The Day I Helped Kill A Baby

Cathy was one crazy bitch.

She was working as a waitress at the restaurant where I bartended. I was a college sophomore under the delusion that I was working towards becoming a lawyer. Cathy was a hussy working under the conclusion that there was no such thing as being too tan.

So it made sense that we met poolside at the apartment complex where we both lived.

Cathy called out to me from the steps of the pool, where she was lounging. "Hey bartender guy! Come here, I want to ask you something!"

I looked up from my chair, shielded my eyes and squinted at her.

"C'mere!" she repeated.

I walked around the pool to the steps.

"Hey. What's up?"

"I saw you yesterday, working behind the bar while I was training, right? You're Joe?"

"Yeah, right. You started last night?" I asked, barely remembering her.

"Yeah, I'm Cathy, hi."

"OK, hi Cathy. What did you want to ask me?"

"Well, I was being trained by Jerry last night, and I was just wondering if you two are fucking."

My eyes widened and I think I got a little bit dizzy because I reached out and grabbed the pool rail. Jerry was this smoking hot waiter with long sexy sideburns and an expert pimp walk that made his butt jump, even with a tray of food on his shoulder.

"Um..." That was all I could get out.

"Oh, please. I saw you two flirting all night!

Well, not exactly. What she saw was me getting all flustered and nervous whenever Jerry placed an order with me. Jerry knew my story, though. The only one at work that did, as far as I knew or hoped. He'd just wink at me and carry on with his super-groovy schtick, which let me know that he was onto me, but just found it slightly amusing.

"You're crazy, I...," I started to deny.

"It's OK, honey," Cathy interrupted. "I happen to LOVE gay boys! Hey! Do you ever go to the Parliament House?"

"Only about 7 nights a week!" is what I should have answered.

"Oh, um...yeah. I know about that place," is what I said instead.

"Cool! You wanna go with me tonight? It's 25 cents drink night!"

And so began a beautiful, twisted, and to my friends, baffling friendship.

Most nights, I'd be closing the bar while Cathy was taking the last customers. As a new waitress she had to close the place, sometimes working an hour or so past the dinner rush. Since I had to stay until the bar closed at 10pm, I was always glad to have her company.

When we were bored, which was often, Cathy would entertain us by instigating fights between dining couples. She'd be extremely solicitous to the man, sometimes complimenting his choice of wine or going out of her way to brush his arm as she leaned deeply across the table with his meal. Often, she'd take his date's order with a bored expression or without breaking her gaze at the man.

Sometimes, she'd call me over into the side station before serving the meals.

"Joe, you see that hot guy out there in Booth 14? Well, this is his steak."

And she'd lean down and lick the guy's steak, pick up the plates and head into the dining room. The woman would be served by Cathy dropping her plate in front of her from a height of several inches. Then she'd serve the man his steak, purring, "Heeere you go!"

We'd watch him eat it from the bar while Cathy said things like, "Oh my god, I'm totally getting wet. It's totally like we're French-kissing!"

Sometimes she'd ask me to dare her do something, like lift up her uniform as she walked through the crowded dining room. She never wore underwear, once nearly causing a old man to fall off his barstool when she flashed me from the end of the bar, thinking I had no customers.

Another favorite trick was for her to slip false names onto the hostess' clipboard.

"Balls? Balls, party of two?"

After work we'd race home to our apartments, change clothes and follow each other to the Parliament House. We had to take separate cars, in case either of us picked up, which she did almost as often as I did.

At the bar, Cathy attracted a lot of attention. She was almost drag queen glamorous, with her deeply tanned skin, her huge elaborate hair, and her dramatic make-up. She was often hit on by tranny chasers. Cathy thought it was hilarious to let them think she was a tranny.

The tranny chasers would never imply that she wasn't a real woman, because that would have destroyed their own illusion, so she'd let them buy her drinks and kiss her. A few lucky ones are probably still jacking off to the memory of the gorgeous tranny that blew them in the bar's parking lot.

I'd usually follow Cathy into the ladies room when she needed to pee, because the stalls sometimes didn't have doors on them, and she needed me to "play door" for her. I'd stand there with my back to her, and we'd rag on draq queens after they walked out.

One of them heard us one time, and I guess we'd been dissing her "sister", because when Cathy came out of the stall, the queen aggressively demanded to borrow some of Cathy's blush.

Cathy, drunk off her ass, said "Oh, you don't need blush, all you have to do is THIS!" And then, using both hands, she tweaked the queen's cheeks, twisting hard.

The queen bellowed, "Oh NO, you fucking did NOT, you bitch!"

Cathy and I fled the ladies room with the queen right behing us. We raced down the mirrored hallway towards the disco as a stiletto buzzed past my ear, belting Cathy squarely in the back of the head.

Cathy screamed, "MY FUCKING HAIR!" and went to the end of the bar and began gathering up glass ashtrays and hurling them at the queen. The queen held her purse in front of her face, shrieking, as she tried to back away, but wobbled on her one high heel and fell backwards.

Cathy was on top of her instantly, tweaking the queen's cheeks again and again, "Here's your BLUSH! Here's your BLUSH! Here's your FUCKING blush, you cunt!"

We didn't go back to the Parliament House for awhile.

Since we worked nights, we spent most of the days that summer hanging out with each other at the pool or watching soap operas. We were perfect comic foils for each, and to this day, she's one of the few people I've ever known who could make me laugh until I cried.

A lot of the fun I had was at Cathy's expense, as she was stupendously stupid about some things.

There was the time that she brought her phone over to my apartment so that she didn't miss any calls while she was there. Modular-plug phones had just been installed in our apartments and I sat there quietly while she unplugged my phone and plugged in hers.

After a few minutes, I couldn't stand it anymore and said, "Uh, you know Cathy...if the phone rings, it's not gonna be for you."

"Why not, it's MY phone!"

And then there was the time that she ironed her waitress uniform, put it on and decided that the collar needed a small touch-up, which she lazily did with the uniform STILL ON. I wonder if she still has that scar.

But mostly it was her incredible wackiness about her sexual appetite that delighted me most. She'd call me right after some dude had left and give me a filthy play by play including vocalized recreations of her pussy noises.

Once she called me to say she was gonna drive home naked from a boyfriend's house and for me to meet her in traffic. We drove down Colonial Drive, side-by-side, Cathy behind the wheel, completely unclothed.

Another time she called to ask what I was doing.

"Not much, what are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm watching General Hospital, eating a tuna sandwich and having a glass of iced tea. Oh..and getting fucked. Did I mention that before?"

I cracked up, "You're getting fucked RIGHT NOW? While you're eating a tuna sandwich?"

"Yeah, and drinking iced tea."

"Exactly how are you managing all this while on the phone?"

"Oh, I'm bent over my loveseat, the plate is on the cushion, the glass is in my hand and this guy is fucking me from behind. Oh, I'm smoking too. So, do you wanna go out tonight?"

About six months after we'd known each other, we spent a beautiful Monday at the pool. We were both off that day, and we spent several hours taking turns shuttling pitchers of frozen daiquiris out to our chairs. Completely smashed, we staggered back to Cathy's apartment for General Hospital.

And we fucked.

I'm still not sure how it happened and she probably isn't either, but it did. Afterwards, neither of us felt embarrassed, in fact I think we probably both had thought that it was inevitable. And I'll have to say that it was pretty good, but I never did tell Cathy that she was my first woman.

It wasn't long after that that Cathy called me at work. I pulled the long cord of the hostess' phone across the bar and resumed slicing lemons.

"Hey Cathy, what's up?"

"Well...you're not going to believe this..."


Continue to Part Two


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