Title: Confused, Norway
Author: oosh@gmx.net
Keywords: fF,humour,humor,lesbian

---

[My thanks to my friends Ann Dulaney, MT and Denny W. for persuading
me not to follow my instincts and suppress this story. Although it
was inspired by a real Norwegian cheerleader, and a very beautiful
one at that, the characters in this piece are wholly creatures of my
imagination.]

Confused, Norway

by oosh@gmx.net


If you work on an Internet helpline for confused women, I suppose such
things are bound to happen from time to time.

"I'm so confused!" gushes the e-mail. "I'm Ilona, I'm 18, I'm a
cheerleader, I'm from Norway, I have a boyfriend, he's a great lover,
we've been together for 4 months now, but well, things don't really
happen for me, and I've been thinking about women more and more."

I had to read that last bit twice, I don't mind telling you. These
things don't happen often, but when they do, you accept them with
gratitude. You get comma, comma, comma, and then suddenly, just when
you least expect it, a full stop. (It's difficult when you're in the
Norwegian part of cyberspace.  Should I write "full stop"?  I know
some people call them periods, but I have my full stops rather more
frequently, and it seems pointless to confuse a sentence with a life
sentence. But then again, Ilona hasn't reached a full stop: there's
more.) So I read on.

"I'm so worried what my mom and pa would think!! But I can't stop
wondering about what it might be like with a girl. What should I do?
BTW I'm 36D, 98 pounds, 5'6", blonde, so have had many boyfriends, I'm
definitely not lesbian!!! see photo attached... Hope you like it
*chiquita*!!"

I can almost see the photo before I click on the e-mail attachment.
Doubtless something culled from some men's magazine. And yes, it's an
over-endowed teenage pixie with matchstick legs, showing yards of
flat, toned tummy and a face that is beautiful but blank.

In my job we get time-wasters like these more often than we care to. I
send out my stock response.

"Dear Ilona, you are not at all unusual. I see countless underweight
big-breasted cheerleaders like you, all with much the same problem. I
have made an appointment for you to come to my clinic on Tuesday of
next week.  Kindly e-mail my secretary at [e-mail address withheld] to
confirm that you can attend, or to make another appointment.  Please
try to abstain from sexual activity for 48 hours beforehand, as this
will assist with our standard tests.

"Yours, Dr Z."

Then, because I am bored, I add:

"PS: love the photo!!!

"PPS: Where did you learn Spanish? PPPS: Where did you learn English?"

Honestly, these people make me absolutely sick. I'm trying to run a
decent professional service, and yet I'm hounded by these time-wasters
- most of them doubtless pimply schoolboys out for a laugh.

I delete the e-mail, and several others like it. Stupid children. Some
people do not realize how important my work is.

* * *

A few days later, and I am more than usually frazzled, when the
receptionist announces that Ilona is here to see me.

Ilona. Ilona. The name is familiar. I search through my deleted e-mail
folder and find that it is still there. I read the first few words,
and everything comes back to me.

"Oh my God." I can barely speak.

"I have entered her details on the system." She gives me the reference
number, and I look her up. "Oh no! Not another one!" I think. "First a
teenaged tennis idol, and now this."

Patiently, the receptionist asks if she is to make Ilona wait.

"Well... no," I mutter, "send her in."

Oh dear. I hate it when reality does this to me. I just feel so old. Do
you know what I mean? Everything just aches. Everything becomes an
effort, even keeping my mouth closed.

"Good morning, Ilona. How very nice to see you."

And it is. She is just like the photograph, except that she is wearing
a short, tight white t-shirt bearing a delightfully undulating motto,
a ridiculously short little skirt, long white socks and spotless white
trainers - and very little else, so far as I can see. She is carrying
two enormous blue and pink balls of fluff on strings.

"What are those two enormous blue and pink balls of fluff?" I ask her,
anxious to begin the interview on a relatively unchallenging note.

"These, *chiquita*?" she asks. "Here, I'll give you a taste of my
routine." She swirls them, jumps about, and begins flashing those
amazing legs at me.  Once or twice she calls out "Hola!" or something
similar.  I blush to tell you, but I am observant enough to have
ascertained already that she is not wearing bra or panties. She thinks
that she is confused? Why, she is a fount of confusion: my brain is
one great exclamation mark, and an inverted one at that. Why does she
keep making me think of punctuation?

"Thank you, yes, I see," I manage to gasp, and mercifully she stops,
alighting gracefully on her toes. I wait until all of her has stopped
moving, collect my wits, and call the interview to order. "Pray do take
a seat."

Cautiously, as if commanding a vivacious pet dog to sit, she drops her
balls of fluff beside her long, flawlessly tapered calves. She
gracefully crosses her legs with a little soft sigh, then looks
sharply down, as if to make sure that her fluff-balls are not running
amok.

I can almost feel those thighs softly pressing together. I gulp as
unobtrusively as I can. Choking in front of a client is so
unprofessional.  "What do you call them?" I ask.

Without so much as wrinkling that flawless forehead, she raises one
perfectly-stencilled eyebrow. "Call them?"

"Your brightly-coloured balls. What do you call them?"

"They are my pom-poms. I'm a pom-pom girl."

I grip my knees and repeat the discreet swallowing act. It seems as
though just keeping my various internal organs in their respective
places is going to keep me out of mischief for the duration of this
interview.

"Certainly," I manage to respond. It is time to make light
conversation.  "You most certainly are. And a cheerleader? I thought
they were American. I didn't know that we had cheerleaders in Norway."

"Oh but we do," she says earnestly, leaning forward a little.

I find myself leaning back, pushing my chair a little further away from
my desk.

She continues to explain with winsome enthusiasm.  "Now we have an
international culture, and there are cheerleading groups springing up
everywhere. Even here in Norway." She gives me a dazzling smile. Her
hair is immaculate, her skin flawless. She intimidates me.

"Yes. I noticed that you are fluent in colloquial Spanish."

"That is true. It is considered de rigueur."

"And French, I see."

"Yup."

"And American English."

"Sure. All part of bein' a cheerleader."

"You are quite a talented linguist."

She blushes and looks at me as if I have said something obscene. "What
did you say?" She puts her hands on her shoulders, her arms crossed
over her breast. Her t-shirt has ridden up a little as a result of her
impromptu demonstration, and I am now looking at the deepest, most
voluptuous navel in all of Scandinavia.

"I just meant to say that you are a naughty little polyglot."

She blushes a little deeper, and so do I. What have I said?  "I'm
sorry.  It's just that we doctors feel easier with things if we can
put them into Greek."

"Ooh..." She looks at me admiringly.

Good. Time to get to the matter at hand.  "You say you have been
suffering some confusion."

"Well, yes."

"You have a boyfriend, who does little for you sexually."

"Well, he does do something," she begins uncertainly.  "I have had
several boyfriends... I'm not a lesbian..."

"Ha ha, quite, quite. So he does something? That is the important
point."

"Well, yes. But not very much."

"You must forgive me, but in order to help you I must ask: does he make
you come?"

"Yes, but only once or at most twice."

"Poor lamb," I think to myself. I pour all my therapeutic concern into
my response.  "You mustn't think that this is at all unusual. I meet
girls like you almost every day. It is always assumed that if a couple
have sexual problems, then it's the woman's fault. It is very
difficult to liberate ourselves from our social conditioning. It's
probably not your fault at all."

"You think not?" She leans forward, breast heaving, desperate for a
therapist's absolution.

"Certainly. You don't have any difficulty achieving orgasm when you're
on your own, do you?"

"Oh no."

"Well, then."

She sinks back into her chair, relieved.

"But why do you feel dissatisfied with your boyfriend? After all, some
women are very happy if they come once, let alone twice, with their
partner."

"Well... I think I do come, but... They're only..." She looks wildly
around her, as if searching for words.

"Only little ones?"

She looks me in the eye now and nods vigorously. "Yes, exactly. Only
little ones."

"I quite understand." Now I need to maintain her confidence if I am to
understand her problem.  "I don't want you to think I put the words
into your mouth; but perhaps you feel that there might be more to it.
Is that right?"

Again she nods.

"What makes you feel that?"

"Well, when I'm on my own..."

"My dear, I don't want to embarrass you. But when you are on your own,
you sometimes have big ones?"

She blushes and nods.

"I quite understand. Believe me, lots and lots of women, some of them
married with tons and tons of children, are exactly like you."

"Oh really?" Again she slides forward on her chair, parting her thighs
deliciously, her eyes aglow.

"Certainly. I promise you I meet women like you every day. There is
nothing at all to worry about."

She slides back, reassured.

"But now I must ask you... When you are on your own, what do you think
about? Do you fantasize? What is it that brings about these... big
ones?"

She does not blush so much now. "Well... I think of beautiful women.
Like the ones in the fashion magazines, or..."

"Yes, yes.  You would be astonished how many completely heterosexual
women tell me just the same thing."

Her eyes gleam in gratitude.

I press on with my questions. "And... when you fantasize about women,
you find that you come more often?"

"Oh yes, of course."

I laugh. "Of course. About how many times?"

Her beautiful eyes go a little vague.

"Four? Five?" I suggest.

She pulls a face. "Oh no," she says, as if she had found something
unpleasant in a seldom-explored corner of the fridge. "Lots."

"You lose count?"

She nods vigorously.

I hope my smile is not too tight-lipped. "Oh good. Well, that still
doesn't prove anything, so don't worry. I'll just ask you to take a
standard test.  I'll explain how it works. This book" - I take a book
from my desk drawer - "contains pictures of men and of women. Each
time you turn the page, you see a picture of a man or a woman. The
order is random. While you look at the pictures, I closely examine
your eyes to observe the dilation of your pupils. That tells me how
much the image appeals to you. I shall need to sit close by you. I
hope you don't mind."

"Oh, not at all."

I draw up a chair and pass her the book. "You must turn the page when I
say, and not before. Understood?"

"Of course."

"Very well. Turn to page one."

She opens the book. And there, I know, she is looking at
Michaelangelo's David. I find it strange how much heterosexual women
like this sculpture. Of course, it is fine - of its kind. But if I
were heterosexual, I think I'd feel a little disappointed by the sight
of infantile genitalia grafted on to a full-grown man.

"Do you know that picture?"

"Um... yes." Her pupils dilated very rapidly, but then narrowed again
at once.

"What do you think of it?"

"It's... perfect."

"Yes. Would you like to go to bed with someone like that?"

"No."

"No? Why not?" I wonder if it's the tiny genitalia.

"I... I don't know."

I do not press her. "Very well. Turn the page."

The next picture is of a male porn star, very obviously erect. I watch
closely, and see exactly the same effect - a rapid, transitory
dilation. Then she frowns.

"What do you think of him?"

"All right, I suppose," she murmurs. Her tone suggests disappointment.
There is little point in questioning her further.

"Okay. On to the next page."

The next picture is the Rokeby Venus. Nothing very sexual, but at once
she is breathing deeper and her pupils are huge.

"Beautifully painted, isn't it?" I prompt her.

"I'm sorry?" she murmurs after a few seconds.

"Beautifully painted," I repeat. "The picture. Velazquez."

"Si. Es fantastica."

There is no point in showing her further pictures. She has fallen at
the first fence.

"Where did you learn Spanish?"

"It is an international culture. It is all part of cheerleading."

"Tell me about cheerleading. I really know nothing about it."

"Well... We dress in these clothes, and we go out on the field, and we
sort of march, and I wave my..."

"Your pom-poms?"

"Yes, my pom-poms... and then we go back to the changing-room, and
we're all hot and sweaty, and..."

I wait for a while, but Ilona seems distracted once more.

"Well, Ilona, what you describe is very common. I don't know much
about cheerleaders, but every day I have lots and lots of women who
come to me with symptoms very like yours."

"You do?" Suddenly Ilona seems to focus, as if clutching on to a straw
of hope.

"Certainly. You are not the first today, you know."

"Oh, it makes me feel so much better to know that."

"But as I said before, there is a great distance between what you are
describing and full-blown Lesbianism." I give a little laugh. "If you
were to see another woman's sex in real life, not just in your
imagination, I'm sure you'd run screaming from the room."

"Oh I don't think so." She is suddenly quite positive.

"You don't?" I roll my chair back a foot or so. "Well, then," I goad
her, "what do you think of this?" I lift my dress. I am not wearing
panties. She can see everything.

"Oh, my," she says, fascinated, at once falling to her knees between
my thighs.

"Now just a moment," I protest. But then the breath is driven from my
body.  It is not just the lapping of her tongue. It is the way she
grips my thighs, the way she moans as she licks and kisses. "This is
most..." I groan. I want to say "unprofessional," but I just cannot
say it. She is just such a sweet girl.

"My God!" I groan, when I can manage to prise her away. "My God!" It
would not be so bad were this only the first time today.

"So does that make me a dyke?" she asks, rocking back on to her heels.

I stand up and retreat behind my desk. "Ilona, this is not unusual.
Lots of women want to try out new things. Of course it may be that you
do have Lesbian tendencies..." I am struggling to get my breath back.

"Yes?" she helps me kindly.

"Not of course that there's anything wrong with that..."

"No?"

"Or... perhaps you have what we call NLCD syndrome. It is surprisingly
common."

She sits back in her chair with a pleased smile. "What do you
propose?"

"Normally, we prescribe group therapy to try to help you learn your
true sexual identity."

"Thank you."

"I can offer an immediate session if you wish."

"That would be wonderful!" She seems genuinely enthusiastic.

I press my intercom button. "I have a probable NLCD here," I say.
"Which GT room is it? ...Thank you." I look up at Ilona. She is almost
quivering with anticipation.  "I shall now direct you to one of our
group therapy rooms. If you go out of that door over there and follow
the corridor to your right, you will come to a door on your left with
a number 7 on it. Knock before you enter."

"Very well. Thank you," she says, standing. I watch her as she walks to
the door. Really, there is nothing in the wrong place.

Once I am alone, I press my intercom button again.  "DND on GT room
seven, please."

"Very good, Doctor."

I get up and walk round the room, just making sure everything is tidy.
I do this as a matter of course after interviews like these. And oh
dear. She left her pom-poms behind. I pick them up gingerly. They are
very brightly coloured. I carry them at arm's length and deposit them
on the side table next to the tennis racquet.

* * *

"Brigid!"

"Ilona! What are you doing here?"

"Oh, just a check-up. I saw a Doctor Z."

"So did I! She's cool, isn't she?"

"Yeah. She said I might be NLCD, whatever that means."

"Yeah, same with me."

"Really? What a coincidence! But... Brigid... where's your racquet?"

"Oh, my..." Brigid looks around vaguely. "I must have left it
somewhere.  If it comes to that, where are your pom-poms?"

"Oh, they're... Oh dear. I think I must have left my pom-poms
someplace, too."

"No, Ilona. I don't think you did..."

"Oh Brigid!"

"Oh, Ilona!"

* * *

A few moments later, my intercom buzzes. "Doctor, I have an Inga here
to see you."

"Eighteen? Scantily clad? Confused?"

"Yes."

"From Saint Agatha's?"

"Right again, Doctor. Do you know her? I thought she was a new case."

"She probably is. I think I'm just having one of those days."

"Doctor, may I just ask you a question? I'm still quite new here, and I
was just wondering..."

"Oh, don't tell me you're getting confused as well."

"No, I just wondered... What does NLCD mean?"

I frown. "Well, it's a technical term, and I'm not sure... But let's
just say that the first three letters stand for 'no longer confused.'
Very well.  Send her in."


Finis
