Growing up a lesbian and very introspective about my career possibilities, I knew I didn't want to teach gym, because that was a stereotype that would eventually lead to shame and/or incarceration.  Then one night I had an epiphany while watching "The Maltese Falcon"...I would be a private eye, a shamus in forties vernacular. Fresh out of THE Ohio State, armed with a worthless degree, I plopped down borrowed money for an office in Cincinnati, directly across from Skyline chili, causing my office to always reek of onions and horrible chili.  I was thankful for my sinuses problems. But still spending a small fortune on Fabreze.

I spent my advertising budget on Reds' games, but unfortunately, that season they stunk worse than the aforementioned chili.  After a month of living on Vienna sausages and stale crackers (there is no way they eat this crap in Austria!), my luck began to change.

While I pondered weak and weary, sitting behind my cheap desk, looking at a Kroger ad, pricing Tuna Helper, although I can't afford tuna,  suddenly I heard a tapping,  of someone rapping, gently rapping at my chamber door.  Cursing myself for feeding that damned raven in the first place because now I'll never get rid of it, but, surprisingly, my door swung open revealing a large, middle-aged woman in a frumpy dress like something out of the Mayberry general store.  She looked like Large Marge from "Pee Wee's Big Adventure". She was so hefty, I expected to see Han Solo encased in Carbonite behind her.

"Welcome to Shady Lady Detective Agency,"  motioning her in to be seated and immediately concerned if the flimsy IKEA chairs I had hastily assembled could survive her mass. Her eyes darted across my desk, stopping first on the red Solo cups I put there to add class to the joint, then to my overflowing ashtray with 102 butts I could count with the ease of Dustin Hoffman.  Finally to my nameplate.

"What kind of name is Penelope?" (Although her pronunciation was more akin to cantaloupe).  I corrected her, fearfully, not wanting to run off my first client with semantics.

'What can I do for you, Miss...?"

"I'm Bertha, Bertha Snodgrass.  (her name was as melodious as her appearance.) I need you to find a missing person,"...as she slid a photograph across the table slowly, like revealing an iffy poker hand.

Peeking at it, suppressing the urge to scream, cry and/or vomit, I was looking at the ugliest woman ever seen outside a Grimm's fairy tale.  Her toothless smile meant I could rule out dental records.  She looked like the love child of Clint Howard and Joey Ramone! "Are you certain you WANT her found?" I asked, while fighting acid reflux. 

Her eyes bulged even more, if possible, as she yanked the gruesome photo from my trembling hand and screamed, "Of course, I want her found. SHE'S MY LOVER!"  Then in a quieter moment, she whispered, "I'm a lesbian.  Does that shock you?"

Hoping to put her mind at ease, I mentioned I also play for her team. She glared, "Yeah, your flannel shirt and Doc Marten's gave you away, butch!" ( so much for the compassionate approach.)

"When did you see this enchantress last, Ms. Snodgrass?"

"It's been two weeks," she said between sobs.

"Does she have any physical characteristics  I can look for; Tattoos, etc?"

Bertha contemplated before informing me that Eleanor (this goddess's name apparently) has a pussy sweeter than a Pixie Stick.

"Perhaps something more easily seen by the eye, I meant," while pushing the standard contract across to her for signature.  Reading quickly, she paid the initial fee of $100, all one dollar bills. 

She explained, "I strip part-time at the Cuntry." (a notorious lesbian bar across the river in Kentucky). Upon hearing this horrifying confession, I began using tongs to count her payment.

"Did you two have a fight?"

Sobbing, her body shaking, she admitted. "I caught her cheating on me!"

"With a man or another woman?"

She snarled, "At Candyland." (How did Mensa miss these two?)

Taking rapid notes, looking up, "Do you think she might be having doubts about her sexuality and is out searching for a penis?" (perhaps she has a protein deficiency.)
 
"Never," she bellowed, before slamming her meaty hand down on my desk in anger, the ashtray flying in a perfect arc until crashing across the bridge of my nose with a distinct crackle, reminding me to buy my favorite candy bar, and leaving me bloody and woozy, staggering around my office like an extra on "The Walking Dead." 

"I think this concludes the interview, Bertha.  Give me a couple of days.  I'm afraid the upcoming stitches might delay the proceedings."

Clutching the soggy bills, I left, heading for the missing woman's last known place of employment,  the UC Medical Center.  I showed the infamous photo to a couple of young paramedics who pointed to the east wing before running screaming into the approaching night. Finally, and regretfully, I laid my private eyes on Eleanor, leaning against a mop, carefree, blissfully unaware she was being stalked by one of the greatest lesbian private eyes in southern Ohio.  Approaching cautiously, telling her my name and mission, she cackled.

"So, the bitch sent a private dick to find me?" It suddenly dawned on me, she was incredibly easy to locate, so why did my client even need my help? Perhaps to serve as a negotiator while the song "Reunited" began to run through my mind, a terrible thought and an even worse song. As my prey turned and feigned mopping the same spot for the eighteenth time, I noticed purple bruises on the back of each thigh. 

"Did she beat you?" certain I had broken the case wide open....but nooooo!

"Beat...no.  Paddled...yes."  I was suddenly confused while in the background, the PA system crackled, "Doc Brown, your DeLorean is being towed."  Followed by a male voice in the distance, shouting, "Great Scott!" 

"Is that why you left, because she paddled you?" I asked amid the cacophony.

Surprisingly, with adulation, she answered, "Fuck no! She was a Michaelangelo with the paddle!"

"Michaelangelo?" I repeated incredulously.

"Or Raphael..or Donatello...one of them mutant turtles."

"Regardless, she wants you back." 

Angrily,  she turned, her mop flinging dirty, soapy water from my head to toe, causing me to slip to the floor, writhing in the filth, screaming, "She slimed me!"

Then, on a pop culture roll, stumbling to my feet, I surveyed the watery mess splashing through the hallway like a white trash wave pool and declared, "This was NO boating accident!"

Slip sliding my way to Eleanor, I continued, "I know you two lovebirds can work out any differences."

Her horrifying response; "But the BITCH made me binge watch Adam Sandler movies!"

"Oh, fuck no, honey! Run while you can. I'll tell her you died in a ...well...boating  accident."  No fee could make me subject this woman to watching "Grown Ups 2!" 

From the corner of my eye, I noticed a tall, leggy blonde nurse nodding her approval from five feet away. Stepping gingerly to her, noticing her name tag and observing her navy blue scrubs, "I have a question, Katrina."  Her eyebrow rose as I continued, "Do you ever wear the old school nurse's uniform and the hose with a seam on the back?"

"Only on special nights," she replied with a tiny wink and the blush of a teen girl after her first kiss.

"That's great because today is James K. Polk's birthday," Returning her wink,  grabbing her elbow and leading us into a nearby ladies room, which was fortunately empty.  Directing us into the roomier handicap stall, where she requested the door remain cracked because she liked to be watched. (Be still my heart!). Knowing this, I left a tip jar on the counter should we attract an appreciative audience before slipping back into the stall, surprised at how thoroughly Eleanor had cleaned the room (My Yelp review would be glowing). My back to the wall as my angel of mercy knelt at my feet, removing my boots, straight-legged jeans and aromatic panties.

Looking up, making sensual eye contact,  she asked, "What now?'

"Do you like being told what to do, Katrina?"

"Yes...by you," she admitted with those pleading eyes and a pout like a child who just got a healthy treat for Halloween.

Deciding on the romantic approach, my fingers behind her head, drawing her face to my smooth pussy, I hissed, "Taste my cunt!"  It was at this point I heard a gasp and a few cheers from outside the stall, followed by the metallic clank of change dropped into the tip jar...Change!

"YOU CHEAP BITCHES," I roared, all the while shivering as I felt her talented tongue search lovingly through my moist petals, toes curling and thighs quivering while hoping there was both a defibrillator and thesaurus nearby.  Simultaneously,  her lips tenderly fastened to my engorged clit and her fingernail began flicking at my rose. I was yanking  her hair like an irate hair stylist while mumbling the most unnecessary question ever asked, "Do you like eating pussy, baby?"

Looking up, licking her lips, "Yes, especially Eleanor's.  It's sweeter than a Pixie Stick!" Damn, Eleanor must be the leading cause of diabetes in the tri-state.

Looking down at her through lust-filled eyes, my mind and heart were competing over which would ultimately control my emotions. She was so compassionate and loving, but I knew she would eventually break my heart.  No, not break. Shatter it into a million tiny pieces so all could never be found, leaving me incomplete. But pushing the melancholic thoughts aside, I wanted to savor the moment for as long as it lasts.  I think it's the Swiss who have a saying, "Carpe Diem".

As my orgasm hit like a tornado in a trailer park, I began grinding my wetness over her pretty face, wanting her to wear it forever, or at least the next twenty minutes. (It's too bad I already used the "slime" gag). Katrina regained her footing, stripped and sat on the toilet, masturbating furiously, like a teenager during study hall. Watching and knowing her exhibitionist leanings, I kicked the door completely open, letting a dozen nursing students watch Katrina spread her legs even wider while pushing three fingers deep within her squishy pussy.  The cheers were deafening and two students even asked if I took plastic.

Still Leaning against the surprisingly sturdy wall that even Trump could admire, I watched my soul-mate stand and bend over to collect our clothing. An added bonus, from my vantage point, I couldn't help but notice an obviously large, red butt plug already in place.  Prompting  the final line from "Casablanca" to echo in my brain, a tear trickling down my cheek, I said, "Katrina, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Sobbing and cheers from the adoring students.

(FADE TO BLACK)