Dr. Holiday Wednesday

Sat, 12 Apr 2008 12:54:15 GMT

I am very seriously considering an endeavor of questionable benefit to me, potentially involving much emotional turmoil, and I need to be quite certain of myself before I proceed. Some individuals, confronted with such a dilemma, consult their horoscope; while others adopt a more direct approach to soul-searching.

I've had LSD before, of course. But it's too inorganic and impersonal for what I had in mind. Under its influence, thoughts come and go quickly, with no wider significance than the immediate, the sensual... this is in my experience, at least. Yours may vary. I sought something more introspective in effect, which would lend itself to a modicum of direction. I opted, instead, for the drug admixture ayahuasca, the 'yage' famously sought by Burroughs and Ginsberg in the 1950s.

In this case it is not a true ayahuasca, involving substitution of Mimosa hostilis and Peganum harmala for Psychotria viridis and Banisteriopsis caapi, respectively; and being further refined of impurities. M. hostilis provides the dimethyltryptamine, while P. harmala contains the monoamine oxidase inhibitor harmine, essential for DMT's efficacy via the gastrointestinal route. But this is, as is said, academic.

You may or may not know the scene cut from Pulp Fiction, in which Mia Wallace opines that all individuals can be placed into one of two categories, 'Beatles people' or 'Elvis people'. Similarly, the set of 'psychonauts' may be subdivided into two camps, those who lean toward the pragmatic, unsentimental approach of William Burroughs, or toward that of the romantic and easily excitable Terence McKenna. I side with Burroughs. You are unsurprised, I'm sure, even if you would not suspect I'd stoop to ingesting psychedelics in order to scrutinize my pneuma. These substances have their (infrequent) uses, to one of which I dispassionately applied the mixture at hand.

I embarked upon this 'treatment' in the familiar environs of my apartment, having left Nicole with some tasks about the lab, and explicit instructions that I not, under any circumstances, be disturbed in the following twelve hours. I made myself comfortable in the living room, drawing the curtains, putting on some quiet music. After pouring myself a soft drink, I swallowed the harmine. Then I puttered around the apartment, letting the MAOI settle in, before ingesting the DMT proper.

More waiting. But not for long.

One moment there was nothing; the next, something switched over and I felt abruptly lightheaded. This progressed to a feeling of displacement or unreality, comparable to that of sleep deprivation, though more profound. I decided I would be more comfortable laying on my back on the floor. There was a period of nausea, almost too brief to merit notice.

I wondered if the ayahuasca was having an undesirable effect on my cardiovascular system, due to an initial tingling and heaviness in my limbs. This was an effect of the harmine. Hypertensive crisis can be a concern if the subject has recently ingested foods high in tyramine, a common fermentation product; but I had not done so, and further self-examination suggested nothing untoward. I could move about without hindrance any time I wished, though my balance was markedly impaired.

Psychically, the first hour was horrible, overwhelming. It soon reached a point where I'd had enough and wanted it to stop. I looked to myself for a way to switch it off, an antidote, but I'd none prepared. Fine. I had come here to do this and I would tough it out. The idea that some individuals take these substances recreationally seemed unreal, when I could muster no volition to do anything but lay there. Taking written notes, had it occurred to me, was impossible. I couldn't stand to hear music or machinery of any kind... an oscillating tone became a voice, or a choir. The sound of children playing outdoors was relatively comforting, although I am not a great fan of the creatures. It took some time to realize the faint rustling and tinkling just behind my head was ice melting in the glass.

Following the somatic effects were the visuals. At first, angular, slowly spiraling patterns in an overlay of pastel colors, the general aspect familiar to me from experiences with LSD. My mind insisted on turning the ceiling's irregular texture smooth and symmetrical, like pressed tin. At times the patterns seemed to form faces, uncomfortably so, as I did not desire the intrusion of anthropomorphism. Fascinating, at first, to watch one's sensory interpretation degrade, this phenomenon became a bit tedious because there was essentially no variation (and I had, of course, seen its like before).

The inclination was to shut my eyes; the patterns within the vista of my closed eyelids were far more intense, nested cruciforms and swastikas strobing in fiery colors, receding into panoramic distance, implying epic significance. I was reminded of Mexican or Aztec murals, although I could not say precisely what aspect of the designs evoked this association. Indistinct creatures of my imagination engaged in stylized intercourse, ritual domination and submission, switching roles at will. There was a diffuse sort of presence around me... in me? In the mental arena where I found myself... so diffuse (or I was so depersonalized) that it hardly registered to me as a presence.

Eventually my inner dialogue reduced to a sort of chauvinistic caricature of aboriginal speech-- baby talk, pidgin English, etc. --and the scientific part of my mind recoiled from this, embarrassed, insistent upon retaining a measure of detachment and control. It goes without saying I am obsessed with control. Self-control, primarily, but also control of others where it serves my purposes.

I can't decide if the trip became more bearable, or if I'd simply gone too far to conceive of resisting it. But after a while the words came in recognizable language again. Self-consciousness abated. Spasmodic flexing of muscles, particularly those of my legs and hips, was compulsive and offered some relief from mental duress. You could say 'the spirit was moving within me.' But I wouldn't. I gave the impression of humping the air, though there was nothing sexual in this activity.

Self-reflection crept in. I realized, though this was not a new insight, that it is my base impulse to retreat, to withdraw, rather than to go forth. I understood that my struggle with this is a theme of my life, constantly pushing down the urge to hide and to hope difficulties will resolve themselves. I know my temperament appears very much the opposite, dear Diary, but that is thanks to years of discipline. It might even be said my life's work is but compensation for feelings of inadequacy... I believe I've said as much, myself. It does serve a purpose to be periodically reminded of so-called 'obvious' truths. There was no particular anguish in realization, just vague regret in my strong suspicion I would not alter this pattern of behavior.

I found myself mentally voicing the mantra "I am Wednesday," perhaps as an effort to rise above the confusion. Part of me wished to remain scientific while in extremis, not become immersed in some sort of ridiculous hippie reverie. Along these lines-- I disagree with the notion that psychedelics offer some manner of transcendent insight or knowledge; rather, under the influence, one's mind saturates itself in every possible juxtaposition of ideas at once, and some prove to have utility in the real world. Most do not. Take that, McKenna.

In the throes of the trip's most profound epoch, I was watching Wednesday, and also knew myself to be Wednesday.

There was a distinction between my... how shall I put it? Between my internal node or focus of sapience, and the extrovert persona of Dr. Holiday Wednesday. This was not a new insight, either. I was not born the personality I project... she was constructed over a period of years, and often quite deliberately, if unconsciously, as a response to a combination of external pressures and internal anxieties and concerns. This is not to say she is ungenuine-- there is not some 'actual' personality I keep buried --but the gulf between her and the presence within is larger than would be supposed by their constant interdependence.

But the Wednesday I observed was more than this; she was also manifestation of the idea of Wednesday, as understood by those in the external world... in some ways very exaggerated, in others all too apt, discomfiting and compelling.

Stylized, slipping in and out of specular mist. A glare of cold, opaquing light on glasses, flashing teeth, the arched brow, shoulders and a pale plateau of lab-coated bust, all angular, judgmental, detached. Clever hands, a cocked cigarette... sometimes a cigarette holder and monocle like a cartoon Nazi. An elegant monster of obdurate, clinical indifference.

My mind placed this encounter during the steak dinner of the other night. I pictured sharp teeth tugging at strings of red, bloody meat from the end of a fork, Bakshi-esque lips pursing and pulling, revealing an eyetooth in a knowing sneer amidst conversation. Casual contempt and condescension toward unseen others, the ignorant hordes. Gloriously unkind.

Settings, situations changed... I watched Wednesday's cyan-haired assistant Nicole dutifully giving head to her in the gloom of her bedroom, as she sat detached, self-reflective on the edge of the bed, every inch the jaded demigod. I witnessed the unspeakable at her hands and I saw her bask in the accolades thereof.

I cannot adequately convey my awe of this apparition. Any knowledge that it was a dreadful caricature, a monster not to be emulated by any moral individual, was beside the point. We all have our deities, in whose footsteps we walk. Whether this artifice takes the form of conventional religion, or a model of our own devising, ultimately what is revered is our inner conception of the deific. I suppose I make this point to defray criticism that I worship myself, a pure narcissist. We all worship ourselves... the godhead is always found within. And the object is not necessarily to become, but to be guided, to be assured that there is purpose and direction.

I do not recall how long was time spent in the company of my persona. Hours, certainly.

Emergence from the drug's influence was far more kind than that of LSD, aided by napping for part of the descent. When I came to, the psychoactive effects had all but abated; I felt a tiny pang of disappointment.

I decided, in a disconnected fashion, that I was quite hungry, and prepared a simple meal of chicken breast and steamed vegetables. Dining, I was not Wednesday rending morsels beguilingly with her teeth; I mechanically disassembled and consumed the meat by the most efficient means. While famished enough to finish the meal, I thought the remaining arrangement of broccoli florets and geometrically incised flesh made a meaningful sigil, and left it on the plate to be seen.

Nicole slipped into the apartment well after the time limit I'd dictated. She found me very quiet and somewhat distant. I think my demeanor unsettled her, and I know she longed to ask what transpired and if I was well. I felt very clingy, though, and it seemed the affection distracted her from concern. She was also quite weary from the work I'd assigned. I wished to join her in bed, but could not sleep. Now normality, within and without, was a novelty. I wanted to stay and experience it, and did so for another two hours.

Sleep, when welcomed, brought a return of the hallucinatory patterns. I suspected a residue of the drug remained, but this was simply dream recollection, for the patterns disappeared upon waking.

In the wake of this experience, my mind was left very clear, uncluttered by immediate concerns and worries. That is the utility of this substance to me: it clears out the deadwood. Perception and mental association are heightened by the simple expedient of abolishing the mind's habitual preoccupations for a time. The true psychological benefit of psychedelics is not the trip, but its aftermath. The trip itself is ordeal or transient reverie.

Another temporary effect was to dilate my sense of time, so that an hour becomes the considerable interval it was when one was a child. I moved about, doing chores which needed doing, reflecting upon what I'd experienced, and contemplating the future. An eternity later, Nicole roused from bed, mussed and adorable, and I made us breakfast. While we ate, I put on a movie (the aforementioned Pulp Fiction) to 'downshift' as it were from this heavy thinking, and found myself picking out numerous background details and continuity errors I'd not previously noted.

Wed, 09 Apr 2008 11:24:53 GMT

Nicole and I took dinner together in a local steakhouse, the activity reflective of a night not unlike most. But I'd worked entirely through the previous day, and this evening thought I would just go home to bed, instead of the lab. To bed, but maybe not directly to sleep.

When I put my arm over her shoulder, steering her away from the direction of campus, my assistant gazed up at me with a querulous expression. I explained to her about the all-nighter, and wanting the comfort of my bed. Leaning in, I whispered that I wanted her to take me that night. She had difficulty keeping still once I'd imparted this to her attentive ear, fidgeting against me as she accompanied me to my apartment.

My assistant and I do not play this game very frequently, we having our accustomed roles, but I think it is fair to say that Nicole does not indulge me in this merely for my benefit.

Once safely indoors, I let some of my professional demeanor drop... I cooed to Nicole in the dark and gave her a small kiss, and asked if she was certain she was up for it herself.

"Yes, Doctor," she breathed, her eyes big, shiny. I kissed her again, lingering.

Leaving Nicole to undress and prepare, I slipped discreetly into the bathroom to give myself an enema. Don't look so repulsed... you should be disgusted if I hadn't. I don't know which fantasy world porn stars live in, where one can instantly transubstantiate the contents of one's rectum into Astroglide the moment anal intercourse is proposed (Narnia, maybe?), but it's an awfully convenient place, isn't it? Here in the real world, we're stuck with basic hygiene. The fan masked any sound which would disclose my activity as I made myself ready.

I emerged from the gloom. "Here I am, Nicole," I said, standing over my assistant, who sat on the bed.

She trembled... her hands cradled the toy we use for times like this. She nodded, and I climbed onto the bed before her, stretching out and situating myself. Hugging a pillow beneath my chin, I lifted my ass, presenting myself to her examination, to her use.

I felt gentle fingers daubed in silicone grease delicately probing past my anxious, resisting muscles, preparing me, and sensed her flush of giddy embarassment at the naughtiness of a rare turning of the tables. Her touch in such an intimate, sensitive spot, at once affectionate and clinical, was powerfully arousing to me, and I was instantly erect.

I heard Nicole's soft gasp when she seated the pilot end of the dildo within herself; she required no additional lubricant, being terribly turned on with anticipation. There followed the minute, slick squeak of my assistant's fingers liberally greasing 'my' end of the toy. Nicole drew a deep breath, then huffed with resolve as she got into character.

The blunt head of the dildo nudged meaningfully against my back door. I swallowed, and shivered, attempting to relax, but as you imagine, it's quite difficult.

Nicole rested her hand on my hip in order to steady herself, her other guiding the rubber cock. It nudged my anus again, then bore down in a slow but decisive incursion. I bit down on my lip, feeling myself spread and spread around the brutal toy, that stretching, near-to-bursting feeling growing until at last the thick head eased past my resistance... I groaned into the pillow. Nicole emitted a muffled sound of excitement.

My breath came faster as Nicole pressed on, insinuating inch after inch of the surrogate cock before her until it was entirely seated, a literally visceral feeling of weight within my abdomen, an uncomfortable, beguiling heaviness sending chills through me. I pawed at the bedcovers. Each spasm of my muscles translated along the shaft, letting my assistant feel everything she did for me.

Nicole began to ride me. The mattress squeaked beneath her knees. She knows I can take it rough, but appreciates that delayed gratification is satisfaction increased, and Nicole's constitution is more suited to the slow tease than to spastic motion. She moved her hips with maddening sloth, stroking in and out from harness to tip, making me take every inch; each time she sank into me, I moaned unreservedly, my voice echoing from the walls when I wasn't biting the pillow, that thick rubber plank grinding over the bulge of my prostate until I felt my cock would burst, too sedately to bring me off until I was delirious with the need for release. The dildo stuck tight in my ass when at last I spontaneously climaxed, whimpering abjectly as I jizzed all over my tits, a hot, marshy spot spreading beneath me. Nicole tamed my resistance with firmer thrusts, and a moment later I heard her squeak, hands trembling on my hips while her orgasm chased mine.

The girl still surprises me at times. Ingenue she may be... she played me like an instrument.

We lay there, coupled and catching our breath. Silence reigned again.

"Thank you, Nicole," I said, breathless. She kissed the nape of my neck.

Then, the withdrawal... denial and relief at once. My legs felt like water, my stomach hollow, as I was evacuted by the enormous toy. Nicole and I shared a kiss as I helped her out of the harness, arms clinging to me, the girl lapsing into her accustomed role. I still had the presence of mind to deal with the unsavory biological remnants-- Nicole is dutiful to a fault, but there are limits to what I will allow her to do for me --the dildo submerged in the bleach bucket under the bed; for myself, a glide with a sanitary wipe which went into the biohazard bin.

Curling up with her, I felt warm and malleable, satisfied. She spooned behind me, uncharacteristically, and I held her hand over my heart.

Tue, 01 Apr 2008 10:26:45 GMT

There at last came opportunity to speak with Dr. Allen in relative privacy, so I screwed up my courage, and approached her in the hall. I'm unused to bringing a conciliatory tone to my voice-- I know this speaks ill of me -- but I attempted such, and called to her. "Allen?"

As she turned, I clasped my hands together in supplication, while making no physical contact; I'm sure my pawing her is the last thing she desires. "Allen, I'm so sorry about that night," I said. "I've been haunted by it ever since."

Allen made a small, inquisitive sound, searching her thoughts. Then she nodded, as though, upon reflection, the liaison in question was of little concern. "No, not at all, Wednesday."

I was prepared to plead my case. Not to explain that I often respond to censure with sexual conquest, that would only make me appear deranged, but to declaim my weakness in such situations, and to plead ignorance of her travails with Hodgson. Her nonchalance was unexpected. "Ah. If that's how you feel."

Allen sighed with rue. "I had a lot to drink that night, but I'm a big girl, and I knew what I could expect." I nodded. After a calculated pause, she added, "I'm divorcing from Gary."

The surprise evoked by this revelation was amusing, I'm sure. "You're joking," I said, unblinking. Allen shook her head, her expression grave. My mind raced. I blurted, "But you should know I've already--" Got commitments, was what I intended to say, before she cut me off.

"Having sex with you really opened my eyes. It helped me see just how low I'd sunk, Wednesday. You, of all people." She wrinkled her nose, and shivered. "It's better he and I separate than allowing my behavior to get any more self-destructive."

My hands wrung, now in frustration. "Ah, glad I could help," I said, blank.

Allen dismissed this with a shake of her head. "I'd been turning it over in my mind a while, but it's so easy to let things go on like they are. You know what I mean? It's less trouble." She bit her lip.

I nodded, distracted. I was more than a little relieved Dr. Allen was not throwing herself at me in a fit of sublimated loathing. Allen scrutinized me, and asked, "Did you say something earlier?"

"No, nothing," I said, lying. "I imagined you were going to slap me." I chuckled.

"Well, I could do that if you'd like." And, sans further preamble, she drew her arm back and struck me across the face, knocking me off-balance. She did it hard, taking evident satisfaction. I should be unsurprised.

Allen massaged her hand. "Mmm. That felt really good." She smiled.

I palpated the stricken spot, rather dazed. "Yes, I suppose it did...."

"Have a good day, Wednesday," Allen said breezily, continuing on her way. The sound of her heels on the linoleum hushed, flattened with distance. I stood there a bit longer, while my wits returned.

I should like to confidently interpret this exchange as indicative of her disinterest. If only I could. (sigh) I really do not have space for another departmental romance, dear Diary.

And was she telling the truth, or having me on? I pondered whether Allen's husband would blame me for this turn of events. How could he learn of my involvement? Allen would never be so indiscreet, I'm sure. But I had to wonder. Not that this incited alarm in me. It is simply not physiologically possible to have terror struck into one's soul by the person who drives a Karman Ghia. It simply cannot happen. Were Freddy Krueger to manifest in one, all evil grin and flashing blades as he unfolded his horribly burn-scarred frame from his burbling, sunshine-orange clown car, he would very shortly withdraw in slump-shouldered, abject defeat, disregarded by all. Perhaps a student or two would quiz him for advice about getting into their degree courses, or a passing tailor would attempt to fit him for a tweed jacket with elbow patches, but nothing more.

But I make light of a serious turning point in a colleague's life, which is insensitive of me. I'm still a bit shocked by its suddenness, and my apparent culpability in this matter.

Tue, 25 Mar 2008 03:55:41 GMT

The author of this journal is presently attempting to 'backfill' entries which, according to story chronology, should already have appeared. Thus the reader should expect some spectacularly out-of-date dates.

Tue, 25 Mar 2008 03:45:47 GMT

Something to raise the eyebrows today, dear Diary. Was offered a bit part in a perfectly ridiculous 'slasher' film with the working title "A Tooth for a Tooth"; which, if the synopsis is to be believed, involves a protagonist who, in childhood, cultivates a homicidal rage towards dentists, with proceedings one can extrapolate with little difficulty from this rather dodgy premise. Almost a student production; the director/producer is an alumnus, thus the locality of setting. Also rather low-budget, as such productions tend to be.

I repeatedly deny interest in the spotlight, but my arguments have, as of late, come over lacking in conviction.

Initially, I supposed the solicitation was result of my appearance in Skin Two, but in fact he, the director, had "seen me around" and impulsively approached me, as so many do. It was suggested I play "a woman scientist". Charming. Again, considering the nature of such productions, I doubt my sudden involvement would disrupt the planning overmuch; although I'm informed, by a knowledgable acquaintance, that directors of low-budget horror films are either insufferably pedantic, or supremely flexible, this latter type open to any suggestion which sounds 'cool'. (I never thought I would habitually stick the word in quotes. Hooray, I am old.)

Unsure if I would be among the slashed-- or in this case, the drilled --but one rule of thumb in context is physical attractiveness = murder bait. Unless one is the heroine. Indeed, there seems to be a correlation between a character's bust size and how quickly she is knocked off, so I should be lucky to survive through the opening credits.

It seemed to me, he was cutting matters a bit fine (no pun), this being the day before Halloween. Indeed, was told I must make a decision by the end of the day; in that case, said I, I would be turning the offer down, as I felt the decision whether to compromise my integrity and/or typecast myself required at least a week's deliberation. You see? I've said 'typecast', as though I anticipate involvement in future endeavors. One hopes only I continue the exercise of discretion.

Wed, 24 Oct 2007 04:47:22 GMT

Little to discuss lately. Work work work.

Gave a quick phone interview to some pedant from Science Actualités regarding my activity since the Alt Parascientific award in 2005. Strongly suspect the gist of his article was my inactivity as he perceives it. I have, in fact, been terribly busy with my work since then. I intimated to him (quite calmly under the circumstances, I felt) that I had something big coming up. Let him speculate on its nature. (sneer) This is science, not self-promotion. I have higher goals than showing off.

Received my contributor's copies from the Skin Two shoot. I've had a copy of the issue off the newsstand before now. Don't know if I mentioned, dear Diary, but I discovered the shoot ultimately condensed to a single photograph. An adequate shot, but not one of my preferred. Does highlight my, ah, work quite nicely, however. (sigh) At least I got a full page. Masturbation at the highest levels of erudite rubber fetish ensues, to be sure.

But in truth, my exhibitionist streak often gains the upper hand, despite my serious-minded intentions. I understand a third cousin from the inbred Pennsylvanian end of my family is an amateur porn star. How alarming. I'm sure such things don't come in lineages... do they, dear Diary? I was such a normal child. (cough) Aside from the obvious. But a fetish mag, even an arty one like Skin Two, is poor substitute for recognition in a scientific journal.

Thu, 27 Sep 2007 12:52:27 GMT

This afternoon, I was right in the thick of testing some new distensible sounds, when I was buzzed from the downstairs labs. Seems they wanted to know if I would retrieve the statue of my laboratory assistant from the corridor.

I have asked them to replace that antiquated Medusa system with something more reliable-- the Basilisk M200 comes most readily to mind --but this being university, they must wring every drop of use from it, I suppose. (sneer) 'Major Boothroyd' down in purchasing refuses to plump for the replacement. "It works, doesn't it?" he persists in asking. Yes, of course it works, that is the essence of the problem... it is all too ready to work, whether desired or not.

Ah well. I dressed Nicole in something elastic, and placed her in the middle of the quad, before reversing the petrification process. I've been remiss in hazing the unfortunate girl.

Sat, 22 Sep 2007 07:01:09 GMT

It turns out what Allen wished to discuss with me that evening was the subject of Dr. Hodgson, and his behavior. Specifically, that he had made advances upon her as well, and what advice did I have to offer, re: resolution, as the resident slut? More than a little ironic that I got her drunk and shagged her that very night. (sigh) I've done a terrible thing.

Wed, 19 Sep 2007 06:31:54 GMT

One of my colleagues, who shall remain nameless-- let's call her Dr. Francine --goes around to restaurants and bars, claiming it is her birthday when it isn't, in order to obtain food and drinks free of charge. She keeps a small book with meticulous notes, regarding which places she has duped with this scheme, and which date of birth she used at each one, so that she is not caught trying the same establishment on multiple days. I believe her activities have gone beyond financial considerations, or simple greed, entering into the realm of neurotic behavior; but that is neither here nor there.

Often, she will travel with an accomplice, who verifies her story; on occasion, this accomplice is myself. Not too often, as I am not one to fade conveniently from memory, in the manner which a successful confidence trickster requires. There are also so many iterations of the 'Happy Birthday' song one can endure before one goes spare, unless one is the sort of individual who devises elaborate schemes to embezzle sandwiches, apparently. Entertaining woman, though. Has a sign on her laboratory door, reading "INTERN DON'T LET THE SUN SET ON YOU". In spite of that she's really quite amiable.

Rusty's House of Meat, the evening's mark, was packed. The dinner special was to blame. Tri-tip steak is to yuppies like blood to piranha.

Francine and I had ordered our meals. I forewent my usual bourbon, in favor of an umbrella drink, and I nursed this now, when who should I see among the throng, striding purposefully to our table, but Dr. Barbara Allen herself. Despite our previous encounter, I favored her with a smile. I'm usually pleased to see her. She's an unending source of amusement. Rather than seeking to chastise me, as one might expect, she had an almost furtive expression.

"Wednesday," she said. "I need to talk to you."

I looked to my companion. "This is Dr. Barbara Allen, rattle-shaker. Hello, Allen. How's your ailment?" I gave a pointed nod south of her waist; you may recall she injured her knee, dear Diary, and that I was, in a way, instrumental to this. "Please, sit with us. This is Dr. Francine."

Allen began to explain she wanted to speak outside, but Francine sat up. "Hello!" she said, offering her hand to Allen, who took it.

"Hi," Allen replied. After a helpless look round, she settled into the seat beside mine. I suppose good manners dictated she sit facing the new acquaintance, despite her dislike for me.

"Are you unwell, Dr. Allen?" Francine asked.

"Yes, she suffers from anoxia of the head," I said, breezing in. "But she doesn't allow it to slow her down. We do what we can to prevent her blundering into patio doors, the poor dear." I patted Allen's hand.

She spared me a sideward look. "I, uh, hurt my leg several months ago. It's fine now, thank you."

"Oh, I'm glad to hear that," Francine said with sincerity, as though she and Dr. Allen were of long acquaintance.

"Today is Francine's birthday," I said.

Dr. Allen was startled briefly from her guarded demeanor. "Oh, really? Happy birthday," she said, smiling at my dining companion.

"Thank you," she replied with emphasis. She and I shared a glance, chuckling. Allen didn't appear to pick up on this.

"Francine works with polymers. I hear she ties people down with them." Francine made to slap my wrist; I grinned.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Allen said.

"Oh, not at all," said Francine. "The more the merrier."

Allen glanced my way. "I'm surprised Nicole isn't with you," she remarked.

"Nicole has a life of her own, dear. I'm not her mother. She's at some sort of club function." I frowned indifferently at Allen. "I did not, as you might imagine, chase her away."

She opened her mouth, closed it, opened again. "That was the other thing I wanted to say. About the other night..."

I sipped from my straw. "We've never had an 'other night,' Allen."

"Will you please listen to me, and get over your pathological need to be the cleverest person in the room?" I fell silent, arching my brows at her meaningfully. "Thank you. I wanted to say--"

"'Kay, here are your appetizers," said the waitperson, materializing with a laden tray.

"Christ!" Allen snapped, turning and glaring at the waitress, who responded by backing up a step in surprise. I felt a mild touch of admiration for my colleague.

I waved the girl in again. "Don't worry about her," I said, attempting to reassure. "Silicone poisoning."

The girl giggled in polite embarrassment, and asked, "Who had the Sausage and Banger Sampler Platter?"

I pointed at Francine. "She'll have the sausage, and I'm the banger."

"I'll just lose it if I don't eat phallic food regularly," Francine affirmed.

The waitress served her. "And the Hawaiian spare ribs," she said. I held up a finger.

Allen regarded our appetizers in something akin to horror. "Is that what you do with your down time? Drink liquor and eat congealed grease?"

"She's still deciding," Francine said to the waitress with a kindly smile.

"I don't want anything," Allen insisted. "I just need to ask Wednesday about something." The waitress spun away.

I made a show of selecting the perfect rib to start. "And you, Allen? Still subsisting on ornamental greenery?" I glanced at her. "You don't have those sharp teeth for nothing."

Dr. Allen made a 'pfft' sound. "There's nothing wrong with a vegetarian diet. I'll have you know, I'm healthier now than I was in college."

"You hate it, don't you?"

"Yes, I hate it... no! I don't hate it!"

"Freudian slip."

Francine laughed. "You'd better be careful, Dr. Allen. Dr. Wednesday will have you lapsing into your bad habits."

"Doctor Wednesday is a bad habit."

I 'tch'ed. "Why did you change your eating habits, Allen? Getting a little broad in the beam?" I smirked at her; she blanched. To be fair, she'd been slender, almost austere, since before arriving in the department. She gave no reason to suspect it was ever otherwise.

"No, of course not," she almost coughed.

"No need for secrets between us, dear," I said. "I can tell. The set of your shoulders, the marbling of your meat...."

Dr. Allen went from frown to full-blown scowl. "I might have had a slight weight problem in school, but it's none of your business. God, how can you even ask so brazenly?"

I leaned in, lowering my voice. "I bet you had gorgeous plump tits then. It's a shame you've had to... compensate."

"Wednesday, I'm going to belt you if you say another word."

Francine giggled.

I raised an eyebrow. "We're just making girl talk, Allen. Don't be so quick to take offense."

"You're no girl, and never were," Allen snapped.

Dr. Francine might have gasped, were she not accustomed to the degree of casual insult in our academic circles. If I am to be honest in describing the evening, I must concede that Dr. Allen's harsh declaration made my head rock backward involuntarily, as though I were struck in the face.

I set down my half-gnawed sparerib. "That was uncalled for, Allen," I said softly, regarding her. "That really does hurt." I wiped off my fingers methodically.

"Look who can't take what she dishes out," Allen said, producing a sneer, but I sensed guilt in her hesitation... she understood what someone of my sex goes through in life. (sigh) Foolish, sensitive ex-hippie. I pressed the advantage.

"Now you definitely have to have a drink with us," I replied. I handed her the cocktail menu as though it were a death warrant. Allen looked me in the eye, as though asking did she really have to do this; my gaze was unflinching. She opened the menu. My eyes darted to Francine's; hers gleamed, like she knew something was afoot.

Allen frowned as she perused the drinks list. "What's a Wrist Cutter?" she said, half to herself.

Readdressing my appetizer, I said, "It's just like a Fog Cutter, only instead of a teaspoon of sherry they pour absinthe over it."

Allen snirked. "You're making that up."

"I'm not. Look," I said, pointing at the description. "They legalized it recently."

"I never realized Rusty's House of Meat was so trendy," she muttered.

"What do you think, Francine? Banana Bomb? Silver Prostate?"

Francine thought. "Cuban Missile Crisis?"

Allen made a sound of inquiry.

"Ah," I said. "If I recall correctly, that is a Cuban Breeze with a splash of Canadian whisky."

Francine steepled her fingers. "And it's Canadian because...?" she queried, peering at Allen.

Allen blinked, on the spot. "...because the Kennedys bootlegged it during Prohibition?" she said. I gazed at Allen, frankly surprised. Sometimes I do underestimate people, truly.

"Very good," I said. "It also has a mild finish and doesn't dominate the cocktail."

"I think I'll just have a strawberry daiquiri," Allen said. Inwardly I was appalled at this choice-- you know my opinion of the drink, dear Diary --but I held my tongue.

Dr. Francine regarded Allen with concern. "Have you eaten, dear?" Allen replied no, she hadn't. "You shouldn't drink on an empty stomach. Order something."

Allen agreed that this was generally inadvisable. "I really can't stay for supper," she countered.

"Just a little something."

"The Monte Cristo is very good here, Allen," I said. If earlier she had been horrified by Francine's and my choice of starters, Allen appeared soul-shaken by my suggestion of entree.

"That's that... fried sandwich, isn't it?"

"In batter," I said, nodding.

"With powdered sugar on top," Francine contributed.

Allen winced, wrinkling her nose. "Oh, I hardly." But she was tempted, dear Diary. I know intimately the exaggerated disdain of the addict, the almost evangelical need to deny one's cravings. Another piece of the puzzle falls into place.

"They serve a delicious French dip, Barbara," Francine said. "It's very lean."

"And if you must," I sighed, "the salads here are quite substantial."

"They are," Francine agreed. "You could lose yourself in one!"

Allen shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, okay," she said, surrendering easily in the end. "I guess I could have something."

It was my turn to smile warmly. "I'll be right back," I said.

I ordered Allen's daiquiri at the bar, waiting there for it. Francine is a charming older woman, her personality substantially divergent from my own, substantially warmer, and I supposed some time alone with her would put Allen at her ease. I did not know what possessed me to invite Dr. Allen's company, but truthfully, I have never disliked her. It simply entertained me to torment her... any reconciliation was mine to make. For a few minutes I observed them at distance, while I myself feigned ignorance of the assorted barflies studying my body. Rusty's is sort of a fraternity hangout, but the food is quite good. I saw Allen speak to the waitress with a contrite look, due to her earlier outburst.

If Allen still entertained thoughts of bowing out, it didn't show when she stood to let me into my seat. With her beverage taken care of, and I resettled, I said, "Now. What was it you wished to discuss?"

Allen paused, ever so slightly. "It's personal," she said. She turned to Francine. "No offense," Allen added, polite embarrassment in her voice.

"None taken," said Francine cheerily.

"What shall we talk about, then?" I said.

Francine seemed to wait until Allen sipped her drink before saying "How about sex?"

"Yes, dear," I said, and turned to Allen. "Do you have any?"

Allen took a deep breath, preparatory to saying something cutting, no doubt, but lost her head of steam and sat there dumbly for a moment. "You know that this conversation could be considered sexual harassment," she said at last.

"Not off campus," Francine offered.

I smiled at Allen. "We're all adults here, all with healthy attitudes toward sex." I almost let slip that this was what I said to Hodgson during our fun little meeting, but caught myself. Not interested in going down that path.

Allen let out a little laugh. "Your attitude, healthy? No, Wednesday. You're a textbook of sexual pathology."

I tilted my head, smiling. Fair enough. "Besides, you want to talk about it," I said. "You've got something you'd like to get off your chest."

Allen stared at me for several seconds, unblinking. Then she lowered her head, looking at her drink. "Yes, I do," she said quietly. She sipped her daiquiri.

I smiled. "I was right about your little boyfriend," I said. I caught her that time. She spluttered, spraying a little pink slush on the tablecloth, then hacked to clear her throat. I patted Allen's back. This does nothing to restore breathing, but I wished to make the gesture.

"Damn you, Wednesday." Allen coughed.

I stroked her back. "Did he eat you out, Allen?" I asked cozily. "Was he any good?"

"Ugh. You're repellent."

"Well, could he use that tongue of his?"

"You're such a fucking whore."

Francine watched the show with her chin on her hand, as though Allen and I were on television.

My eyes narrowed unkindly. "It's always 'whore' when someone has all the sex you wish you were having," I purred.

I'm sure I hit a nerve, because Allen sucked down enough of her daiquiri to give herself a headache, and said, "You're shameless. You'll jump anything you get your hands around."

"People throw themselves at me, Allen, and what can I do but oblige them? I'm not without empathy. Their unrequited lust pains me."

"A philanthropist," said Allen, sounding markedly unconvinced.

"You have to admit Holly does cut an impressive figure," Francine said.

"Do you really find that attractive?" Allen said, nodding her head in my direction, clearly on the verge of fury. "I feel like everybody's taking crazy pills."

"Holly is good-looking, yes," Francine opined. She did not feel a need to defensively point out she is heterosexual, just one more reason I respect a Dr. Francine far more than, say, a Dr. Allen. "Perhaps enough to frighten most suitors. But her sexual energy is enough to overcome her off-putting qualities."

I chuckled, mildly embarrassed. "Ah, that's enough of that, Francine," I said, waving her off. She chuckled at me.

Allen stabbed at her drink with the straw. "She's an overblown caricature." To me, she said, "I don't dare think about how much of the department's budget is squandered on your tits." She bared her teeth in an unkind snarl. I think I enjoyed her candor.

"Oh, don't listen to her. She's bitter because she's stuck with the retreads."

Allen started in her seat. "What is that supposed to mean, Wednesday?"

"Why, I think you understand me."

"Are you talking about my breasts?" she said. She swiveled her waist and aimed them at me, and the gesture excited me, in spite of her absurd prosthetics. "'Cause if so, you have no idea what you're talking about."

"We all know about your unconventional security measures, Allen--"

"I don't," Francine interjected.

"--I'm referring to your boy-toy."

Allen's mouth fell open in a comical 'O' when she understood, but the meal arrived before she could respond. The pulled pork sandwich, brutally cut in perpendicular Bauhaus fashion, rather than at a gentle diagonal (I split this with Dr. Francine), and Allen's salad.

Once we were situated, Allen offered a rebuttal, of sorts. "He's not a retread," she asserted. "Bobby is a-- he hasn't been seeing anyone. He's--"

"Inexperienced?" Dr. Francine offered discreetly.

I went wide-eyed, batting my lashes. "He's just a shy, awkward boy who doesn't know how to love!"

Allen's expression darkened. "He is!"

Francine chuckled. "And he only needs a mature woman to show him how. That's sweet." This utterance seemed sincere. How frightening.

"Just like some sort of depraved After-School Special," I remarked.

Allen clenched her fist, nearly missing the steak fries. "I'm telling you, he's never--" She became aware of how her volume had risen, and lowered her voice to what she imagined was a hush. "He's never been with anyone!"

I sneered. "I suppose you think Mensa is exclusive, too."

Allen's salad did little to mitigate the effects of the alcohol, which had been overtaking her. The transformation was fascinating to me, and educational. She swept hair out of her face angrily. "God," she huffed. "I was going to tell you I'm sorry for misjudging you the other night, but apology is wasted on you."

I folded my hands in a gesture of submission. "It is, Allen. I'm irredeemable. Please, go on."

She went on. "If you talked with him, you'd never suspect something like that." Francine and I nodded. "He's so... I guess 'gallant' is the word. Sometimes it's funny to watch how serious he is about it." She thought, and giggled. "Even when he doesn't quite pull it off and he's clumsy and uncertain, he's so sweet."

Francine sighed. "It's lovely to be desired, isn't it?" She nibbled on her sandwich.

Allen gazed ahead dreamily. "Yeah."

"Especially by someone so fresh and full of new life." Francine had experienced this herself, it seemed.

Allen nodded. "And he's cute, and funny..."

I picked at my teeth with a nail. "And you're hot for his virginal prick."

"Ohh, don't get me started," Allen said, rolling her eyes.

"I think we're well past that point, Allen."

"The first couple times we were together, I would barely touch him and he'd shoot. He came so easy... so full of cum. He would lay there, trembling like a little animal..." Sudden candor. She sighed.

I leaned on my elbow, smiling crookedly. "And after you broke him in, dear? What then?"

"I rode him into the sunset!" Allen said, and giggled. We laughed along with her, but I was unsure about being privy to this hitherto unseen dimension of the woman. The salacious details were, of course, enjoyable, but it was easier to see Dr. Allen as a caricature, than someone with an inner life and secret wants. "He never gets tired. Not like... some people." She giggled as though embarrassed.

"That's good," I said. "You can show him just what you like." Allen gave me a soulful, glassy look, as though this were precisely what she'd done.

"He makes me feel..."

"Alive, dear?" Francine suggested.

"Awake," Allen said. "As though there's something besides work to pay attention to. Gary and I just kind of... sleepwalk past each other." Her grief was obvious... I've never had a relationship conclude in any way other than violent explosion, and in sensing Allen's helplessness, I wondered if perhaps I was fortunate.

"Is it love?" Francine inquired.

"Oh, I don't know." Allen looked thoughtful. "I know he's gonna meet a nice girl his own age... but I'll face that when it comes." Francine nodded.

"Well, don't give up before it's over, Allen," I said; but Allen was realistic, perhaps more so than I.

She shook her head. "I'm never going to leave Gar," she said. Grief and despair. Exaggerated by the drink, perhaps, but I find others are never more honest than when they've had a few. "Bobby's just a fling, I know... I'll enjoy it while I can."

"Really, Allen. The generation gap is as narrow as you make it."

Francine smiled. "Yes, quite."

Allen chuckled. "You should know," she said to me.

I regarded her with mock surprise. "Shocked that you would imply such a thing. Positively shocked."

"Reach out and hold him, Barbara," said Francine. "You only live once."

I know Francine and I sound like awful people, egging our colleague on to leave her husband, but the deed was half done already.

"Maybe you'll knock him up and have to marry him," I said.

Allen laughed. "That's closer to your purview, Wednesday." She savaged an especially robust crouton. "God, it pissed me off so much when I thought you had him first."

I nodded. "Now I understand why." This knowledge sat uneasily with Dr. Allen, but perhaps she had come to trust me, if only a little.

She gave me the eye. "What did you do with him?" she asked.

I smirked. "Nothing much. Just a little frotting between colleagues." She seemed to desire elucidation. "I backed up and 'accidentally' rubbed my ass against his hips."

Allen frowned. "You better not have made him come," she warned.

"Does that include him by himself in the men's room?" I asked. Francine laughed as though she'd had the same thought.

Allen chewed a mouthful of greenery hastily. "And that's all you did to him?"

"'To him'? I'm not Jack the Ripper. Yes, Allen, that's as far as it went. Besides, his mouth is too small."

Francine snickered.

Dr. Allen stabbed at her salad. "Well, I suppose I believe you," she said, making a show of reluctance.

"You should," I said. "I only lie to my friends."

Another round of drinks was ordered.

Allen grinned. Leered, perhaps? "And I heard he isn't your type."

"Ah," I said. "And who is...?"

I was fascinated to hear such rumors directly. I asked her to be absolutely candid. To pretend we weren't sharing a table. Allen was pleased to oblige. There was little I hadn't known, I'm afraid. Dr. Son, of course. Talk about me and Nicole, our relationship being painfully obvious, and its echoes of my former assistant. Nothing about my dalliances with students in my charge... and best kept quiet, I say. The administration has a distinctly Victorian prudishness regarding such. If there were other, more sinister whisperings, Dr. Allen was not prepared to give voice to them. Nothing about the erstwhile Mr. Laramie, for instance.

I thanked Dr. Allen for elucidating me. She seemed a bit nonplussed, as though expecting me to explode in anger or denial, or at least to belittle the tales. On the contrary, an unvarnished opinion is precious to me, uncomplimentary though it may be.

There was a bit of a lull then; Allen apologized for dominating the conversation; we reassured her there was no harm done, and clearly she'd had much on her mind. The dishes were cleared, and, in keeping with the charade, they brought Dr. Francine a hot fudge cupcake with a sparkler jabbed in it, the waitstaff accompanying this with the usual tune. I've learned to keep a straight face by now.

"Would you like to split it with me, Barbara?" Francine asked. "I couldn't possibly finish all this myself." She sensed this might be a rare moment in which Allen would allow herself forbidden pleasure, and the cupcake, like all else served at Rusty's, was enormous.

Allen made a 'nfff' sound, but eyed the dessert. "I guess just a taste," she said, "if you aren't finishing it." But the quickness with which she took up her fork belied her reluctance. Her face lit up, more than it already had. "This is really good." She took another bite. Poor thing. Is Allen religious? She's not enough of a sinner to justify it... she's not even in the running.

She was further embarrassed when Francine insisted on paying her portion of the tab. Without letting her in on Francine's scam, we impressed upon her how we'd talked her into dining with us, despite her reluctance, so it was only sporting that we cover her end of things. We left as the obnoxious night crowd was building. I had to help Allen negotiate the exit.

Needless to note, Allen proved ill-prepared for an evening's carousing. She swayed a bit as she went, periodically bumping into me or Francine, giggling and chatting. We might have been old friends, for all the reluctance she evinced in being seen with me on the way to campus. I found the situation distinctly unreal, in light of our typical interaction. In retrospect, I have difficulty ascribing her behavior to pronounced inebriation. She had two drinks. I myself was lightly 'buzzed', in no condition to drive by legal measure, but still very much in control. Certainly able enough to assist Allen in reaching her office. I had it in mind we would retire to our respective domains, and work or rest the alcohol off. We said our goodbyes to Dr. Francine outside; she works in a different building.

In light of what was to come, would it be unwarranted to theorize that my interference with Allen's affair was the result of jealousy?

It soon became clear I was in a position to connive sexual relations from her, to 'take advantage of her', in the parlance of our times. If that was what I wished, then she would surely hold it against me later. Premeditation could be inferred; I was the one to suggest she join us, and that she share cocktails. But she was so far gone by the time we reached upstairs, rubbing against me as much as her lockplate, so evidently greedy for warm physical contact that I knew passion was on the verge of boiling over. The only question unanswered was, how badly did I want her to hate me?

Oh, I'm quite aware of the disposition of some young women, bound by propriety, who desperately long to be 'boned', as it were, and therefore drink to stupefaction in order to give themselves entree to carnal deviance, without the later need to own up to their decision. And Allen is certainly, ah, sophomoric in her adulterous fling with Bobby the Sperm Sample Boy. Even if such a case obtained here, she would still resent me... she would resent me for being attractive to her. I threaten the white-breaded Levittown construction of her sexual identity. (sigh) If only schools could teach that occasional experimentation is just that-- occasional. It need not be a cross to bear for a lifetime.

So yes, dear Diary. I took her.

When someone gives themselves to me, really gives themselves for the first time, for an instant I fall in love with them, with all my heart. Or such heart as I possess... perhaps it speaks to the debasement of my emotions. The feeling rarely lasts beyond the orgasm, the cigarette, the awkward post-coital meal. I felt such emotion now. Allen's wails, her cries of... relief, almost, that all the verbal shivving and offhanded, picador backbiting was set aside, and we had loosed our intense passions for each other, whatever these might in essence prove to be... her cries awoke my better nature.

I don't understand how her husband could neglect her, if indeed it is not the case that she has tired of him herself. She was so, so gratifying; her need and desire so frank and unbluffed. "Ouuuuhhh... ahhhhnnn... Wednesday... Wednesdaaaaay!" is but a sample of her well-considered love-words as I took Dr. Allen on her desk, her stockinged legs gripping my hips as though she prayed I would never exit her. Allen's face, usually fixed with a frown or even a scowl on my behalf, twisted in ecstasy, in adulation. I may revel in criticism and envy of my finer features, but I am always delighted when the sun unexpectedly breaks through the clouds. I made love to her, until we were spent.

I would have taken her car to drive her home, but obviously I could not deliver her to her husband in this state. Bringing Allen to my own home would have felt like kidnapping. Really, all I could do was nestle her as comfortably as possible on the sofa in her office. Held her hand for a minute or two, for I had inflicted this most unkind cut upon her, and I felt remorse, dear Diary. I know I've severely wounded her pride. These are my most monstrous transgressions; not the blood, not the sacrifices; those wounds give pain and then the pain stops. I hope she forgets the events of that evening, I truly do... I fear I may be losing my taste for conquest.

Mon, 10 Sep 2007 10:23:01 GMT

The matter with Hodgson is really rather minor in the larger picture, but contemplation of it persists, like a canker you can't stop prodding with your tongue.

Managed to ascertain he did not make advance upon Dr. Son. A relief. Apparently he is conventional in his ethnic preferences as well. Typical reactionary... his idea of transgressive behavior is visiting the Playboy Club. (rolls eyes) Chalk one up for the neocon rollback. And they say I'm a blight on this department.

What have I learned about Hodgson in the interim? James H. Hodgson, Ph.D. (Chemistry) Stanford, research fellow organic chemistry, rowing team, and long may it wave. Blah blah. That's all straight off his profile on the departmental website. One item you won't find in his C.V.: he has a penchant for high-stakes gambling. I'm unsure it qualifies as addiction under the Gamblers Anonymous guidelines, but it's an entree. Perhaps entrapment, via the creation of some sort of embezzlement opportunity, is possible. I must weigh that approach against the damage he might do to the department's budget. Perhaps I do the embezzling, and he, with the recent arrival and obvious motive, is framed for it. Note to self: consult Greta re: budget-cooking techniques.

Already I've cultivated an out for this situation, dear Diary. Hodgson wears a pacemaker. One pass with a degaussing gun and he's flopping on the ground like a fish out of water; I can finish him at once, or I can toy with him for a while, allow him to appreciate it is I doing this to him, setting his heart aflutter in quite a different fashion than that which he anticipated.

Needless to say, I have access to Hodgson's medical records, but his record as an academic eludes me. I know there's some reason he transferred to this university, rather than assuming a higher position at his previous post. The safe bet is that he molested one investigator too many, and was forced out; this, or simple incompetence made it so he couldn't rise and he couldn't stay put. I'm going to learn all his secrets, if only for the sake of getting his number.

These are crude plots, in the brainstorming stage. I'm just warming up.

Mon, 03 Sep 2007 09:40:33 GMT

During the period Nicole was sorting herself out, I burned to skewer Dr. Son in an ardent and positively violent fashion. But I did not wish to give Nicole, in her vulnerability, the unfounded impression I had no further interest in her; and at any rate, I endeavored to be available to my assistant at the first moment she required my company. Son and I did it in the supply closet, dear Diary. As discreet as she and I might wish to be, the air in there had grown quite thick after a week or so of this activity.

And there was the student, of course. Not just one of those drones briefly orbiting the science department, fulfilling their requirements, only to sail out of it forever once this is achieved. Were it not for some unquantifiable vagarity of personality or temperament, she could be a Greta or a Nicole... but she is, in the final analysis, merely a fling, lightly used by her professor for a bit of fun during a relative dry spell. She receives the ego-boosting thrill of 'seducing' an intellectual several years her senior, while I draw energy, vampirelike, from her youth. Except that a vampire feeds on blood, while I require more ephemeral fluids....

Generally, in a university department, those privy to open secrets are inclined to mind their own business-- meaning the gossip is kept strictly among the staff, not shared with the administration --but this new Head, Hodgson, apparently caught scent of the matter. (cough) So to speak.

This was the first one-on-one meeting for me with Hodgson. I assumed it was merely the sort of getting-to-know-you nonsense that commonly takes place with an outside hire. In one sense, it was.

My chin cupped in my hand, I studied him frankly. I found him fascinatingly ugly. His face age-tanned, lined and bland, irreflective of mental activity... a walking, talking mushroom. The sort of conservative old-boy hairstyle that appears flopped across his scalp. His gray suit bore the basic snowfall of dandruff which tenured academics and executives wear like an ermine robe of office.

The man has a remarkable perspective upon his role in the department, apparently that of a high school principal tasked with keeping his dim, unruly pupils in line. In aspect he was, of course, the kind of stiff, reserved suit kids can never fathom while in school, and whom I did not adequately grasp now. Therefore it was appropriate that I slouched in the proffered seat. I was unmindful of how this declination threw my, ah, properties into relief, such being far from my mind.

I thought I would test his boundaries immediately. "Do you mind if I smoke?" I nodded to the large glass ashtray, on the desk vacated not so long ago by his predecessor. The pack and lighter were in my hand before he could consider the request... when he gave assent, he merely ratified my action.

Am I not giving him a chance? Judging him by appearance and mannerism? Perhaps predestining the outcome with my disregard? In retrospect, perhaps, I will find something worthwhile in him, dear Diary.

"Thank you," I said, once I had that cleansing blast of nicotine in my lungs. "Now to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Wednesday--" I suppose at this point I was to bid him call me by my first name, or even 'Holly'. I waited in silence for Hodgson to proceed. "--you may reconsider after our conversation whether it is pleasure or not."

I registered mild surprise. "Oh?"

"I have heard rumors of your conduct, Doctor... I hope they are no more than that... quite inappropriate for an academic setting. How would you respond to these, ah, stories, vis-à-vis their validity, or lack thereof?"

This was interesting... Hodgson couldn't mean anything too serious, or he would not have offered the advance warning afforded by an appointment. So to which activity, of my pantheon of minor idiosyncrasies, did he refer?

"Could you make yourself clearer, Dr. Hodgson?"

"I speak of your--" He coughed. "That is, uh, your indiscretions, with other members of this department."

I caught his gist immediately, but liked seeing him wriggle on the hook. Could he make himself clearer? "I'm sorry?" I said.

"That is, uh... will you acknowledge that you and Dr. Catherine Son have had regular, uh, regular meetings in one of the supply rooms?"

This meeting was my first opportunity to truly assess the man... I really should have made time sooner, but Hodgson appears so fundamentally inconsequential I didn't see the urgency. How could one be intimidated? Hodgson enjoys no seniority in my department, regardless of his position, and bears a C.V. of no particular notoriety. Encountering him now, I found him wanting. 'Vis-à-vis'... hmph.

I steepled my fingers, peering along my nose at him, as though reluctant to expend energy bringing him into focus. "We are all adults here, and there is no uneven power dynamic or conflict of interest... such as there might be, for example, between a professor and a student." I would extend the example no further, for reasons which do not bear repeating. "I might also point out there is no departmental clause prohibiting... fraternization." I pronounced this last word with some distaste. Were we in the military? At times I wonder.

I also felt no need to share recollection of my previous visit to what were now his chambers. Old news. As much as the incident might serve to bolster precedent in my favor, I couldn't see how raising the matter of my being blown in that very office by the department ass-queen would improve his estimate of me. (Charlotte and I still see each other around, btw. I make periodic adjustments to her capacitance. (cough))

"So no, I do not deny that I've met in the supply room with someone, with the purpose of mutual sexual gratification, though I'm not prepared to identify this individual, and I am frankly shocked you would expect me to." I had ceased slouching. "I am more shocked that you would implicate one of our colleagues by name, before you have the slightest inkling whether or not I myself am party to the incident to which you allude. You are effectively spreading rumors yourself."

Hodgson looked somewhat ashen. He swallowed. "Yes, you're quite right," he said. "I should not have offered her name. I trust that you will not repeat it."

"Of course," I said.

"Thank you."

Settling back in the chair, I added, "I couldn't say with certainty, but I also doubt there is any specific clause in the department's charter explicitly prohibiting sexual intercourse within the facilities." Each time I said 'sex', I could sense him cringing slightly from the sound of my voice.

Hodgson folded his hands together. "Dr. Wednesday," he began, "I should not have to go over the relevant passage of the department's charter, since it should be common sense, but for the record I shall." He flipped a page on a legal pad. "Professors, supervisors, fellows and associates, their assistants and so on, are expected to conduct themselves in a professional manner, uh, conducive to the function of a university department." Hodgson peered meaningfully at me over his bifocals. "I think you'll agree that occupying the facilities with your... personal activities does not lend itself to a serious, professional atmosphere."

I smiled slightly, indicating I would grant him this much, if unrepentantly.

"This university also has a sexual harassment policy, which does not dwell upon the mutuality of such activity, uh, or lack thereof, but states that it is disallowed on the university grounds under all circumstances."

I did not have to point out this was an essentially meaningless technicality; half the students living on campus were in violation of it. If they were fortunate. Enforcement was virtually nil, except for those fools who woke the RA with their yowling.

The Head rose from his desk, strolling about the spacious office as he digressed, arms folded behind back. Classic admin stagecraft, right out of the Dale Carnegie book. Heavy marigold curtains, laden with dust, focused a nimbus of mid-afternoon light about him. I'm unsure if I prefer the speech with stage directions, or with the orator motionless behind desk like a stone idol upon its altar.

"In being offered my present position, I've been entrusted with the proper administration of the department," he said, "and I intend to do my level best to have its day-by-day functioning adhere to departmental policy in the manner which it has been presented to me."

How fatheaded was he? I thought. Clearly he'd not worked in a legitimate research facility, for he would then understand there are two sets of rules: those written down, and those operated under in practice, in order that the department might function. His slavish adherence to literal policy spoke of indifference and nest-feathering, and if he truly did not care what went on in the department, he might do me the favor of letting me get on with my work.

I found him standing above me. I gave him a curious glance. Hodgson smiled, placing a hand upon my shoulder.

Normally, I do not appreciate uninvited physical contact. But if he needed application of by-the-book chumminess to feel he was getting his point across, I supposed I would endure it.

"However," Hodgson said, "I appreciate that you are used to doing things a certain way, and it isn't my wish to disrupt your work with a lot of new rules." I think he failed to appreciate the insult inherent even in the use of a term like 'rules'. "Or indeed established ones. I think we can come to some modus vivendi which is in both our interests, Dr. Wednesday."

I was about to open to my mouth, to question his curious phrase, 'both our interests', but at this point his hand slipped from my shoulder, settling on the upper swell of my breast, making his meaning all too clear.

Time seemed to open out into a chasm.

You will appreciate my shock. We are speaking of an individual nearly thirty years my senior. It never occurred to me that the old boy had it in him. He appeared incapable of an evil thought, or any thought, really. And I had no notion of Hodgson as a sexual being. Not that there aren't individuals of his generation who hold allure for me; far from it. But in terms of intellectual curiosity, he comes across as a lump of indifferently carved wood. No spark there whatsoever. Just a slow, surreptitious dilating of the blood vessels within the murky redoubt of Carter-era polyester slacks. (shudder)

His touch lingered briefly, long enough only to feel my breast swell twice against his palm as I breathed, before departing with faux disregard. He'd had decades to practice the move, but insufficient hauteur was behind it.

I'm unsure what Hodgson expected. Ecstasy? Indignation? An invigorating tussle? I pictured myself grinding my cigarette into the back of the offending hand, perhaps before snapping his brittle wrist. But no. That is what crazy persons do. No restraint; no control. I simply peered up at him, my expression vaguely contemptuous and... disinterested, almost, in the prevailing situation.

"I'm sure that was a mistake," I said.

In his eyes dawned all the self-righteous bewilderment of a young date-rapist. "You're offended?" he asked softly. His gaze fell pointedly to the neck of my blouse.

"I'm unsure 'offended' is the correct word. Disappointed." I took a drag of my cigarette.

Sympathetic as I might be of the, ah, affirmation which comes as a result of bedding an individual several years one's junior, there are ways. The wink of an eye and the clumsy groping of a breast... it simply is not done. Not if one wishes to continue enjoying reputation among one's colleagues. Furthermore, I am the one who makes advances upon others around this department. Not some recent transplant, who by accident is the titular head of the administration.

Hodgson retreated to the safety of his desk, his chair giving a declamatory squeak in the weighty silence. He cleared his throat. "I don't see why you would be disappointed, Doctor. May I call you Holiday?"

My brows lifted. "Only my father calls me Holiday, Dr. Hodgson, and he and I don't have the sort of relationship you appear to aspire to."

"All right, then. I must admit that I'm perplexed. Judging from your usual activity, you don't seem the type to object."

The obdurate ignorance of the man made me want to shake and shout at him, At your age, how have you not yet internalized the basic premise that sexual interest in general does not equate to interest in you? But were I to lecture every individual who failed to grasp this, I should be at it quite a while.

I took a deep breath. "There is a difference between my activity and yours. I wait to be invited." Like a vampire, the afterthought came, irrelevant but apt.

Hodgson gave a wry smirk, which did not sit well on his features. It was, in fact, a little sickening. "And you wouldn't call your behavior around the department inviting?"

"I call my behavior professional," I commented mildly, "and yours, harassment." I tapped an ash into the tray, giving this operation my attention. Someone else's problem, Holly, nothing that need raise the blood pressure.

He hesitated. "The board of regents may have a different opinion," he replied.

As if he could explain away his own immediate actions. Suppressing my fury, I waved a hand. "Why don't we ask them?"

"Now, I don't think that's necessary," he said, "so long as we have an understanding."

My frown was as calculated as his earlier hesitation. "Is this some manner of understanding where you paw at me at your leisure?"

With the slightest lean forward for emphasis, Hodgson said, "I only want the same regard you give to your other colleagues." I made to notice my cigarette again, and puffed at it.

"You won't get it," I said.

Hodgson gimbaled back to his previous elevation, smiling the smile of someone long accustomed to having convenient strings at his fingertips. "I can make things difficult for you, Dr. Wednesday," he said.

He could, indeed, but I am unsure he appreciated just how much difficulty he could create. Indeed, if he knew the full extent, I'm sure he would not have provoked me with such a ham-handed advance. Or perhaps he would. Dull but persistent, that was my new assessment of our Dr. Hodgson. Brazen. Attempting to inveigle sexual favors by holding the school's sexual harassment policy against me... very novel.

"I have my doubts, Dr. Hodgson. For you to move to another university at this late stage of your career does rather suggest some sort of smut on your record." His face remained studiously neutral. No. He was looking at my breasts again. I let him look.

"My record is unblemished, Dr. Wednesday," he said, emerging from his reverie. "How is yours?"

The conversation was through. I ground my smoke into the glass ashtray, and left.

I knew he did not desire the sort of confrontation he alluded to. He wanted... me. And he believed we were on roughly equal footing, with regard to our indiscretions. I knew my reticence to report Hodgson's harassment would only reinforce this misconception, but I really did not need the scrutiny of administrative involvement. I would grit my teeth and duck his attention whenever it fell upon me. How frequently, after all, could I encounter the man during the course of normal events? In the background, meanwhile, I suppose I will spare time to maneuver him out of my way, in a manner uncompromising to myself. One more item on my already crowded agenda. (sigh)

He did understand that, as a researcher, my primary concern is to avoid any distraction from my work, and he therefore believed he would need only to be less of a distraction than any kind of investigation or inquiry. Within that margin, he felt he could comfortably get his hands on me. His elapsing stopwatch of life is no concern of mine, thank you very much.

I suppose, in a way, I pitied him. Hodgson must have been at this game for most of his life, complacent in the reliable gambits for getting sex out of his colleagues. I must appear to him one of many, whose already loose morals are easily swiveled in his direction. As I said, he can't possibly appreciate who he is up against. Wants to be up against. He strikes me as narrowly heterosexual. Can he have any idea what is between my legs?

You should not think the hot shower I took after this meeting indicates, in any way, I was traumatized or forced into a subordinate position by the man. Violated, perhaps. Offended, certainly. His encroachment would not prevail, and scrubbing myself clean of his touch was my retaliation, in lieu of what I should like to have done to him. It was then I wondered if he had put Dr. Son through the same indignity. That thought displeased me.

Going to have to find Charlotte and a skeleton key after hours. This calls for some desk-surfing.

Tue, 14 Aug 2007 09:10:44 GMT

When one hears uncontrollable, maniacal laughter emerge from a research laboratory, what is the first impression which springs to mind? The typical 'mad scientist', in the throes of unsalvageable insanity? Fair. Let me reassure you, however, there was no dementia whatsoever involved in my expression of mirth, earlier. Provoked by a regional news story, I merely recalled an incident from young adulthood. Predoctoral days. The incident is humorous in itself, but to think I witnessed it personally-- had been a part of it --made it ten times as hilarious.

The former president, George H. W. Bush (at the time simply the George Bush) was travelling the lecture circuit, as former presidents are wont to do, and this, in time, found him at our university. Christine and I learned of the engagement in the student paper, and, fools that we were, courting major disaster, we went to meet him. If they had had an inkling of Christine's mental profile, the Secret Service would have gunned her down on general principles, never mind permitted her to make physical contact with a former President of the United States.

At any rate, to sum up, Barbara Bush was there as well, and while we were shaking hands with the late president, so to speak, Christine wrenched this 'Valley Girl' voice out of herself, and in the midst of formalities, said to him, "So, like, is that your mom?" And I just gaped at her, mouth twisted in uncategorizable response-- Christine later invoked 'Ren and Stimpy,' which was contemporaneous --simultaneously appalled and delighted at the balls on my colleague.

But the truly startling thing was this: ex-President Bush didn't appear a bit surprised or put out, as though he heard this all the time. He smiled and shrugged it off and said "Nope, nope," and informed us Barbara was, in fact, his wife; Barbara herself favored Christine with her soulless, flesh-eating rictus, which indicates the receiver as being marked for death at some later date. (sigh) Christine and I did have some wonderful times, even if she later proved to be so utterly damaged.

Thu, 02 Aug 2007 13:27:14 GMT

Acquiesced to public demand and submitted to the Skin Two shoot, dear Diary. (rolls eyes) Much hardship on my part.

In the end I concluded I have far greater reasons to worry about public scrutiny than appearing sexually permissive or kinky, and that, indeed, such exposure as that afforded by a mainstream fetish magazine (oxymoron?) could only draw attention from my myriad of closeted skeletons. A facile argument, I know. Vanity is my weakness.

The shoot director's given name was apparently Sylvia Menzies, but she went by the lingering sobriquet of 'Menses,' and was herself costumed, in couture which can only be described as an inexplicable hybrid of Frau Farbissina and Count Chocula. My initial pity for her evaporated upon discovering she was not another model. Goodness, is it possible for Dr. Wednesday to speak complimentarily of anyone?

When the set dressers' exertions were complete, one would never realize the location was, in fact, a moderately comfortable apartment, rather than the dank concrete oubliette it appeared in the photos (and as it can often feel, to me). One needs not reminding there was a perfectly serviceable examination room and laboratory (mine) at the disposal of the director and photographer, but it did not meet with their 'vision' of how such a locale ought appear. Am I the only one who finds this highly ironic?

A light touch of makeup concealed the faded bloom round my eye. Had I worn a full mask, it would not have been a concern. Depending on the shot, I wore a respirator, or that and a pair of lab goggles. As an aside, in as much as it is possible for a makeup artist to address the subject of my physical insult, without actually remarking upon it, so did this individual while I was prepared.

The consistent schema of these outfits was that of a hazmat suit or EVA suit liner, featuring a variety of visually intriguing but superfluous striations and fittings; there are few imaginable circumstances, for example, under which my hips would require direct ventilation. I should note the contrasting medical-themed appliques, friction-fit where desired, rather than bonded to the body of the suit. Then boots, gloves, and the aforementioned mask and occasional goggles. These latter rather pointless, of course, my body is unmistakable, but as you well know, plausible deniability is my watchword.

They tried me in a sort of red-purple latex, which did pick out my color, but which, once worn, proved a bit too tonally uniform. You understand, the basic suits had to be specially made; one cannot simply model a prefabricated rubber suit from off the rack, and obtain the results the magazine is legendary in depicting. And my body is rather difficult to clothe, far be it from me to complain of this. But my point in mentioning such is that we were able to select, in advance of fabrication, colors seeming likely to suit me. (smile) Such as mint green. The opaque white attire was very striking, perhaps too much so-- it is challenging to express malevolence through something so immaculate --and lighting it compellingly was a problem, as it washed out all the gels; one really wants to use colored lighting on darker latex. But I am not a photographer, and perhaps I'm inventing difficulties where there are none. At any rate, dear Diary, I fear I am boring you with pedantic detail. It is far more satisfying to view rubber-clad flesh than to hear described the process of photographing it.

But did I enjoy myself? you ask. I approached the activity far too seriously, I feel, to have fun. Fun. Do I have fun? Showing off surely gratified me, and I did enjoy Nicole's nigh-wonderstruck expression when she stumbled into the shoot, and stood by to watch. Spurred on by her presence, I exaggerated my poses a bit, acting up, which put 'Menses' off of her already intractable mood, but seemed to entertain the photographer, who snapped away, and assured me every little gesture I made was good, very good. She (the director) had a terse word for Nicole's presence and its interference, but I would not suffer her to be ejected.

I was offered one of the suits in exchange for waiving half my payment. What they think they'll do with the suits, I can't imagine... it is some sort of accounting ritual. It's not as though they'll find another model matching my dimensions. But I assented, and believe it or don't, dear Diary, when I tell you I chose maroon over mint green. My horizons have been broadened.

Afterward, during the teardown, Nicole hovered at my side. She raised details of our work, appraised me of various tasks which were her charge. I know small talk when I hear it. There was something on my assistant's mind, and not difficult to guess its nature. My own thoughts were occupied by little else since that evening, when free to roam, and I was certain, in Nicole's case, this was all the more true. Soon, goodbyes were said to the shooting crew, and I had her to myself.

One would infer, from the relative control of Nicole's emotions, that she had already done most of her crying and soul-searching. I did not envy her that solitary torture, but, as I have said elsewhere, this is how it is done. Now, days later, there was nothing to prevent me offering comfort. Gathering Nicole's hands in mine, I coaxed her to sit on the sofa, paying little mind to the posterior-shaped patch of silicone grease I deposited upon the seat. When I felt she had digested that much, I drew her against me, cradling the girl's head to my slippery, rubber-limned breast.

I didn't anticipate her welcoming my embrace, but she did. A shudder wracked Nicole's body, as though some lingering fragment of her agony shook free, and she sagged against me. Still no tears. Following further clinging, she sat up, regarding me.

"Doctor," said she, "I've been thinking about... that night." She clasped her hands in a piteous fashion upon her lap.

"That is to be expected, Nicole," I said gently, leaving the words to hang in the air, rather than weighting them with platitudes. But Nicole, herself, seemed similarly disinclined to expend verbiage upon the matter, and only gazed up at me with her large and somewhat watery brown eyes, her head lowered in an abject cant. This only magnified my concern, and my desire to offer verbal succor. At last I gave in.

"It doesn't mean you're a bad person," I said suddenly. "Nicole, it was a gut reaction--"

"I never want to do that again," she interrupted calmly. A healthy response... the expected response. Was there a hint of accusation in her tone? Perhaps. Perhaps my imagination put it there. Neither would come as a surprise.

"All right, Nicole," I replied. Not an answer, to be perfectly honest. I could not say whether or not I'd ever require Nicole to kill again. As Brando said in The Godfather, that call may never come. But never wanting to do a thing again is not the same as never again... I can vouch for that myself.

"Thank you, Doctor," said the poor girl.

"I want you to know, I think no less of you for your actions." As soon as it was uttered, I worried I'd spoken in haste, that she would interpret my emphasis as the forcing of a lie. But Nicole is a simple girl; she would never take to such a conclusion.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said again, her voice warmer but eyes rueful, as though she'd be happier if I did hold such against her, at least a little. In my gaze I expressed the sympathy she hoped to see.

Nicole offered to help with my undressing. Although rubber couture can be painstaking to put on, removing it is relatively straightforward. Nicole takes a certain pleasure in assisting me, I think, not just in the laboratory, but in all things. It can be a little embarrassing, particularly if the task is one a fit grown-up ought be able to master on their own. If my assistant desired this mild intimacy, however, I would not deny her. Nor will I deny the comfortable sensation I felt when, after emerging from the shower, I allowed Nicole to dress me. She'd laid out my clothing as I washed, and regarded me in such an expectant manner that I could but acquiesce. I shall not allow it to become habit; Nicole is my laboratory assistant, not my servant. But it was rather pleasing, in some indescribable way.

I'd had my complement of ego-stroking for the day, and thought I would go on campus to lend my contribution to the innumerable little tasks some of which Nicole discussed earlier. Normally, dear Diary, I cannot be shaken from the reverie of lab work, even if the walls fall down around me. That afternoon, however, I dwelled upon Nicole's blithe acceptance of the act I maneuvered her into committing. My gentle and retiring assistant? It did not sit well with me at all.

I wonder if I ought to be medicated... outside, that is, my extra-prescriptive regimen. I hear they're using MDMA to treat schizophrenia now. William Burroughs would have sneered at 'Ecstasy'. Any substance which so readily creates a sense of universal well-being must be a con.

I called a break from lab work, and kicked my way into the ladies' room.

Despite the restrooms being soundproofed beyond practical need, any person outside found me audible, I'm certain. Would, no doubt, have heard me shouting nearly at the top of my voice.

"Don't look at me like that!" I said for starters.

Try to imagine our hypothetical eavesdropper, in micturative extremity, brought to halt outside the door, relief thwarted, by the sound of raised and argumentative voice emanating from the very object of her quest.

"Simply because you are capable of the occasional moment of clarity regarding your thoroughly rotten and detestable nature, do not delude yourself into believing you in any way possess one fraction of the moral grounding common to the bulk of your fellow men. Your rare, occasional shred of guilt is calculated not to alleviate your moral vacuity, but to stabilize it. Even this little soliloquy of yours is meant to justify whatever act, in the depths of your black, malignant animus, you feel you must perpetrate next." There was a slam, undoubtedly one of the stall doors, necessarily amplified by the acoustics endemic to institutional restrooms. That is to say, sudden and nerve-wracking. Out of the reverberations came, "--makes me sick to look at you! If I must suffer your presence, do please try not to appear so outwardly unaware of your dissipation. Clearly you are fooling no one, least of all me, given the sheer, unspannable breadth of your emptiness." Another slam, less robust than the first, rang out. "I never want to see you again." A heavy, meaningful silence oozed from within the restroom.

Out of this quiet I burst, with no warning, and consequently I ran straight into Dr. Allen, stationed before the door. There was a chest-forward collision which, in another situation, might have been exciting, even with her absurd silicone prosthetics. I let out a little 'oof' as the impact reverberated. Allen appeared understandably taken by surprise, but then frowned.

I looked at her evenly. "Allen." The look said she should mind her own business.

She regarded me with a wry smile. "Giving Nicole a pep talk?" Still startled, I was unable to find words, and settled for a withering, nigh-murderous gaze. She bore up under it remarkably. "Can I pass," she said mildly, "or are you waiting for me to pee down my leg?" I could sense, despite this, she was in no hurry to encounter the object of my ire.

"Your attempts at titillation will get you nowhere, Allen."

She frowned at this, and pushed past me, only to pause in the vestibule, perhaps stationing herself there to speak for the benefit of an unseen audience.

"You really are a tortured, miserable creature, aren't you?" she said.

I turned slowly. I might have liked to whip around suddenly, to make Allen flinch; but she'd said nothing essentially incorrect, had she?

"Oh," I said, "is that your qualified opinion, Dr. Van Pelt? I'm the miserable one?"

"Maybe not as immediately miserable as whoever you just tore apart," she replied. "In fact I'm sure you're really pleased with yourself now. But in general, yes. You are miserable."

In that instant I wanted to shove her into the restroom and have regrettable, collegial sex with her. But I sensed no corresponding impulse in Dr. Allen, and the urge passed without fulfillment. Allen is married. You wouldn't know it by how she carries on with her assistant, but still. She only glared at me. And I wouldn't lower myself by putting the moves on her. It's a terrible, low urge, to defuse disagreement with seduction and a good hard drilling. (sigh) I am unfairly burdened by my latent desire to please. Nor did she appear threatened; suggesting, in tandem with towering contempt, that she pitied me. Intolerable.

"I'm miserable," I said, again.

"Yes," she replied, as though speaking to the dim-witted, "and needless to say, you aren't satisfied unless everyone around you is just as miserable as you can make them."

I began to gather my wits. "You're so insightful," I said with dull disinterest. "I can't see how I've gotten by without your advice."

"Sometimes I wonder how you get by at all. The amount of baggage you're carrying is unbelievable. It poisons this entire department. It's obvious you have friends and we're all stuck with you, but I don't have to pretend to like it."

I barely let her finish. "I am part of this department because I am the best--"

Allen sneered. "After leaving a trail of bodies behind you," she said. I kept my face studiously unlined; she spoke metaphorically, surely. "And what you said to that poor girl just now is inexcusable. There's a thing called 'projection', Wednesday. You might want to think about getting some help. If not for your sake, then for Nicole's." She thrust her hand against the restroom door, in a fashion suggesting the conversation was at end.

Allen's wearily patient expression annoyed me, rendering me ever more nonplussed. She could not appreciate how inadequate the classic 'get some help' entreaty was, in my particular case, yet she went on as though possessed of superior knowledge. I simply regarded her with a snarl, and stomped away, heels clacking tersely on the lino and my lab coat winging out behind me. Her contempt continued to illuminate my departing back. Screw her. Everyone is so wonderfully, gorgeously smart, aren't they? So observant. I left Dr. Allen to contemplate her brilliance, as it was soon welcomed by four empty stalls and a slightly cracked lavatory mirror.

Wed, 20 Jun 2007 08:47:50 GMT

Things in the lab have resumed as normal. Nicole did not turn herself in to the police, nor did she commit suicide in a fit of pique, nor did she lash out in accusation of my cruel manipulations. I can only speculate as to her state of mind... I would prefer not to speculate, rather, to know. But she apparently has taken this better than the incident with her penis growing back.

This afternoon, I was informed that a reporter was waiting for me in the floor lounge. I stalled, naturally. I shrink from fame for its own sake, and as a rule I distrust reporters. I imagined she was with Science or New Scientist, or heaven forbid, Scientific American... when I at last deigned to see her, she proved to be a correspondent with Skin Two, and researching some story concerning medical fetishes. I should like very much to know who put her on to me... ostensibly, the reporter wished simply to consult my (alleged) expertise, but before long she made noises about getting me in front of a camera and into something shiny and elastic. Intriguing, but almost certainly a mistake. I have my professional reputation to consider, not my vanity.