“For you, partially bare bottom, closed top, truly unique,” Zaftig declared, “I’m not worried about being fat. I’ll make more money, You would too. if you get over being self — conscious about being flat.”
When we entered the gym, the chatter of the dozen naked women shoulders draped with towels subsided. “Here we go.” I stood by with a clip board as Zaftig suited up as Dr Zoptic listened to heart and breathing and took the pulse. After routing questions about health and periods, Dr Zoptic (Zaftig) barked orders, “arms out, arms up, turn around, stretch legs apart, bend over touch toes.”
I cringed at the screeching sound of Dr Zoptic’s (Zaftig’s) stretching the latex gloves as she prepared to penetrate the patient’s butt with a thumb stretching fingers reached for the vagina. “Hands on digital rectal exam,” Dr Zoptic (Zaftig) declared as the patient gulped.
The patient was ordered to stand, turn around and do 100 jumping jacks. The patient’s breasts flapped as the patient built up sweat.
At the last cut, I found myself near Al Mandy. “Don’t you think 30 minutes to an hour of watching women bouncing boobs doing Jumping jacks, bending over for finger fucking would get boring?”
“I’m sure some men who buy these porn flicks wouldn’t mind that,” Al replied, “But when I put together to screen the director’s cut, I have to present some kind of theme or point to avoid classification as illegal obscenity. I say! It’s a tough line to walk,” Al smiled exuding his usual charisma, “but someone must be up to do it.”
“You show a director’s cut,” I challenged Al, “Where here?”
“I could,” Al replied, “But I find the University’s audio- visual Department much better equipped.” Turning to one of the workman, Al uttered a quick remark in a foreign tongue. The man laughed and walked away. To me Al noted, “It’s internal lines of control. The great gods who run things see a dark faced man in a utility uniform and see no one. I see a friend who opens many doors for me.”
“I was going to ask you how you manage your last year of med school and your career as a director and producer,” I replied, “But I see how that’s a silly question.”
“In the theatre, the actors take the script as a point of departure to make a great production. The original script doesn’t matter,” Mandy replied, “In medicine, it’s the exact opposite. The script is written after the event. If it’s not in the script; it didn’t happen.”
A week or so later, I received a call to report to lecture hall in the University’s Business School at 10PM. “Stock exchange is closed at that hour. No one will be around,” Al joked.
On the night in question, greeting the half dozen girls from the cast who showed up, Al, led us down the center aisle of a tiered auditorium to certain front row seats in front of an elevated lectern. Jumping on the podium, Al lowering a screen, explained, “The back benches were reserved for my friends, the unsung heroes of the cinema.” He paused to straighten the screen. “By the way, Ms Ehrlich eh Sister Evelyn,” Al addressed me, “Where is your partner, Becky–the future Dr Rebecca Barton, eh — Sister Rachael?”
“Prissy missy Becky Barton drew an overnighter at the hospital,” I replied, “That comes first.”
After calling out in a quick slew of foreign gibberish to one of the security officers in the back benches, Al turned to me, “Becky Barton’ll join us presently. Take a seat. She’ll be with us in half — a — minute.”
“Internal lines of control?” I suggested as I took a seat, which swiveled out of table.
“In the creative processes of the theatre, the actors evolve the on – screen narrative from a script,” Al cracked, “In medicine, the narrative is scripted post factum to justify what occurred. It may create a work of fiction, an event that never occurred.”
At Al’s signal, the lights went out and the clack — clack of the turning reels on the old-fashioned projector opened on berobed and veiled Zaftig as Sister Rachael assist me as Sister Evelyn don my habit.
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On screen, lifting my camisole to whack me on the ass, Sister Rachael (Zaftig). “The Devil Made me do it, Sister Evelyn.”
“Sister Rachel!” I declared, rubbing my tush.
“I need to prod you. We must hurry along to receive new arrivals. We have an important task ahead of us,” Sister Rachel (Zaftig) justified her action, “We have young minds to mold and nubile bodies to discipline.”
Both be-robed and veiled, Sister Rachael (Zaftig) and I greeted a dozen students entering our convent school. “First we need to cast off the vanities and superfluities of ordinary life,” Sister Rachel (Zaftig) roared, “Strip bare ass naked.”
Discovering Jenny Jensen failed to wear panties, Sister Rachel (Zaftig) flew in a rage. Sending me to fetch a pointer, Sister Rachel (Zaftig) berated the pantiless pupil, “What have we here? A scintillating seductress, a salacious strumpet, a street — walker sans culottes suited to slog along the depths of Central Avenue!”
The air crackled with the swish of the pointer as Sister Rachel (Zaftig) whacked Jen’s quivering tush. After marching naked girls to the communal showers. The girls showered as Zaftig and I stood by and watched classifying tushes.
Closing her eyes, Sister Rachel (Zaftig) projected that distant, disconnected glance as if she had fallen into a trance, “Butts fall into five geometric shapes with corresponding personalities: circular — bubbly,” Sister Rachel (Zaftig) pointed out a girl with a round butt before she continued, “square — brainy, trapezoidal — brawny, triangular — batty or flat r boney — bone – headed. Naturally, there’s the fat ass; usually she comes with glasses.”
On screen, Sister Rachel (Zaftig) and I both turned to noise coming from the entrance. Seamlessly, Zaftig, as pig tailed, student Bliss Rawson dressed in a white polka dot dress, came running down the corridor, past the clothes of other students neatly folded along the wall.
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At the squeak of the stool next to me announced Zaftig’s arrival in the lecture hall. “Just in time,” I whispered.
With a silly grin, Zaftig conceded, “When the camera rolled, I became a different person who did a lot more on camera than I really expected Rebecca Barton ever would on her own.”
Like a doctor on his rounds,” Al passing behind us watching Zaftig’s bare breasts bounce, observed, “you become a bigger and better person than you really are.”
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On screen kicking off her black loafers, Zaftig, as pig tailed Bliss Rawson, raised her dress over her head her dress floated to the floor. Continuing to scramble, Bliss (Zaftig) advanced several paces before squatting to drop her dark pantihose. Left in bra, Bliss paused for a second hands on her wide hips rocking from side to side, exposing that round underbelly. Her bra restraining delicious bulbous boobs straining the band across her back so taut a good fiddler could strum a tune. Reaching behind her to release the hasp, Bliss (Zaftig) catapulted her bra skidding down the waxed tile corridor floor, landing at my feet.