staff. No matter how rude she was to them,
ultimately she reeked of something pitiful and they were there for her.
Jack
Helm’s followed me out the door. The valets had dropped our keys onto the
foyer’s marble table. I guessed we had overstayed our welcome. Gabri needed
time to sort things out, on her own, and in her own space I called a dungeon
but she called a home.
“I think
you’re right,” he said.
“About
what?”
“I
didn’t want to alarm our hostess, and for sure the L.A.P.D. has better things
to do than chase down some phantom pervert whose only weapon is a paintbrush.
But I know a couple of guys that can help.”
“With
what?”
“One guy
is in forensics. Another, stalking is his claim to fame. I mean, he was a stalker. Reformed, maybe.
Something’s not right here. I don’t think it would hurt to run this evening’s
events past both of them.”
Our cars
had been pulled up near the entrance. Helm’s helped me into my car.
“About
your missing children program,” I said.
“What
about it?”
“Can we
talk?”
“I’m
flying tomorrow. Call me in a couple.”
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Fresh
Cherries
FOR
A SECOND TIME I cancelled my plans to meet Carly and Sterling for lunch. Too
much to do. Too much to avoid. The dream was forever on my mind. I tried to abandon
all consciousness of it but it permeated my life. The best way I could protect
my best friends was to stay away from them.
I
REMEMBER THE STAFF meeting well. We had gathered around our small but
functional conference room table. Up for debate, the entire expose on plastic
surgeons. And the naysayers spoke up with the same old objections that I was
running old stories past their prime.
“You’re
right. Everyone has heard of Cat Woman and the Barbie Doll. So what else do we
have?” I asked.
One of
my new staff writers spoke up. He probably had figured out his position was
tenuous and I was the boss. It was no guts, no glory for him. “We all know that
there’s a lot of genital mutilation. Last month’s story on Dr. Dhurra only
scratched the surface. Does the general public know about the plastic surgeons
out there making zillions of dollars doing clitoris cosmetic surgery?”
His
knees shook, only visible because I preferred glass tables. This new guy dared
to speak up and claim his turf. He was there to write, and writers brought
facts to the table that turned into stories if they were any good.
“Tell
us,” I said.
“They’re
most often called vulva beautification procedures. Labia minora reconstruction. If the need dictated—and it was always purported as a need,
thin labials were fattened up with injections, while if patients come in with
too thick of pubic fat pads, they’ll be happy to reduce them with liposuction.”
“That can’t feel too good,” a
female writer added as she squirmed her own butt deeper into the chair.
“And
then there’s clitoral dehooding .”
I smiled
at my young protégé.
“And
there’s a helluva lot subscribers that have never heard of revirgination ,”
the new writer added.
My token
naysayer and favorite critic shut up. I wondered where the hell the writer came
up with this stuff and what he did on the weekends.
“Women
are going in for elective surgery to get plastic hymens implanted.”
“I’ve
heard of it,” another writer said. “Like, with blood bombs and all.”
“That’s
right. Gel sacks full of fake blood. So the guys can get the cherries they
cherish”.
My small
audience spoke nothing. “I want to know why. Is it a woman with one big fat lie
because she’s no virgin? Is it a woman, submissive to her man’s pleasures, or
is it something else? A couple seeking something new and different?”
My senior
writer was the first to speak. “It sounds like major surgery to me. Not your
ordinary sex toy. And for the record, I’ve never heard of it.”
I said, “Get
their stories. I want to hear from the patients, anonymously, of
ultimately she reeked of something pitiful and they were there for her.
Jack
Helm’s followed me out the door. The valets had dropped our keys onto the
foyer’s marble table. I guessed we had overstayed our welcome. Gabri needed
time to sort things out, on her own, and in her own space I called a dungeon
but she called a home.
“I think
you’re right,” he said.
“About
what?”
“I
didn’t want to alarm our hostess, and for sure the L.A.P.D. has better things
to do than chase down some phantom pervert whose only weapon is a paintbrush.
But I know a couple of guys that can help.”
“With
what?”
“One guy
is in forensics. Another, stalking is his claim to fame. I mean, he was a stalker. Reformed, maybe.
Something’s not right here. I don’t think it would hurt to run this evening’s
events past both of them.”
Our cars
had been pulled up near the entrance. Helm’s helped me into my car.
“About
your missing children program,” I said.
“What
about it?”
“Can we
talk?”
“I’m
flying tomorrow. Call me in a couple.”
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Fresh
Cherries
FOR
A SECOND TIME I cancelled my plans to meet Carly and Sterling for lunch. Too
much to do. Too much to avoid. The dream was forever on my mind. I tried to abandon
all consciousness of it but it permeated my life. The best way I could protect
my best friends was to stay away from them.
I
REMEMBER THE STAFF meeting well. We had gathered around our small but
functional conference room table. Up for debate, the entire expose on plastic
surgeons. And the naysayers spoke up with the same old objections that I was
running old stories past their prime.
“You’re
right. Everyone has heard of Cat Woman and the Barbie Doll. So what else do we
have?” I asked.
One of
my new staff writers spoke up. He probably had figured out his position was
tenuous and I was the boss. It was no guts, no glory for him. “We all know that
there’s a lot of genital mutilation. Last month’s story on Dr. Dhurra only
scratched the surface. Does the general public know about the plastic surgeons
out there making zillions of dollars doing clitoris cosmetic surgery?”
His
knees shook, only visible because I preferred glass tables. This new guy dared
to speak up and claim his turf. He was there to write, and writers brought
facts to the table that turned into stories if they were any good.
“Tell
us,” I said.
“They’re
most often called vulva beautification procedures. Labia minora reconstruction. If the need dictated—and it was always purported as a need,
thin labials were fattened up with injections, while if patients come in with
too thick of pubic fat pads, they’ll be happy to reduce them with liposuction.”
“That can’t feel too good,” a
female writer added as she squirmed her own butt deeper into the chair.
“And
then there’s clitoral dehooding .”
I smiled
at my young protégé.
“And
there’s a helluva lot subscribers that have never heard of revirgination ,”
the new writer added.
My token
naysayer and favorite critic shut up. I wondered where the hell the writer came
up with this stuff and what he did on the weekends.
“Women
are going in for elective surgery to get plastic hymens implanted.”
“I’ve
heard of it,” another writer said. “Like, with blood bombs and all.”
“That’s
right. Gel sacks full of fake blood. So the guys can get the cherries they
cherish”.
My small
audience spoke nothing. “I want to know why. Is it a woman with one big fat lie
because she’s no virgin? Is it a woman, submissive to her man’s pleasures, or
is it something else? A couple seeking something new and different?”
My senior
writer was the first to speak. “It sounds like major surgery to me. Not your
ordinary sex toy. And for the record, I’ve never heard of it.”
I said, “Get
their stories. I want to hear from the patients, anonymously, of
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