farming city that was the seat of Heritage
County.  Springwood was where most of the elderly people of the metropolitan
area resided.  It was full of old, established neighborhoods, senior
apartment complexes, and convalescent facilities.  Many a medical aid call
had been dispatched within Springwood's unincorporated borders.



Morning Glory Court, the scene of the unresponsive man call, was a small
cul-de-sac tucked deep in a residential neighborhood along the Heritage
River.  The houses on the court were large and solidly constructed wood
frames, all about forty years old, most with immaculately maintained lawns.
123 Morning Glory was at the far end of the court and was one of the larger
houses.  A Cadillac El Dorado, the standard mode of transportation for the
well to do of Springwood, sat in the driveway.  A red fire engine belonging
to the Heritage County Fire Department was parking in front of the house
just as Sydney entered the court, it's own red lights flashing
authoritatively.  In Heritage County, like in most jurisdictions, a fire
crew was sent to the scene of each medical aid call to act as first
responders and to assist the ambulance crew.  Medical aid calls in fact
constituted 8 out of every 10 alarms that firefighters responded to.



"They were a little slow getting here," Jim commented as Sydney parked the
rig behind them.  Usually, during the day shift anyway, the fire engine
arrived a few minutes before the ambulance since there were about four times
as many fire stations as there were medic units.



"There was probably a good movie on cable TV back at the station," she
replied, unsnapping her seatbelt and stepping out.  "You can't rush those
guys you know."



Jim stepped out his own door and met her at the back doors.  They pulled out
their gurney.  Strapped to it were a cardiac monitor, a portable oxygen
tank, and a large blue bag that contained just about anything that they
could conceivably need inside of a house.  They wheeled over the sidewalk
and up the driveway, following the fire crew to the front door.



The three man fire crew were all wearing their standard uniform for medical
aid calls: black uniform pants and dark blue T-shirts with HERITAGE COUNTY
FIRE stenciled on the back.  The captain of the crew carried a metal
clipboard in his hands while the firefighter and the engineer carried their
own basic life support equipment bags.



"Hey guys," the captain greeted cordially as he walked up the small flight
of porch steps.  "You get the update on the call?"



"About the person not appearing to be breathing?" Jim asked.  "Yeah, we got
it."



"I hope it's not a freakin CPR," the engineer grunted.  "It's too hot to be
doing that shit today."



"Yeah," the firefighter told Jim.  "Call him if you can.  Remember, dead is
good.  We all hafta go sometime."



"I'll do what I can," Jim promised.  He was not in the mood to run a CPR
today either.



The hope that they would be able to pronounce the victim and go about their
business faded as soon as the door was opened.  A woman ripped it open at
their knock, her eyes full of tears, her face showing extreme anguish.  She
was about forty years old or so Jim estimated, and not a terribly bad
looking forty either.  Her attire immediately attracted everyone's
attention, including Sydney's.  She was wearing a pair of tight blue jean
shorts that were cut about as high as shorts could be cut without being
considered obscene.  Her long legs were attractive and toned.  A white
t-shirt covered her upper body and bulged outward with an impressive set of
store-bought mammaries.  The jiggle as she moved betrayed the lack of a bra
confining them.  Her face was streaked with running mascara.



"He's not breathing," she sobbed at them.  "Please, get in here before he
dies!"



They pushed their way into the large formal living room, which was filled
with antique furniture on a polished hardwood floor.  Lying next to a
beautifully restored 18th century rocker was an elderly man, sprawled out on
his back.  He was shirtless, his lower body covered in a pair of tan slacks.
His mouth was open, as were his eyes.  Jim looked for rise and fall of the
chest and saw nothing.  The man was indeed not breathing.



"What happened?" Jim asked the woman, whom he assumed was the man's
daughter, as he unstrapped the cardiac monitor from the gurney.



"He just... collapsed," she cried.  "He was fine one minute and then... and
then..." she couldn't finish.



"It's all right," the captain told her comfortingly, putting his arm around
her and surreptitiously catching a small feel of her right breast.



Jim set the monitor down next to the man and then kneeled at his head.  "How
long ago did this happen?" he asked the woman.



She seemed a little hesitant to answer for a moment and when she did, she
was somewhat vague.  "Just a few minutes."



"How many minutes?" Jim asked her.  "It took us four to get here.  How long
before we called did he go down?"



"Go down?" she asked, jerking in the captain's arms a little.  "What do you
mean by that?"



"I mean how long before you called did he collapse?" he rephrased.



"Oh," she said, shaking her head a little.  "It was just a minute or so.  No
more than five."



"I see," Jim said, starting to sense that something strange was going on
here.  He dismissed the feeling as irrelevant and felt at the man's neck for
a pulse.  There was none.  "Let's start CPR," he told the fire crew.
"Sydney, get the airway bag out and start setting me up for intubation."



"Right," Sydney said, grabbing their large red bag from the gurney, a
resigned look on her face as she contemplated her future clean up.



While she unzipped it and started pulling supplies out, the firefighter
opened their own bag and pulled out a bag-valve setup, which he quickly
assembled and began using to force air down the man's throat.  The engineer
kneeled down on the floor, found a landmark on the man's chest, and began
compressions.  He winced as the first one fractured several ribs at the
sternum, a common consequence of CPR.



While they were doing this, Jim hooked electrodes up to the man's chest and
turned on the monitor.  It went through a series of self-checks and finally,
after about twenty seconds, graced him with a display.  The green line that
made up the tracing was jerking up and down in rhythm with the engineer's
chest compressions.



"Hold CPR for a sec," Jim said.



The engineer stopped and Jim continued to stare at the reading.  It was what
was known as an agonal rhythm, the sign of a massive blow out in the heart.
Every five or six second there would be just enough electrical activity in
the ventricles to make a spike on the display.  There was no actual
heartbeat to go along with the spikes.  It was just one small step above
being completely flatline.



"Resume CPR," Jim said, his voice monotone, his face expressionless, his
mind already knowing that his efforts were going to be futile.  But, he had
to try anyway.  "Sid, you got my airway stuff ready?"



She did.  She handed over a laryngoscope, an endotracheal tube, a roll of
tape, and a 10cc syringe.  "Here you go," she said.  "I'll start getting an
IV ready."



"Thanks," he told her, taking the supplies and setting them down next to the
man's head.  He looked up at the woman again.  "What kind of medical
problems does your father have?" he asked.



"He's not my father," she said, wiping her eyes and watching everything they
were doing intently.  "He's my neighbor."



"Oh... sorry," Jim said.  "Anyway, does he have any medical problems?"



She said that as far as she knew he had none.



"Well what was he doing when he collapsed?" Jim asked next.  "Was he just
sitting here or was doing some sort of exertion?"



She hesitated for a moment, a fresh sob escaping from her mouth.  "I was
with him," she finally blurted.



"I know you were with him," Jim said patiently.  "That's why I'm asking you.
So what was he doing?"



She sobbed harder.  "No, I mean I was WITH him," she said.  "Sexually."



Everything stopped.  The engineer's arms halted in mid-compression.  The
captain's pen stopped in the middle of a notation on his clipboard.  The
firefighter squeezed the bag and didn't let it refill.  Sydney almost
dropped the IV tubing she was plugging into the bag of saline.  Jim's mouth
dropped open as if on a hinge.  All of them stared at the woman, seeing her
in an entirely different light now.



"I... uh... see," Jim stammered, feeling himself blush.  He looked down at
the old man he was working on.  He was 84 years old!  84 and he had been
banging a woman half his age!  God bless America.



"How..." the captain said slowly, "I mean why... uh... he's got his pants
on.  Were you actually... you know... DOING it?"



She nodded slowly, sniffing.  "He had just finished when he collapsed," she
told them.  "I cleaned him up a little and put his pants back on before I
called.  I didn't want his wife to know what happened!"



"His WIFE?" Jim said, noticing for the first time that the man had a wedding
ring on.



"She's at bingo right now," she said.  "You won't tell her what we were
doing will you?  It would just kill her!"



They all promised not to tell the wife the circumstances of the collapse,
although it was probable that someone else would at some point in the
future.  The shock of the revelation quickly passed and they went back to
work, each of them doing their respective jobs.  Jim put a breathing tube
into his trachea and then secured it with a length of tape.  He started an
IV in the man's right arm and then used it to administer powerful cardiac
drugs in the hope of kick-starting the heart again.  It didn't.  After the
first round of drugs was on board they loaded him onto the gurney and
wheeled him out to the ambulance, continuing CPR as they rolled across the
lawn.  They loaded the gurney into the back and Jim, the firefighter, and
the engineer all climbed in after it.  They were professional and efficient
as they went about these tasks.



Sydney shut the doors behind them and then went around to the front so she
could drive to the nearest hospital.  The moment they were shut and the
neighbor was out of their sight Jim and his two companions looked at each
other and started laughing.



"Holy shit," the engineer said, holding onto the bar mounted to the ceiling
and continuing his compressions with the other.  "Can you believe that?
Eighty-four fucking years old and he's tappin' a piece while the wife's at
bingo!"



"A piece that I myself would be more than happy to tap," the firefighter
said.  "Goddamn, did you see the tits on her?"



"Now I know why she looked so shocked when I asked what time he went down,"
Jim said, cracking all of them up.



The jokes and comments continued all the way to Presbyterian Hospital three
miles away.  At one point the firefighter stopped squeezing the bag long
enough to offer a sharp salute to the unresponsive patient.  "You gotta
respect anyone who goes out like that," he said.  "My I one day join your
ranks sir."



Jim pumped three more rounds of cardiac drugs on the trip to the hospital,
none of it doing any good.  The emergency room doctor pumped in two more,
again with no results.  Finally it was deemed that there was nothing more to
be done.  The doctor gave a command and all CPR activity was halted.
Everyone took his or her hands off the man and he was officially pronounced
dead.



"You are truly my hero," the firefighter was heard to remark just before
leaving the room.





+++++





An hour later, after the clean-up of the rig and the inevitable paperwork
was completed, Jim and Sydney were clear of the hospital and posted once
again in a position to cover Springwood.  Jim was now behind the wheel and
he had parked them beneath a large valley oak tree at a county park.  Except
for them the park was mostly deserted since it was approaching 100 degrees
on this late August day.  Even the squirrels that lived in the many trees
were nowhere to be seen.  Jim kept the diesel engine of the ambulance at
idle so the air conditioning could continue to blow a semi-cool draft of air
across them.



"I'm telling you," Jim said, shaking his head in frustration, "that last
call was just a sad commentary on my life, you know that?"



"How so?" Sydney asked, fanning her blue uniform shirt to get some of the
cool air onto her skin.



"An 84 year old man is getting more pussy than I am.  He's slamming his
neighbor for God's sake.  And did you see her?  She wasn't that bad looking.
Hell, I would've done her.  I'm 29 years old and in the prime of my sexual
life.  How come I never get that kind of action?"



Sydney looked at him pitifully.  "Because you never leave your damn house,"
she told him.  "The only time you go out is to take your daughter to school
and to come to work.  How the hell do you ever expect to get laid if you
won't go outside?"



"I can't leave the house," he said, slumping in his seat a little.  "I'm a
single father.  I can't afford to pay for a minute more of daycare than I
already use, hell, I can't afford to pay for what I do use.  I sure as hell
can't let my ex-wife babysit.  She'd sell Brooke to get an eightball of
crank."  His ex-wife Debbie, who was a methamphetamine addict, was in fact
forbidden by the court system from even seeing Brooke, the daughter she had
borne to her once husband Jim.  Nor did she show any particular interest in
doing so.



"Don't give me that crap," she told him, not buying his argument for a
minute.  "You just like being a freakin' hermit.  We've been working
together for what?  A year now?"



"Yeah," he agreed.



"And you haven't gotten your weenie wet in all that time, have you?"



"I haven't gotten any since Debbie and I broke up two years ago," he
confessed.  "I'm in a serious dry spell."



"That is truly appalling," she told him sympathetically.  "I'd give you some
myself if it wasn't for that male-female thing."



He looked over at her, smiling.  Sydney had a very nice body and would have
been attractive if not for the fact that her hair was cut shorter than most
men's and that her arms bulged with weight lifter's muscle.  There was also
the barbed wire tattoo on her right bicep.  Like approximately one fourth of
the female workforce at WLS's central valley division, she was same-sex
oriented.  "I'm sure you would," he told her.  "And we could slam some beers
and watch football afterward, couldn't we?"



"Fuckin aye," she said, smacking him on the bicep hard enough to hurt.  "And
I'd drink you under the table too.  But seriously though, we need to get you
some pussy.  Who do you want to fuck?  Let's work on this problem."



He sighed.  "It's not quite as simple as that," he said.  "I want to fuck
almost everyone.  The problem is that they all want to have a relationship
to go along with the fucking.  That's where I start to run into problems."



"You don't want to have another relationship?"



"Believe me," he said,  "Debbie was enough relationship to last me a
lifetime.  I'm still feeling the shockwaves from that."  He was not
exaggerating.  Though they had been separated for 22 months, though they had
been officially divorced for more than a year and a half, though he had
complete and total custody of Brooke and never had to deal with her at all
except for mailing her a monthly check for six hundred dollars, Debbie was
still a major headache in his life.  Three times since the divorce she had
used his name, date of birth, and social security number to secure credit
cards, which she then used to buy several thousand dollars worth of stereo
equipment or other easily pawned products.  Twice, using the same
information, she had managed to sweet talk her way past ditsy tellers and
into his bank account, withdrawing three hundred dollars on each occasion.
Once she had even managed to convince the manager of his apartment complex
that she was a legal tenant and had gained entry while he was at work.  Once
inside she had stolen his DVD player, his television, and his stereo, taking
them to the nearest convenient fence and hawking them for ten cents on the
dollar.  Though he had filed police reports on each of these occasions, no
action had been taken.  The legal system seemed to feel that these thefts
were a domestic problem and not a criminal problem.  The sheriff's
department never arrested her for them and the district attorney never filed
charges.



"So you just want to tear one off without any long-lasting consequences,"
Sydney said thoughtfully.  "Is that what you're telling me?"



"Right," he agreed.



She thought that over for a moment.  "I can respect that," she said at last,
scratching her head.



"The problem is that it's not really that easy to accomplish."



"Oh it's easy all right," she said.  "You just need to know who to target.
There's all kinds of women who are easy to score with and are in it only for
the sex."



"Oh?" he said, his interest perking up.  After all, Sid was a woman, wasn't
she?  And who knew women better than other women. "Who?  Where are they?"



"They're everywhere," she said cryptically.  "You just have to learn to
sniff them out.  There are a couple of categories you should lean towards
however.  Women who married for money.  That's a big one.  Your best targets
there are gonna be the ones that have been married for about seven or eight
years.  They're sexually frustrated and have been so long enough to want to
do something about it.  If they can get a discrete piece on the side,
they'll go for it.  Can you be discrete?"



"Well, sure," he said.  "But married women?  I don't want to break up
anyone's marriage."



She shrugged.  "Women are different than men," she said.  "If they're
sleeping with another man, it's because the marriage is pretty much shot
anyway.  A happily married woman won't cheat."



He wasn't too sure about that.  It showed on his face.



"That's advanced study though," she told him.  "We should warm you up first
with something a little easier to find and copulate with.  I know someone
that you can fuck quite easily and all it'll cost you is a night out.  And
the next day she won't care if you don't call her.  In fact, she'll expect
it."



"Who?"



"Robin White," she said.



His face soured a little.  Robin White was an admitting clerk at Valley
Medical Center's emergency room counter.  She was a big-breasted blonde that
had a reputation as being looser than a barn door after a tornado.  "But
she's a slut," he said.



She gave him the look that one gives an idiot.  "Duh," she told him.  "What
did you think?  That I had some pristine Catholic schoolgirl on standby that
was going to give it up to you and then go about her life?  Of course she's
a slut!  By definition a girl that will do it on the first date and then not
worry about it the next day is a slut.  You know what the guys say about her
don't you?"



He did.  It was common knowledge among the male paramedics, EMTs,
firefighters, and cops of Heritage County's various emergency services
departments that if you needed a good fuck in a short period of time that
you asked Robin at VMC E.R. on a date.  It was said that she could
suck-start a Harley Davidson motorcycle.  "I've heard a few tales," he said.



"So there you have it," she replied.  "She's cute, she's got big tits, and
she gives it up.  All we have to do is get over to VMC and you can ask her
out."



"Now wait a minute," he protested, "what about... you know... diseases and
stuff.  I don't want to get AIDS or the clap from boffing this chick."



Sydney punched him in the arm again, a little harder this time.  "Moron,"
she told him.  "Have you ever heard of rubbers?  They're these little rubber
things you buy in the drugstore before you take chicks like Robin out on a
date.  I've heard they prevent pregnancy too."



"Well, yeah, but..."



"No yeah-buts," she said.  "We go to VMC, you ask her out, you take her out,
and you fuck her.  You muzzle your weasel when you do the deed.  It's that
simple.  You're happy, she's happy, I'm happy, the whole goddamned free
world is happy."



Jim thought it over for a moment, envisioning Robin in his mind.  She really
was kind of attractive in a skanky, slutty sort of way.  She was fond of
wearing short skirts to work and getting up from her registration chair in a
very unladylike manner.  Her panties had been observed by more people than a
lingerie mannequin's.  He could envision enjoying himself within her graces.
Sure she wasn't the ideal woman for him, but then he wasn't looking for the
ideal woman, was he?  He was looking for a woman that had a vagina that she
was willing to share.  "Okay," he told Sydney, "I find you make a good
point."



"So you'll ask her out?" she said.



"I'll ask her out," he agreed.  "But there's still the issue of Brooke.  I
can't very well take my daughter out on a date with me, can I?"



"Oh for Christ's sake," Sydney said, exasperated.  "I'll watch your daughter
for you."



"You'd do that for me?" he asked.



"If it would get you laid," she said, "I'll even throw in some ice cream.
Just tell me the day and the time."



He grinned at her.  "You know something Sid," he told her.  "You're not
nearly the hard-ass bitch that everyone says you are."



"Yeah, yeah," she replied with a grunt.  "Just don't let that get around,
okay?"





+++++





And so their mission for the day was to transport a patient to Valley
Medical Center before 3:00 PM, when the day shift registration clerks
changed shifts.  It should have been a reasonably easy task.  VMC was the
primary hospital for the Heritage County northern suburbs and it was a level
two trauma center.  On a typical day Jim and Sydney would transport there
two or three times.  But on this day the Gods seemed to be conspiring
against them.



Their very next call was for an elderly woman that had slipped while getting
off of the toilet and had fallen to the linoleum in her bathroom.  Jim and
Sydney found her in care of the fire crew when they arrived, her face
contorted in pain, a sheen of perspiration all over her body.  Her left leg
was about two inches shorter than her right and her left foot was turned
outward from her body at a forty-five degree angle.  It was a classic broken
hip, the staple of Springwood responses.  Jim started an IV on her right
there on the bathroom floor and doped her up with as much morphine as he was
allowed by county protocol to give.  Beatrice (the women in question) went
from a crying, clutching old lady to a mellow, go-with-the-flow senior
citizen in the time it took for the narcotic to travel through her
bloodstream and hit the receptors in her brain.



"Feeling better Beatrice?" Jim asked her as he stowed the syringe and the
empty vial back in the lock box that he signed out at the beginning of each
shift.



"Yesss," she said, her eyes half-lidded.  "I feel much better.  You're a
nice young man, you know that?  All of you are nice young men."  She giggled
a little, looking at Sydney.  "Except you of course.  You're a nice young
lady.  Your hair's a little short, but you're very nice."



"Thank you ma'am," Sydney said, patting her arm a little.  "We're gonna move
you on to this flat thing now and get you to the hospital."



"Okay," she said dreamily, hardly muttering a sound as Sydney, Jim, and two
of the firefighters rolled her up onto her uninjured side and slid their
flat - a canvas carrying device capable of being disassembled from beneath
her at the hospital - under her bottom.



"So what hospital do you go to Beatrice?" Jim asked as she was loaded onto
the gurney.



"Oh, it doesn't really matter," she told him.  "Anywhere is fine."



"How about Valley Med Center then?" he said, casting a knowing look at his
partner.  She gave him a discrete thumbs-up in return.



"Oh not THERE," Beatrice said, shaking her head.  "Anywhere but there."



The knowing look faded.  The thumbs-up wilted upon itself.  "Valley Med is
no good?" Jim asked.



"My husband died there six years ago," Beatrice told them in a whisper.  "I
just couldn't go there.  The memories you know."  With that, she started
weeping softly, large tears running down her face.  By the time they got her
out to the ambulance, she was sobbing.  They did not take her to Valley
Medical Center.



Their next call was in Lemon Hill, a large working class suburb.  At the
Sunset shopping mall, inside one of the large retail stores, a shoplifter
had been caught by store security practicing her profession and mysteriously
became ill immediately afterward.



"She says she's a diabetic," the security officer said with a frown, "and
that her blood sugar is low."



The patient in question was a large white woman of about thirty.  She was
dressed in a pair of filthy yellow shorts and a green blouse big enough for
a normal sized person to use as a blanket.  Her hair was stringy and
uncombed and her eyes showed the telltale dilation of methamphetamine use in
the recent past.  She in fact looked like exactly the sort of person that
store security would keep a sharp eye upon from the moment she walked in the
store just on general principals.  She was sitting on a bench in the back of
the security office, her left hand cuffed to a steel bar.



"What'd she steal?" the fire captain, holding the inevitable metal
clipboard, asked.



"Two digital cameras and a portable CD player," the security officer said.
"Stuff that's easy to fence for more crank."



"Oh come on now," Jim said, feigning seriousness.  "I'm sure she was just
trying to feed her family."



"Yeah right," he said, shaking his head a little.  "Anyway, the sheriff's
department is on the way to come get her.  As soon as we told her that is
when she started to get sick."



"Funny how that works," Sydney observed.



Jim walked over to her and stood before her, looking her up and down for a
moment, his eyes looking for any of the outward signs of illness as it was
related to diabetes and seeing none of them.  She was not breathing rapidly,
as she would if her blood sugar was high.  She was not pale or sweaty or
lethargic as she would be if it were too low.  "So you're a diabetic are
you?" he asked her.



"That's right," she told him arrogantly.  "And my blood sugar's low.  I
gotta go to the hospital."



"How'd your blood sugar get so low all of a sudden?"



"Cause I forgot to take my insulin this mornin'," she replied, apparently
not realizing that low blood sugar occurred because a diabetic took too MUCH
insulin, or took a normal dose and forgot to eat.  She probably knew someone
who knew someone who had diabetes and was trying to bluff her way through
this with the limited amount of knowledge that she had managed to pick up
third hand.



"I see," Jim said, nodding as if in sympathy.  "And what kind of insulin do
you take?"



"What KIND?" she said.  "What the fuck do that mean?  I jist take insulin."



"Oh there's several different kinds," Jim said.  "It's kind of like
penicillin you see.  Nobody gets a prescription for just penicillin; they
get a prescription for Keflex or some other derivative of it.  Most of the
diabetics I've treated over the years are able to tell me exactly what kind
of insulin and what dosage they take.  I guess it kind of slipped your mind,
huh?"



"What you trying to say?" she demanded.



"Oh nothing," Jim assured her.  "But since blood sugar is one of those
things that we just happen to be able to check here in the field, why don't
we take a look at what yours is, shall we?"



Her face suddenly became less arrogant as she realized that she hadn't
thought her little ploy through too carefully.  She meekly submitted to
having her index finger pricked with a sterile pin and a drop of her blood
placed on a glucometer strip, which was then fed into a small machine that
measured the amount of sugar in the blood.  The reading came back at 123
milligrams per deciliter, a perfectly normal reading.



"I guess you must be cured," Jim told her.  "Is there anything else we can
help you with while we're here?"



"Your machine is wrong!" she yelled at him.  "My blood sugar is low!  I
forgot to take my fuckin' insulin."



"The machine never lies," he said.  "And by the way, you get HIGH blood
sugar from forgetting to take your insulin, not low.  You should stick with
chest pain or shortness of breath when you get busted.  They're easier to
fake."



The fire crew cut out a moment later, their work done.  Jim and Sydney hung
around for another fifteen minutes, listening to the cries and protests of
the cranked out shoplifter until the arrival of the two sheriff's deputies.
The cops listened carefully to the tale they were told and concluded that it
was probably safe to take her directly to jail without a detour to the
hospital.  They led her out the door to their patrol cars.



"What a dumb broad," Jim commented once they were gone.  "She picked the one
thing that we could absolutely rule out in the field."



"Yeah," Sydney said.  "That's too bad though, because we still haven't made
it over to VMC and it's starting to close in on 3:00."



"Yep," he said with a sigh.  "Maybe I'm just not meant to get laid.  I'm
doomed to live out the rest of my being with only Internet porn and my five
best friends as a companion."



And then, having said that, fortune smiled on him.  Or so it seemed at
first.



They were dispatched to another call, this one in a skuzzy apartment complex
in the city of Heritage for labor contractions.  The patient was 25 years
old, 285 pounds, and in active labor with her sixth child.  While the other
five children, the products of three different fathers and none of them more
than eleven months apart in age, jumped around the small apartment
excitedly, the fire captain briefed Jim in on what they had learned so far.



"We've timed three contractions since we've been here," he said, his
clipboard tucked firmly between his arm and his chest.  "They're right on
two minutes apart.  She says her water broke about twenty minutes ago and
that the contractions started right after that.  Her last three labors
lasted less than one hour she said."



"Great," Jim said, not relishing the thought of delivering another baby.  He
already had twelve of them under his belt, and the thrill of bringing a life
into the world just wasn't there for him anymore, particularly not when the
patient was 285 pounds and didn't appear to be a big fan of personal
hygiene.  "Let's load her up and get rolling.  Hopefully we'll get there
before she pops.  What hospital does she want?"



"VMC," the captain replied.  "That's where her doc works out of."



Jim nodded, feeling both good and bad about this destination.  On the one
hand, VMC was where he needed to go and it was a fairly good bet that they'd
get there before the 3:00 PM crew change.  On the other hand, VMC was
halfway across the county from where they were at the moment and, if the
patient was indeed having contractions that were two minutes apart, then
that greatly increased the chances of him having to perform a field
delivery.  Still, there was not much room for negotiation.  In an
uncomplicated delivery - and there was nothing to indicate that this was
anything but that - the patient's choice of hospital ruled.



"I guess we'd better get moving then," Jim said.



They loaded her up on the gurney and wheeled her out to the ambulance, the
assistance of the fire crew being necessary to lift her inside.  Once sealed
in the back with her he explained that he needed to check her to see if the
delivery was imminent.



"You'd better hurry," she grunted, her face a grimace of pain.  "I'm having
another one."



"Does it feel like you need to push?" he asked her, knowing that that was
often the final symptom before explosive delivery occurred.



"Not yet," she grunted.



Taking a deep breath and turning on the ventilation fan, he helped her
remove her black stretch pants and her filthy cotton underwear.  He balled
them up into as compact a package as possible and tossed them on the foot of
the gurney, near her feet.  "All right," he told her, "bring your legs apart
and let me take a look."



She opened her massive thighs, revealing a crotch carpeted in thick black
hair.  Her vaginal lips were open and drooling a mixture of clear fluid and
white mucous.  The smell was even worse than he had been anticipating.  He
immediately began breathing through his mouth in reflex, which helped only
the slightest bit.



"A little wider," he told her, reaching down to help push her thighs even
further apart.  To his relief he saw no crowning of the baby's head, no hair
from the infant protruding, and no unusual swelling.  "Very good," he said.
"You can close your legs now."



She did so and he covered her up with a paper sheet, which cut the worst of
the odor.  He took a few deep breaths and told Sydney up in the front to
start driving.



"On the way," she told him, rolling down her window.  The smell had
penetrated up there as well.



They made it perhaps a half a mile before she grunted with another
contraction, this one obviously much worse than the previous ones had been.
"Oh god," she groaned, "oh shit!  I gotta push!"



"Try to keep from doing it if you can," Jim told her, opening the sterile
obstetric pack and pulling out a bulb syringe just in case.



"I can't!" she told him.  "Oh god, here it comes!"



He removed the sheet once more and pushed her thighs apart, inwardly
sighing.  It seemed like she was going to pump the baby out before they made
it to VMC.  Not only would that leave a huge mess of the gurney and the
floor of the ambulance, but he would also have to write TWO patient care
reports instead of just one.  He would then have to...



His thoughts came to a screeching halt as he saw what had appeared between
his patient's legs.  Sticking out of her vagina was not a baby's head, as
had been the case in every other delivery that he had participated in, but a
six inch length of the umbilical cord.  Compressing it in a way that would
be quickly lethal to the infant that it supplied with blood and oxygen, was
the baby's buttocks.



"Holy shit," Jim whispered to himself, feeling adrenaline coursing through
him.  It was a prolapsed umbilical cord.  This was something that he had
been told about in paramedic training, but that he had never seen, that he
had in fact been assured almost never happened.  But now it WAS happening
and it was happening in front of him.  And if that wasn't bad enough, it was
coupled with a breech presentation.  If he didn't do something about this
within a minute or so, there was a good chance that the baby would be born
either brain dead or just plain dead dead.



"Oh god," the mother cried, pushing a little and tightening the seal around
the cord even further.



"Don't push!" Jim yelled at her.  "Whatever you do, no matter how much you
feel like you have to, don't push!"



"I have to!" she cried.



"Jim?" Sydney asked carefully from the front, her eyes peering into his
through the rear view mirror.  "Is everything all right?"



"Just fine," he squeaked, giving her a look in return that she interpreted
well.  "What would our closest hospital with an OB department be?"



"Saint Vincent's," she told him.  "About five minutes away."



"Why don't we go there instead?" he said with a calmness he did not feel.
"Code three please.  And can you call them on the radio for me and tell them
we have a breach presentation with a prolapsed cord?"



"Sure," she said, her face paling a little.  "I'll do that."



While she turned on the siren and put on a little speed, Jim turned back to
his patient.  "Ma'am," he told her, reaching down and unbuckling the belts
that secured her to the gurney.  "There's a little problem with the way the
baby is coming out and I'll need to... uh... try to stop it from coming out
any further.  I need you to roll over onto your hands and knees for me."



"Do what?" she screamed.  "What the fuck you want that for?"



"Because that's the only way I have to help keep it in there."  He reached
down and started pushing on her, compelling her to do as he asked.  She
grunted as another contraction rolled through her but she rolled over,
getting into the classic doggie style position.  "Tuck those knees as close
against your chest as you can," he told her, grimacing in advance at what he
had to do next.



"Like this?" she asked, panting as she tried to keep from pushing.



"Like that," he agreed.  "Now I'm going to have to put my hand inside of you
to keep the pressure off of the umbilical cord."



"Is my baby all right?" she asked, not liking the sound of that at all.



"I'm doing everything I can to make sure of that," he assured her, reaching
forward with his gloved hand.  He slid his fingers inside of her, underneath
the baby's butt and above the flattened cord, forcibly separating them.  He
had to push with considerable force to accomplish this, his fingers sliding
inside of her to well past the third knuckle.  Once in place, he lifted
upward on the baby, pushing it towards her back and slowly relieving the
pressure on the umbilical cord.  With disgusted satisfaction he watched as
the cord began to pulse with life-giving blood once again.



"How you doing back there Jim?" Sydney asked him above the wail of the
siren.



Already his forearm was screaming with the exertion.  "Get us there as quick
as you can," he told her.  "I don't know how long I can hold this."



They arrived at Saint Vincent Hospital three minutes later.  Sydney quickly
jumped out and ran around to the back to pull the gurney out.  They wheeled
the 285 pound woman, naked from the waste down and kneeling doggie-style on
a gurney with Jim's hand up her vagina, right through the crowded waiting
room to the doors of the ER.  The patients waiting in the chairs with their
runny noses and their cut fingers and their chest congestion watched this
sight in stunned amazement.  A few children actually started crying.



They pushed through the doors and the doctor on duty took a quick look and
then ordered her rushed to the labor and delivery department immediately,
where a surgical team was already being assembled.  Since Jim's hand was
already snugly in place, and since no one else really cared to replace him
at his task, he was forced to go along for the ride.



When they arrived upstairs two minutes later, the charge nurse of the L&D
department, a crusty old battleaxe who had been in that position for nearly
twenty years now, took one look at the patient and immediately turned to
Jim.  "You didn't start an IV on her?" she asked acidly.



The baby was removed from the mother's body a few minutes later, healthy and
alive and undamaged in any way.  Nobody told Jim or Sydney that they'd done
a good job, but the charge nurse did write up an official complaint about
the lack of an IV on a critical patient and forwarded it to the county
medical director's office, where it would eventually result in a written
reprimand for Jim.



The upshot of the whole event however, was that once again Medic 8 had
failed to get to Valley Medical Center.  And this time, by the time the
ambulance was cleaned up and the paperwork was completed, it was well past
the time that the registration staff did crew change.  Robin had gone home
for the day.



"Fuck it," he told his partner after the call, still smelling the odor of
his patient's nether regions clinging to his clothing.  "After that call I'm
not sure I want to get any pussy anyway."



"Don't despair," Sydney told him as they pulled away.  "There's always
tomorrow.  We'll hit VMC early, first thing in the morning and we'll get you
set up.  By tomorrow you'll have forgotten all about this little episode."





+++++





And she was right.  By the next morning, he had forgotten all about it, or
at least all about the smell and the sight and the feel of his hand sliding
into that bottomless cavern.  The ability to forget the sights and smells
and sounds that one encountered was a big part of what made a successful
paramedic successful.  To forget allowed you to retain your sanity in a job
that often tried to rob you of it.



His first patient of the new day did not go to VMC, it went to Winton
Memorial.  There a young nurse named Darlene O'Brien was working the day
shift and things were pretty slow.  Darlene was in her mid-twenties, a
recent graduate from the Heritage Community College nursing program, and was
very attractive.  She had flaming red hair that appeared to be natural and a
set of breasts that were firm enough and perfect enough not to be.  She was
clad in a rather tight fitting scrub dress, uniform gray in color, and her
legs were covered in white nylons.  She smiled as she saw Jim heading to the
paramedic desk to write his report and intercepted him halfway across the
room.



"Hi Darlene," he told her, looking at her full lips, her sparkling green
eyes.  "How's it going today?"



"Just perfect now," she said, returning his gaze with a steady, seductive
one of her own.



Jim swallowed a little in nervousness.  What was going on here?  Surely this
was some kind of a joke.  Darlene dated doctors, and specialist doctors at
that.  She drove a BMW.  She was a member of an exclusive health club.  She
was way out his league.  "Is that right?" he said slowly.



She looked around for a moment, apparently to see if anyone was nearby.  No
one was.  "Listen," she said conspiratorially, and more than a little
flirtatiously, "I've been talking to Sydney and she told me about the little
problem you've been having."



"Problem?" he stammered.



"You know," Darlene said with a wink.  She curled her left hand into a fist
and slid the index finger of her right into it, pumping it in and out a few
times.  "THAT problem.  Or should I say that the lack of that is the
problem."  She giggled a little.



"Uh... well... yeah," Jim said, unsure what to say.



Darlene looked around again, still seeing no one nearby.  "It just so
happens," she said, lowering her voice again, "that I've been having a kind
of similar problem."



"You have?"



She nodded.  "It hasn't been for quite as long as you, but its been long
enough.  I mean, I'm in my prime, right?"



"Right," he said eagerly.  She certainly was that.



"So I was thinking," she said, "that maybe you and I could take care of our
problems together.  That we could maybe make a few things fit, if you know
what I mean."



"You mean..."



"I mean I want your cock in me," she whispered to him, her tongue flitting
out and wetting her lips.  "And I want it right now."



"Right NOW?" he asked, stupefied.



"There's a staff bathroom just outside the ER by the X-ray department," she
told him, continuing to whisper.  "Nobody ever uses that bathroom at this
time of the day.  Go there, right now, and I'll be there in a minute."
Without giving him a chance to reply, she turned and walked away, returning
to her desk, where three other nurses were reading through patient charts or
working on notes.



"Holy shit," he muttered to himself, wondering if the erection that he was
sporting was visible to anyone.  He began heading for the bathroom that she
had indicated, wondering if this was all some sort of elaborate practical
joke.  He figured that the risk was worth it however.  How often did
something like this happen?



The corridor outside the ER was empty, not a soul visible in either
direction.  Ten paces down, near the emergency staircase that led to the
upper floors and down to the basement, was a bathroom door.  Like many staff
only restrooms in a hospital, it was marked with both the male and the
female symbols.  He opened the door and stepped inside, flipping on the
light.  The room was only about five feet by five feet.  It contained an
industrial toilet and a sink and a paper towel holder.  A ventilation van,
activated by the light switch, whirred into life.  He shut the door behind
him.  He did not lock it.



Less than a minute later, it opened and Darlene stepped quickly inside.  She
did lock the door.  She looked at him hungrily, with unmasked lust in her
eyes.  "We don't have much time," she told him, stepping into his arms.
"We'll have to be very quick."



He put his arms around her, feeling her firm body, getting lost in her green
eyes.  This was not a practical joke.  She was really going to let him fuck
her right here in this staff bathroom.  While he was at work!  He was going
to get paid $18.50 an hour to do it!  Out of fucking sight!  Thoughts of
Robin and getting to VMC to ask her out were swept right out of his head.



His mouth found hers and her tongue slid between his lips, caressing his,
licking the inside of his mouth.  Her hands found his ass and began to
squeeze it roughly, palpating the cheeks.  He ran his own hands down the
back of her scrub dress and onto the backs of her nylon covered thighs.  He
stroked upward, lifting the hem of her skirt up, returning the treatment on
her ass cheeks that she was giving his.  She grunted into his mouth as she
felt his hands upon her.



She broke the kiss, pushing away from him.  "Take out your cock," she told
him.  "Hurry."



He hurried, undoing his belt and dropping his uniform pants to the floor.
His cock was hard and ready, and very willing for whatever came next.



"Sit on the toilet seat," Darlene told him, hiking her skirt up so that the
panty portion was visible.



He sat down, his ass cheeks cold against the sterile porcelain lid.  She
pushed her pantyhose downward, uncovering her fiery red thatch of pubic
hair.  It was neatly trimmed into a strip just above her vagina.  The lips
were shaved bare and glistened wetly.  She continued to push the hose down
her legs until she was able to extricate the left one, baring it completely.
Leaving them dangling over the right foot, she stepped forward, widening her
stance until she was straddling his legs.



He put his hands to her bare ass, sliding them up and down the smooth cheeks
while she took his turgid cock in her hand.  She reached between her legs
with the other hand, spreading her vaginal lips, smearing her juices around.
Slowly she lowered herself, until the head of his cock was resting between
those lips.  And then, looking into his eyes, she sank down upon him,
impaling herself on his hardness, pulling him to the hilt into her warm
tightness.



They both groaned in pleasure at the entry.  She squeezed her interior
muscles knowingly, clenching and releasing him.  Her lips found his once
more, her tongue sliding back into his mouth.  And she began to move atop
him, raising her hips and then lowering them, sliding her tightness, her
wetness, up and down upon his long neglected cock, imparting an exquisite,
almost unbearable friction.  It wasn't long before he felt the first
stirrings of orgasm churning within him.  Sensing this, she picked up the
pace of her thrusts, bouncing atop him with more power and speed, her juices
drooling all over him.



"Come in me," she told him, nipping at his lip with her teeth.  "Shoot your
come in me."



He didn't worry about pregnancy, about diseases, about where this
relationship was going to lead tomorrow.  He didn't NEED to worry about
that.  The orgasm pounded through his body, making him momentarily weak with
pleasure, and his seed shot out of him, splattering her insides gloriously.
She came herself as she felt this, biting into his shoulder to keep from
crying out.



And then... and then... and then she was gone, no longer with him, her
purpose served.



He came back to himself slowly, almost reluctantly, the shower water
pattering forcefully against his chest, his rapidly wilting cock in his
right hand, his sperm running down the drain into the sewer system beneath
his apartment.  He sighed a little, relishing the last vestiges of the
fantasy - one of his favorite ones to indulge in during his semi-regular
period of release each morning - as it faded away.



He washed his body and then his hair and then turned off the water.  He
stepped out into his bathroom, toweling himself dry and then began to put on
his uniform.  Soon he would have to wake Brooke up and get her dressed and
fed so he could drop her off at school on his way to work.



Another day had begun.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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