Note to Self

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Big Dicks

Private journal of Anna Volakas

Monday 22nd September, 2014

I feel strange writing this down. No, not strange … guilty. I don’t know why I feel that way, because it doesn’t make sense; but I do know what’s causing it and maybe if I put it on paper then it won’t be in my head any more. Then maybe I can sleep again at night. Let the damn paper feel guilty.

But here’s the thing: I’m not completely sure I want it out of my head. How’s that for messed up? Pretty frickin’ perfect, I should think; perfectly messed up is exactly what it is. The truth? I haven’t felt this excited … this alive … since my honeymoon. I think that’s why I feel guilty; not because what I’m feeling is wrong — I don’t think it is — but because these feelings should be reserved for Nick, my husband.


Shit. I just re-read what I’ve written so far and I sound like a lying, cheating bitch. Even to myself. But I’m not … at least, I’ve taken a long, hard look inside and I don’t believe I am.

What if someone reads this? What if Nick reads this? Holy crap, Nick, are you reading this, baby? I can picture it so clearly; I left this thing lying open, or you went looking in my drawer for my keys, or any one of a million other things that could put this in your hands. Maybe I got killed at work and you’re sifting through my stuff, trying to make sense of the insensible, and this is what you find! Now I feel like an utter turd; part of me wants to tear out this page and burn the fucking thing.

But I have to go on. I have to. Nick, baby, if you are reading this then please keep an open mind. Know that I love you. Always have, always will. Nothing has changed there. But there is something new; something inside me that I have to deal with and it doesn’t affect the way I love you. I’m not trying to make something happen with Susan, but if it did — and I know you probably won’t believe this — then it might actually be good for me. For us. I feel that very strongly.


Damn, clock’s ticking Anna. Forty minutes writing this and so far all you have is a page full of bullshit and innuendo. Maybe it’s time to take a concrete pill — as they say at the station — and harden the fuck up! Okay, here goes: I think I’m a lesbian. A rug-munching, fuzz-bumping, clam-digging, scissor sister! A fucking diesel-dyke copper; what a cliché.

I thought that would make me feel better, but it didn’t. It makes me feel worse, not least of all because it’s not true. I just made myself cry. Good job, Anna.

I’m straight; I like guys.

I like the way they look and I like the way they feel.

I love my husband.

I don’t go for chicks.

I don’t check out their tits or their legs.

I don’t undress them in my mind.

I don’t find them interesting … except for Susan.


Susan is …?



For the life of me I don’t know what’s interesting about a middle-class white woman in suburban America.


It’s not guilt. I just worked that out. I think it’s shame; and that burns so much hotter than guilt. If it was just the incident at the kindergarten barbecue, then maybe it would be guilt. Maybe I could deal with that more easily. Heck, maybe I would have forgotten about it by now. Forgotten about her by now.

It was the dream; that’s what feels shameful … even though it shouldn’t. Nothing that feels that good should feel shameful. If only ‘good’ was all it felt; but it felt right, too.

Shit, I’ve been at this for over an hour now and I’ve gotten exactly nowhere. Are you still reading, Nick? Are you bored yet? Confused? Disgusted? How could you be; I haven’t actually said anything; not anything of substance. Is there even anything substantive to tell? There must be; I can still feel it inside me. I started this wretched journal to get it out where I could deal with, so let’s have at it.

‘The Incident’, capital-I, inverted commas, the works. Geez, chill-pill Anna; it sounds like one of those apocalypse TV dramas like Revolution; where they refer to some shadowy event in the past that wiped out civilization. It was nothing so macabre. I feel like saying something trite like “but it rocked my world”, but it sounds so … well, trite! Even reading it back, it sounds ridiculous, but it’s how I feel. Is that weird? That complex emotions can be so aptly described by a stupid, clichéd phrase? Is anyone still reading? Is Anna ever going to grow a set and actually write down what happened rather than every single fucking girly emotion that courses through her oestrogen-soaked walking corpse?


It was the kindergarten barbecue. It’s Jimmy’s first year at kinder; geez, it seems like he was a baby just last week. The barbecue was put on by the parents’ committee as a getting-to-know-you sort of thing. Most of the Moms turned up and about a third of the Dads; that’s modern parenting for you. Nick was there. I’m proud of him for that. He was probably just networking canlı bahis and drumming up local contracting business; I know how he loves local jobs. He gets to sleep in (until 6:30am! But that’s contracting and he walked into it eyes open) and sometimes he comes home for lunch. I do shifts, so sometimes I’m home when he does; and if I’ve just come off a late-shift and Jimmy is with his Nona then I might still be in bed and … well … I guess I love it too when he has local jobs.

A few of the Moms introduced themselves. I remembered all of their names, but that’s the police training, not because I clicked with any of them. Most of the ones there without husbands were stay-at-home Moms whose lives revolve around their kids. I’m not judging them as more or less worthy than me, we just don’t have a lot in common.

Often at that type of thing, you don’t get to socialize because you’re busy supervising kids; but that’s one attraction of a kinder function: the kids all know each other, they’re locked in, and the play equipment is all age appropriate. I followed Jimmy around for a little while, but he didn’t seem to need me so I drifted away. Like every barbecue in North America since Columbus first lit a fire under a buffalo, the guys gravitated towards the grill and the women moved far enough away so they wouldn’t hear the foul language and prepared way more salad than would actually be eaten.

So of course I grabbed a brew and stepped up to the grill.

Some of the others looked rattled but Nick didn’t bat an eyelid; he knows I work with guys all day and he knows the way cops talk. Heck, we’ve had enough of them around to our house over the years. I was wearing what Nick calls my ‘off-duty uniform’; navy-blue t-shirt, jeans and sunglasses. Exactly the same as the rest of them, in other words … except my jeans were a bit tighter. The t-shirt too, if we’re being honest. God made me 5’3″ with C-cups, and if you can’t hide ’em then you might as well flaunt ’em. All the guys had sunglasses too so I couldn’t see their eyes, but sometimes you don’t need to see to know where they’re looking. And I don’t mind that; it can be creepy when a guy feels you up with his eyes, but it’s kind of sweet when they’re just looking and think you can’t tell. Nick doesn’t mind, thank God; he’s proud of my body, small but toned.

I could tell I was cramping the conversation, but then Nick told them I was a cop and one idiot asked I had my off-duty piece. In a kindergarten, for fuck’s sake!

“What do you think, smart guy?” I laughed to keep it friendly — even though I thought he was an idiot — and held out my arms, turning right and left; my tight t-shirt and jeans made it obvious I wasn’t carrying. “Where do you think I’ve got it stashed?”

Unconsciously, his eyes dropped to my waist — I had invited it after all — and even with the sunglasses on everybody saw him do it.

“Geez, it’s a Beretta, not a fucking Derringer!” I said with mock surprise. “It’s not going to fit up there! Mom warned me to carry protection when I started seeing boys; maybe I misunderstood what she meant.”

The guys all cracked up, and I was happy to see the idiot a bit red-faced. Pretty soon they were back to normal and I was one of the guys; just like on the job.


I just re-read all of that. Funny how it doesn’t mention Susan. I’m such a coward. I’ve run out of time and my shift starts in a couple of hours, so I’ll have to finish this tomorrow.


Private journal of Anna Volakas

Tuesday 23rd September, 2014

New development. I just got an IM.

@Susan.Richards.MD: Hi Anna, sorry again about Sunday. Drinks Fri night? Sus x

Shit, what does that all mean? ‘Sorry’? Is she into that kind of thing and just made a mistake? Or is she hetero and thinks I took it the wrong way? Either way, she knows I’m straight. Drinks? Sure, straight girls do that. Even if they do get off on the wrong foot. It’s not like we parted angry, but we didn’t exactly become BFFs either. Obviously she got my details from the kinder contact list, so she remembered my name. That’s interesting. Unless she picked the only Greek surname off the list and rolled the dice; the black hair and olive skin is a bit of giveaway. So what does all that add up to? Jack shit, that’s what.

But ‘x’? Not an initial, so a kiss? People sign-off like that … I think. Cops don’t. Nobody I know does. Maybe teenagers. But doctors? What does that mean? Want to get some drinks and finish up with some hot tongue action? Shit, I just read that back … I didn’t mean … I just meant kissing. For fuck’s sake, who blushes when they’re on their own?

I can’t think about it now; I still need to write out what happened.


I’m a cheap date. At 114 pounds, one beer is about as much as my system can handle, and ten minutes after I put it in, it wanted to come out the other end. Seems like the only time I can control my bladder is on patrol — because I bahis siteleri have to — but any other time …? It started when I was pregnant, peeing every ten minutes, but Jimmy was nearly five years ago, so things should have returned to normal. It’s a bitch to be me. Pity party for one.

Surprisingly, the kinder actually has a decent adult bathroom. The building isn’t new, so it probably wasn’t always a kindergarten and the two-stall ladies bathroom is a legacy of a previous age. I did my thing and then stood washing my hands in front of the long mirror, looking at my reflection and checking for lines and grey hairs, making sure nothing was sagging that should be firm. I was washed and dry and everything else was five-by. I still looked great.

I was looking at my breasts — hey, I had to keep up with the guys who had been staring all afternoon — and realised they weren’t tender. I’d never had pre-menstrual breast-pain until recently, but probably from the beginning of this summer I’d noticed it, the last day or two before my period. It had returned right on cue the day before the barbecue, but it was gone again and that was weird. I felt them to make sure; gingerly at first, but there was no pain.

“Don’t mind me, I just need to pee.”

Holy fuck, where did you come from? Stealth-Mom! I didn’t even hear the door. She was early thirties like me, about my height or an inch taller, and a similar compact shape without the muscle-tone. But that’s where the similarity ended. She had styled blonde hair that she wore down, just past the shoulder, and she was dressed in a white, sleeveless blouse and soft-pink skirt with pantyhose and a pair of white, wedge sandals.

She looked at me holding my breasts and I saw a slight change in her eyes, a mix of curiosity and maybe concern. “Do you want a hand with that?” she asked without inflection.

What the fuck? Do I want a hand feeling my tits? Jesus!

“Do you want to go fuck yourself?” I shot back deadpan. It was out of my mouth before I could take it back; it was the sort of thing I’d say at work if a crack-whore made the same offer, but this middle-class Mom had surprised it out of me.

That same look of curiosity and concern stayed on her face for a two-count while she processed what I’d said, then her blue eyes bulged comically for a second and her face dropped in horror. Poor thing had probably never heard language like that. And then she surprised me; she burst out laughing. It just exploded from her — this sudden burst of hilarity — and her face transformed from horror to outright glee. God only knows what my face looked like; I’d just been lesbo-propositioned in a kindergarten bathroom, told a soccer-Mom to fuck herself, and now I was getting laughed at.

“Oh shit! Whoops!” she clutched her groin, still giggling uncontrollably. “I almost peed myself. Give me a moment.” And then she ran into the stall and slammed the door.

I heard the sounds of cotton and nylon and she did battle with her skirt and pantyhose while she talked in broken half-sentences.

“I’m so sorry,” she began. “I don’t know how that must have … I mean, I’m not … I didn’t … Oh flip, now I can’t pee. Shut up a minute …”

I don’t know why she was telling me to shut up; I hadn’t said anything since I told her to fuck herself. A moment later, she got started and I heard a soft sigh of relief.

“I’m Susan,” she said through the door. “Zack’s Mom. I think I introduced myself earlier.” (She hadn’t) “I’m so sorry, I can’t imagine what you must have thought. It’s just … I saw you doing a breast exam and it looked … well it looked like you hadn’t done one before.”

That was actually true. Nick examined them regularly and in minute detail, though possibly not for lumps or anomalies. Since Jimmy was weaned, I’ve pretty much left them to their own devices. I was deeply regretting what I’d said at this point; how could I have thought she was propositioning me?

“Um … no, I’m … um sorry,” I stumbled through an apology. If it was my son doing it, I would have made him start over.

“What do you have to be sorry for?” she laughed. I heard the sound of tearing toilet paper and then she paused again before resuming over the flushing toilet. “The look on your face was priceless, and I completely deserved it.” She paused while I listened to her fight again with the pantyhose and getting her skirt back down over her hips.

She came out smiling with roses in her cheeks and looked at me in the mirror. I felt a little pang of jealousy at her blonde good-looks; petite and feminine, she was the quintessential yummy-Mommy.

“I’m a doctor,” she explained. “I have women parading around in my exam-room with their boobs hanging out all day, so showing them how to examine themselves is the most natural thing in the world for me.” She shrugged as she dried her hands with a ‘what-can-you-do?’ gesture. “I just spend so much of my life with patients, sometimes I forget how to relate to real people.” Then bahis şirketleri she smiled again, “So when I ask to feel your boobs, it’s just how doctors say hello.”

“Right,” I said flatly. “Well I’m a cop. I spend my days with crack-whores and dealers, so when I tell you to go fuck yourself, that’s just how cops say hello.” I couldn’t help a smirk at the end of that. We’d just both done what comes most naturally, and in retrospect, it was kind of funny.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name,” she said. I hadn’t told her yet, but doctors probably weren’t as good with names as cops; they dealt with one person at a time and had all their details on a clipboard. Or so I believed from watching TV dramas.

“Anna Volakas,” I said, still looking at her in the mirror. “Sergeant.”

“Susan Richards,” she replied, smiling. “M.D.” There was a little flicker of ironic acknowledgement in her eyes, suggesting we both knew it was absurd to be using titles at a kindergarten barbecue, but still we couldn’t help ourselves. Curse of the career woman. Obviously I had mis-characterized her as a soccer-Mom.

“So did you …,” she searched for the words, “… um, want to?”

“Want to what?” I asked, genuinely confused.

“Learn how to do a self-examination,” she smiled, and then holding up her hands, “I won’t touch. Promise. Learned my lesson the first time.”

I didn’t really want to talk about breasts with this unusual woman at all, but she had completely disarmed me with her wit and that almost hysterical outburst of laughter. Part of me was curious; I knew it was something I had been ignoring for a long time that I really should learn, but it wasn’t like I was ever going to have an idle moment when I would decide to look it up for myself.

“Fuck it,” I breathed. “Okay. What do I have to do?”

“What? Oh, okay,” she smiled. “I didn’t think you were going to. You just had that look.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I said.

“Right, well. First thing: you don’t just feel,” she began in a brisk tone, unbuttoning her blouse and pulling it untucked from her skirt. “You need to look as well, and you can’t do either properly wearing a bra.”

Shit, I didn’t see this coming. I just met the woman, I wasn’t really planning on having a titty tea-party with her. I felt a moment of reluctance when an icy shiver went down my back, but then I had to smile inwardly; how many times had I had them out when Jimmy was breast-feeding? That was a few years ago now, but it seems some of the dignity that fled my life the day I lay on a bed with a doctor, Nick, and two midwives staring up my twat was finally growing back. What the hell, I said to myself; I could get the girls out for another public performance. Just this once, by popular demand.

“I teach a three-step exam, rather than the five-step,” she explained. “A lot of women promise they’ll do weekly exams to your face, but then life takes over and they forget, so simpler is better.”

Susan was pulling off her blouse already as she talked to me in the mirror, revealing an expensive, lacy white bra. Such a typical suburban yummy-Mommy. The pink skirt hugging her slim hips contrasted with the creamy, white flesh of stomach; perfectly flat and not a hint of muscle — how did she get it that flat without crunches? Everywhere else was soft curves. Her waist wasn’t angled like mine; it was just a continuation of the gentle curve of her hips that flowed smoothly out again at her breasts: round and full B-cups, snugly tucked into a pretty girlie bra that she picked out precisely for the reason that it could be shown off through the blouse.

“I’ll just show you number one and two,” she went on. “One is in the shower and two is in the mirror. Three is in bed, so we can leave that one until we get to know each other a bit better,” she joked. At least it sounded like a joke.

Throwing modesty to the wind, I pulled my t-shirt over my head to reveal my highly practical and comfortable black lycra bra, just as she was reaching behind to unclasp that Victoria’s Secret page three special.

Susan shrugged off her shoulder straps, and cupping it in both hands she lowered it to reveal her breasts, round and full at the bottom with a ski-jump curve on top. With my fingers working at the clasp on my own bra, I froze, an unfamiliar shiver pricking goose-bumps on my arms and making the little hairs stand on end.

Oh my God. They match!

The thought was so clear and real, I wondered for moment if it had come out of my mouth. Her areolae were tiny, about the size of pennies, with small, slightly upturned nipples at the center of each — so small and perfect, it was hard to believe they’d ever seen the inside of a baby’s mouth. But the thing that stopped me was the color; it was the exact shade of pink as her skirt.

My own skin is a Mediterranean olive brown — almost dark enough for skinhead Nazi punks to call me ‘colored’, but really no more than the deep tan that an Anglo can go if they see a lot of sun. I guess I’ve seen white girls’ tits before — mostly at night busting street walkers who won’t get a fucking room — but I haven’t ever been affected like that. It was actually scary; I could feel my jugular throbbing in my neck.

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