Part One
Chapter One
I remember the advertisement word for word.
Expecting? No where to turn? Thinking of terminating your pregnancy? Have a free consultation with Dr. Helga. The noted European Ob/Gyn is visiting New York from October 8 through 15. Pier 66 at West 26th Street.
In hindsight, it was a vague ad. Nowhere did it mention the actual aborting of a child. But I was 18 years old and desperate. And referring to the doctor by her first name seemed soothing to this scared and lonely girl. I knew that in most European countries abortions did not have the stigma nor stir up the controversy that such procedures did in the U.S. Thus, my conclusion concerning the result of a consultation with Dr. Helga was not unreasonable.
So I visited.
I had left my small town in Iowa some three months before. I was not certain I was pregnant when planning my escape, but suspected it during the trip when my period was late. Initially, I attributed the delay to the stress of the journey. Sneaking out of my parent’s house before dawn and catching a bus to Chicago with the eerie glow of the morning sun lighting the cloud covered sky, was a strain. My stepfather had been known to strike me with little cause. In deserting the farm and Mom, he would seemingly have much more justification to strike again. Therefore, I was apprehensive.
From Chicago I took Amtrak to New York. The train was cheap, did not overly prolong my travels, and offered freedom of movement as opposed to a bus.
In New York I found a rundown residence hotel and work at a swanky ‘men’s club’. Actually a polite moniker for an upscale topless bar, I worked there as a waitress with the promise that I could eventually dance. Since being an ecdysiast was where the money was, I was eager to display for the horny wealthy patrons my overly ripe, nubile breasts, and pick like grapes the generous offerings of dollar bills from the vines of drunken, libidinous males.
In applying for the job, I auditioned for the manager. Stripped to panties and naked from the waist up, I pranced about the malodorous office of the fat, balding, middle-aged pervert, biting my lip and hoping for his approval. It was decadently exciting for a farm girl from Iowa and I found his diabolical smile to be oddly pleasing.
After many minutes, probably more time than necessary to make a decision, he suggested the waitressing job as a first step.
“We’ll see how you do. Nice tits, but for a while you need to watch the regular girls move. You know, learn how to jiggle a little and keep the customers happy. You been on the farm too long.”
So I waitressed for three months greatly anticipating an opportunity to audition again. And then I once again stripped down, this time completely and danced for the boss.
“Better stay away from the milk shakes, little lady,” he advised with a puff of a cheap cigar, again after a long survey. “They’re moving better, but...”
He finished his point by leaning forward and pinching the flesh thickening about my waist.
Since I was eating the simple meals of a pauper, I knew diet was not the cause of his concern. I still had not menstruated, and when his lecherous fingers moved upwards and pinched protruding pinkness, my left nipple gave up a small amount of liquid, which he thankfully seemed not to notice. It was then that I could only conclude my growing waistline was due to a factor other than food.
I spotted Dr. Helga’s ad in the Village Voice on the following day.
As most girls who find themselves in trouble, I cursed the odds and set of events that coerced me to take a cab to Pier 66. Yes, the late night romp in my stepfather’s barn months before really was my first time... of going all the way that is. Condoms aren’t readily available when the nearest drug store is 8 miles away. But I thought I was in control and could get the boy to withdraw at the last minute. Instead, in his ecstasy, he thrust even harder, and although the explosion of hot sperm deep in my vagina felt good, it brought concern.
It was stupid. I didn’t even like him. A farm boy who let his penis do his thinking, I thought it would be fun, having for years watched all the farm animals mating...
As the cab pulled up to the dock, I remember expecting to see Humphrey Bogart in a trench coat, waiting to save the cute but spreading ass of this woeful farm girl. Young and so often called pretty, I thought I could make it in the big leagues. Instead I found I couldn’t get up to bat and I was optimistically seeking someone to step in, yell ‘time out’ and take control. A cool, gray October day on the New York waterfront, the scene had Hollywood potential.
Only Bogie didn’t appear. There was no one there, not a soul, just this huge ship, old but amazingly imposing. Having seen pictures and movies featuring cruise ships I knew they were big, but the perception of size is lost until you stand next to one and realize how much light it blocks out. It seemed to make the gray day even darker, but the perceived gloom may have resulted from a degree of pending depression on my part, perhaps a foreboding vision.
A gangway led from the dock to a squarish opening in the vast hull. Above this hatchway door was a temporary sign printed with forgettable words of welcome to Dr. Helga’s floating clinic. A nurse, apparently hearing my footsteps on the wooden dock, poked her head out the open door at the top of the ramp. She beckoned me with a smile. She appeared warm and friendly but I still hesitated half way up the gangway. There I paused to look straight up and I could see imprinted in scripted lettering on the white hull near the bow ‘The Scarlet Letter’.
A curious name for a European ship, I recall thinking. The Hawthorne novel was an American classic, which I always thought was deemed puritanical and thus mostly unread in Europe.
The thought was lost when the nurse beckoned again.
“You must be Alexi,” the blond nurse stated with pleasant authority, more or less prompting me to renew embarking.
The advertisement had listed a phone number, which I had called earlier in the day. In a strange way, it felt nice to be expected, like being wanted. After all, I was pregnant, alone, and living in a city which takes as much as, if not more than, it gives, and with a growing belly I had little to offer and would be needing much.
Since the day was October 15, I wanted to make sure Dr. Helga had time to see me and the woman who answered the phone graciously suggested the ship was not leaving until late that evening.
An interesting concept, I thought at the time. A ship sailing from port to port to help unmarried girls such as me ‘confront their pregnant status’. Yes, that was how the woman on the phone described Dr. Helga’s mission and the purpose of her sailing clinic, and I remember thinking the phrase to be an interesting euphemism for abortion.
What I knew about the expected procedure was very little. When I asked how much and how long I would have to take off from work, the woman on the telephone seemed to stifle a sardonic chortle.
“Dr. Helga’s clinic is free. How much time will be required of you cannot be determined until you are thoroughly examined.”
Well, when the women said ‘free’, the decision was made. The little savings I had earmarked for Dr. Helga’s fees I could
instead use for food until I was once again able to strip for the club manager, shake my growing breasts and convince him it would be best that I perform for dollar laden horny men rather than slinging food and drink.
With my condition my young globes had grown but their impressive size was camouflaged by my equally expanding waistline. Dropping the child would instantly slim me and serve to highlight my abundant mammary glands, a feature of which I was most proud and for which I was sure to be noticed by the fat, the bald and the perverted.
Maybe that fateful romp was worth enduring after all...
Chapter Two
“Remove all your clothing, please. Place everything in this box. When I come back I expect to see you sitting in the chair facing the desk, back straight, thighs spread, hands behind your head. Be a good girl for us.”
The removal of clothing should have been easier for a girl desiring to work as a topless dancer. But the way the nurse spoke concerned me. She had an authoritative demeanor, pleasant but firm, leaving no question as to who was in charge. And I was to sit with my legs open...?
The large blond woman arose to leave the examination room. The froufrou of her starched white uniform punctuated the heavy thuds made by her drab rubber soled shoes. Her blond hair was pulled straight back in a bun and was mostly covered by her cap. Everything she wore, including her dour look, disguised the fact that this mature, well-built woman was handsome. Was it deliberate? Since becoming a teenager, my feminine side told me to make every effort to look pretty. To attract boys, even those with uncontrollable phalli. To draw attention. To gather compliments like a numismatologist collects coins. And this nurse seemed to make every effort to appear otherwise.
Large, brightly lit, the room was sizable but austere. A table with obligatory stirrups and adjoining white metal cabinets evidenced its use for medical purposes. The Steelcase desk with manila folders neatly piled in the front left corner reminded me of the office of my high school guidance counselor.
My age and my vulnerable condition mandated immediate compliance despite my reservations. I was stepping out of my shoes before the nurse shut the door behind her.
I remember laughing at myself. Twice I had danced about, once completely naked, for the club manager, somehow summoning the pluck to let the lecher gaze at this shy farm girl’s shapely body.
‘Do it for the dough,’ I kept telling myself as he sat behind his desk wearing a confident smirk. The motivation of staving pending starvation does wonders for the development of courage, I concluded. For me it was like jumping from a burning building. Somehow, despite the thought of a long fall, the spirit chooses to avoid flame and smoke and instead endure the possibility of broken limb.
And so in the manager’s office, I had jumped. And once again on this peculiar ship with the commanding nurse, I took a leap, humbly tossing all I wore into the flimsy cardboard box.
When finished, I straddled the straight-backed, wooden chair, thrusting my knees awkwardly off the front corners. As I placed my hands behind my head, I felt the cool air of the room wafting about my genitalia. My nipples responded to the temperature and turned to pencil points. The demanded position caused my outer labia to spread obscenely. And worse, as I dutifully held myself open with my spine rigid as a post, I detected my own feminine fragrance. For some reason I was aroused.
The wait seemed interminable. Being stripped naked and required to sit in such an awkward manner added to the discomfort of the pause. Then I glanced up and saw an opaque plastic dome in the middle of the ceiling. Infrequent shopping trips to New York’s department stores told me the dome covered a video surveillance camera, such devices being labeled by law in public areas.
And then my reaction became even more curious. I felt the building moisture between my thighs turn to absolute wetness with rivulets beginning to flow to my inner labia. I tightened my pelvic muscles but knew that it was a matter of time before the viscous fluid flowed down my upper thighs and a small gooey puddle would begin to form in the middle of the chair seat.
With my increasing consternation, my thoughts turned from the video camera and the possibility of being filmed to forestalling the potential of embarrassing myself. A box of tissues sat on a nearby cabinet. I quickly arose, snagged the offered Kleenex and returned to my seat. There, I wiped away much of the evidence of my arousal. With my movement a new source of concern arose. The room filled with the fragrance of my femininity and before I could confront that hurdle and dispose of the extremely damp tissue, the door opened.
Two nurses entered. The dour one just looked at me, picked up the box with my clothing and left. The second nurse introduced herself.