R Finch - No longer virgin

Wendy waited silently in the small lobby of the counseling office to see Miss Westoff, the school psychologist. She stared vacantly at the floor, sat with her hands in her lap, tried to cover the dried semen that stained the front of her blue skirt. She had even found a small bit of it entrusted high on one knee sock, had scratched it out with a fingernail. There wasn't much she could do about the rest until she got home. She tried not to think about it.

George Davison was still in Miss Westoff's office, no doubt still loudly proclaimed his total innocence in the matter. It made little difference to Wendy what he said. Fault was not the issue. The mere fact of her involvement labeled her. She knew that and could do little about it. That she had actually initiated the episode would add only slightly to her guilt. Soon, the rest of the school would know. And then, of course, Alan would know.

The door to Miss Westoff's office opened finally. George Davison appeared. He walked quickly past Wendy, would not look at her. Wendy really couldn't blame him.

She stood uncertainly. When no one appeared to usher her in, walked cautiously to the open doorway. She rapped lightly.

Miss Westoff sat at her desk, sorted through a stack of Manila file folders. She looked up, smiled at Wendy. She was an attractive woman, slender, probably not quite thirty-five. She wore her blonde hair tied back in a rather severe style, and somehow gave the impression of being a 19th century English boarding mistress or something. Even the dresses she chose, though stylish, seemed always to suggest that same image. Wendy had talked with her before. The woman was easy enough to get along with. At least she seemed understanding.

"Wendy, come in," she said. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting. I've just been searching for your file here. My records are always such a jumble, you know. Oh, and close the door, if you don't mind."

Wendy quietly closed the door. She walked over, sat down across from Miss Westoff in a surprisingly comfortable leather bound chair… She waited silently, unsure of what exactly to expect. She kept her hands in her lap.

Miss Westoff stood finally, came around the side of her desk, moved another chair alongside Wendy's. She sat down.

"This is a trifle more informal," she smiled. She started right in. "Now, suppose you tell me what exactly happened between you and George?"

Wendy blushed, did not know what to say. Given a choice, she wouldn't have talked about it at all. She knew she didn't have that choice. Miss Westoff waited.

"Well, relax, Wendy," Miss Westoff said easily. "There's nothing to be frightened of I'm here to help you, not to punish you. Just talk to me as if I was one of your friends."

She paused expectantly, when Wendy still didn't respond, said, "I'd like you to think of me as one of your friends, Wendy. That's why I'm here. To be your friend." She smiled again.

"I know," Wendy said, shakily. "I've always liked talking to you. You're easy to talk to. It's just that… that…"

Two tears trickled down Wendy's face, dropped soundlessly to her skirt. She felt completely lost.

"It's all right," Miss Westoff said quietly. "I can understand how you must feel. Take your time. There's no hurry at all."

She rose, walked to her desk, pulled out a box of facial tissues. She offered it to Wendy.

Wendy took several, wiped at her eyes, balled the tissues in her hand.

"Thank you."

"So, anyway," Miss Westoff said, smiled again. "Back to business. I'd like your version of what happened. It won't leave this room, I assure you. Anything you say will be held in strictest confidence. Do you understand, dear?"

"Yes," Wendy nodded.

"Fine. Now, start at the beginning."

Wendy told her, haltingly, about her quarrel with Alan, his infidelity with Lucinda Krell, finally Wendy's silly attempt at some sort of revenge through George Davison.

"That's so typical of a man," Miss Westoff shook her head. "If he doesn't get what he wants from a girl, he throws the relationship aside. So typical. No consideration at all for the sensitivity of a woman."

Wendy nodded. "I felt like he cheated me out of something. Out of our relationship. He didn't even think of what he was doing to me. He didn't even care."

"It's something women have to face, I'm afraid," Miss Westoff said. "There's really very few ways around it."

She patted Wendy's hand consolingly. Wendy smiled at her, felt somehow cheered by her presence.

Wendy said, "I feel so dumb about what I did with George. I'm too ashamed to face anyone again. I can imagine what they're saying right now. It's so embarrassing!"

"There now, don't be overly harsh on yourself. Besides, you actually wanted to be caught, you know. And, that's exactly what happened."

Wendy, startled, glanced at her.

"Of course, you did," Miss Westoff continued. "Few things occur that are not somehow intentional. The subconscious mind works in ways often contradictory to the purposes you might think. In effect, you set the stage yourself for discovery."

"To hurt Alan, you mean?"

"Exactly. To get even with Alan. Surely, if you hadn't wanted him, or anyone else, for that matter, to find out, you could have chosen a safer location to carry out your plan. And, consider your choice of a temporary lover. Alan's locker partner! What could be more obvious?"

"That's frightening," Wendy said slowly, realized what the woman said was probably true. It did seem to fit neatly.

"Not frightening, dear," Miss Westoff laughed. "Quite normal. When you decide something, consider all the reasons. The actual one may be quite different than those merely on the surface."

"It's as if I wanted to get caught on purpose," Wendy said.

"That would seem to be the case," Miss Westoff agreed. "At least, on a very elementary level. It's something you'll have to learn to live with, at least for the time being."

"I guess so," Wendy nodded.

Wendy became self-conscious at the direction the conversation was taking. She looked at her hands.

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about," Miss Westoff assured her, patted her hand again. "It's merely a part of growing up. Accept it."

Miss Westoff glanced down, seemed to notice for the first lime the dried semen on Wendy's skirt.

Wendy blushed, tried to explain, "George, uh, when he…"

"Oh, Wendy, it's a mess! You'll have to rinse it before you go back to your classes, dear."

"I know," Wendy answered, would not look at Miss Westoff. "I haven't had a chance…"

"Well, come with me. We'll take care of it right now. By the time we're through with our little talk, it'll be dry and you'll be good as new."

Before Wendy could protest, she was led to the small, private lavatory off of Miss Westoff's office. There was barely room enough for the two of them.

"Now, stand up here by the sink," Miss Westoff said, nudged her lightly towards it. She turned on the water.

Wendy did as she was told, stood while Miss Westoff took the front of her skirt, attempted to rinse it in the sink. Most of the stains proved too high for the water to reach. The edge of the sink was cold against Wendy's bare thighs. She stepped back slightly.

"This won't do at all," the other woman said. "You'll have to take your skirt off. We can dry it over the air vent."

Wendy was unsure of what to do. The idea of running around Miss Westoff's office in only her underwear didn't appeal to her. She made no move.

"There now, don't worry about it, dear. No one will come in here."

And Miss Westoff unhooked Wendy's skirt, tugged it down. Wendy stepped over it, knew she was blushing again. Luckily, her blouse was quite long.

"Oh, and it's all over your underwear, too," Miss Westoff said, touched at Wendy lightly to indicate the stain. "You'd better take those off too. We'll just take care of everything at once."