'Podded', Segment II

A walk to the subway station then a thirty minute ride to our upper west side coop gives time for thought. My past... the present... the future.

Aspiring for a nursing career, poverty gave rise to reality. Broke, one can obtain student loans and further impoverish oneself. But to eat? Pay rent? To do that requires employment and thus brings constraints on time needed for study.

So in applying to a prominent New York nursing school the financial aid counselor sensed something, my stress in struggling through the numbers... tuition... room... board.

‘So, Joan, you’re not married. Boyfriend to help? At least maybe buy you a meal from time to time.’

She was searching... hinting... her drab pantsuit and short slicked back hair leaving no doubt as to which side of the plate she swung.

I shook my head. But perhaps there was this certain look, my disdain at the mention of the male gender that prompted her to lean back, assume a relaxed maternal pose, and reflect.

‘You have your heart set on New York. But perhaps some study abroad would be of interest. There’s a very discerning school of nursing seeking women with... let’s say... a quaint view point... in relation to males.’

Males... not men. Why did her phraseology engender my attention? 

‘Accredited, located in a wonderful climate... two hour flight from New York...’

And so began an overview of the St. Sappho School of Nursing on a small island in the Caribbean for which the facility was eponymously named. 

The financial counselor described the location and climate as idyllic. But when she mentioned the word ‘free’, my ears began to burn.

‘Free tuition?’ 

‘Free everything, my dear. But it’s not for every girl.’

It certainly was not!

*****

A short walk from the subway station and I am home. Roommate, companion, lover Rhodi... Rhodesia Cunumba... is not yet home. She works nine to five, sometimes later. My nursing shift ends at three. Thus I play housewife in this evolving relationship, preparing an evening meal. I don’t mind cooking, and it absolves me of more tedious housework like cleaning. We split laundry duty. And with Rhodi’s growing aversion for using weekend leisure time on such matters, she has talked of household help. She can afford it, well into a fast rising career in marketing.  

Yes, such distaste for housekeeping may give rise to an opening. At least a trial.

Rhodi knows something of my nursing school education... yet not all the details. One evening, describing the level of care afforded the nursing school’s young male beneficiaries, she became flustered, ending any and all discussion concerning the attention given sensitive anatomical areas.

‘You touched them... there!’

Spoken as some faint hearted vestal virgin, aghast that a male has a penis.

There was thereafter little talk about my years at the St. Sappho school. With her revulsion and the confidentiality agreement... I let the matter go.

Bottle opened, wine breathing, I move to the bedroom, making myself presentable for Rhodi’s arrival. She likes me sexy... and scantily clad... apparel not fit for working over the stove.

Key rattling the lock, I pour a glass of wine and step to the door. She likes sharing with me, one glass, she sips, I sip, we kiss, we hug, she likes feeling my soft full rounded boobies pressing to her firm athletic breasts.

“Good evening, pretty girl,” Rhodi preferring the more masculine role, taking another sip as I present the large glass, holding to her lips.  

Rhodi is a woman of color. A track start in high school and college she is strong with muscular legs and very kissable well sculpted buttocks. I know to draw back the glass, let her put her arms around me to hug and kiss.

“Busy day, Joanie?”

“The usual. No code blue,” patients in cardiac arrest, “but an interesting encounter on the way home. You?”

“Had to lecture a couple of my boys. Shoddy work. Sometimes I think they want a spanking.”

Rhodi tends to hire submissive males as underlings. I tease her about it. She says she does not enjoy the dominant role... just chooses to avoid ‘cat fights’ in employing women... and that her ‘boys’ more readily accept their place. She’s rising fast in a very large and financially successful firm. I advise that if it works, roll with it. Perhaps the more submissive the better in terms of hiring criteria.

Hands retract. I offer another sip. She partakes. I am then permitted a sip of my own.

“I’ll change. Dinner? Something smells good.”

“Roast chicken. Seasoned just as you like.”

Rhodi nods her approval and heads for the bedroom. I go to the kitchen, toss the salad and present.      

“So an encounter,” Rhodi exiting the bedroom, tight black leather slacks highlighting her amazing form.

“An old... ah... acquaintance,” sitting as Rhodi chivalrously holds the chair for me.

I must smile graciously as she assumes the role of a gentleman suitor. Taking up my own wine glass, I let her lead the conversation, yielding to her predominance.

“Well, it’s apparent you want to talk about it,” Rhodi diving into her salad.

“It involves... the telling... of my time in the Caribbean. Which appalls you.”

“Yes, it’s a reviling thing... touching men... you touching men. Condescending... debasing yourself.”

“You may frame it that way, not knowing... not wanting to know... of the details of my extensive... and free... medical education. But I came across a beneficiary today... perhaps better phrased as he coming across me... from years past.”

“So he’s called a beneficiary. And?”

“He’s in need. And as always with the boys relegated to the island... when in need he turns to a handler.”

“Is that what you term your function... your responsibilities... handling... things with a penis!”

“Sip your wine, Rhodi... take a breath. Let me tell the story... the whole story from the beginning. You know the part where I could not afford... as a practical matter... the New York school I initially preferred...”

“Yes, the bull dyke financial aid counselor.”

“So I’ll start from there.”