BE WARNED.  ADULT CONTENT.  These are pharmacy stories.

Basically, I am a nice man with a conscience.I hate opportunists, but have acted like a consummate opportunistic male pig on two occasions that I still dream about.I guess I have not forgiven myself.If I could just talk to these women.I’d tell them that it was not them, IT WAS ME.Three of them now, I just remembered a third.There are probably more.

Let’s start with the girl who worked at the bank across the street from Wentlings Pharmacy.She ate at our lunch counter almost every day.I would do my best to go over, sit down, have a cup of coffee and sweet talk her.She was a stunning woman.I filled a Stelazine 1 mg Rx for her sister when she was up for Miss Ohio.

My girl was an 18 year old.Yes, we dated and they always ended up with sex.I was just three months out of school, so I stayed at my childhood home, in my childhood bed, in my childhood home.I had sex with her in that childhood bed and then, after only one cigarette, took her home before dark because my friend, a local minister, wanted me to go for a few beers with him.At the time, I thought little of my behavior. A few years later, the nascent woman’s movement had me labeled and they were right.

MALE CHAUVANISTIC PIG.

My last date with her was right before she was transferred to another branch of Merchant’s Bank.We went out for evening of drinking and ended up on the couch in the truss fitting room in the back of the drug store.

There were some very nervous days for Jay Pee to follow.The old Four Ex condoms were made out of pig intestines.They were floppy things compared to latex condoms.On Monday, the owner of Went ling’s Pharmacy wore a grin.He laughed and said, “Harry had to change the sheets on the couch in the back.”

I shrugged and asked, “I didn’t make a mess, did I?”

“Well, you left the condom on the couch.”

Holy Moly, I had forgotten that I was even wearing one.It had come off, but the question was:When did it come off?Early or late in the event?I had unreasonable fears for a few weeks.

I asked myself what kind of wife would she be?Ouch!Arrgh!Her father was a controller and probably abusive.Her mother was a door mat.This girl was unsophisticated.She had a high school education.She probably would have been a better wife than Donna.Donna, a relatively cosmopolitan and two years in college young woman, ate me alive. She was a barracuda, a beast, a vampire.

This girl, only the 4^th girl I would take to bed, did not deserve how I treated her.I violated my own standards to get some Hugh Heffner kind of action.Women were still objects in 1964.They acted like sex objects and men treated them like objects.Perhaps my dorsal lateral prefrontal cortex was still not yet mature.

Why do I feel a need to talk with her? Probably just to clear another black mark from my record of things that I am ashamed of doing.

1/24/09

Donna committed suicide Christmas Eve 1976, two years after I divorced her.She was a mess.The poor girl was not meant to be a wife after a childhood and teen age years of being an incest victim (or willing participant?).Her father.The story I got from one of her childhood friends, when I was in Ohio in the summer of 1977, was that she did it Christmas Eve.Her father went over to her apartment to see why she didn’t come over Christmas morning.

I’ll eventually tell the story of that marriage and how we both were brutalized.Today, I want to tell about how I was bamboozled by a pharmaceutical.

I filled prescriptions for this attractive, small woman for about two months before I invited her to come over to the lunch counter for a coffee after she picked up her Rx.I was immediately attracted.I love small women.When I was 24 in May of 1975, I hungered for the body of a small woman.What sealed the deal was her energy.The girl was happy, creative, funny and she touched me.Just my arm or my knee, but I have always needed to be touched.

We dated a bit and there was a 5 month history before we got married in September and headed for California.I have often wondered why she married me.To be married to Jay Pee or to get a ride to California with a man who was very soon gonna be making those inflated brain drain wages.

Our honeymoon was an absolute sybaritic adventure for the first 10 days.We drank like young people drank in the mid-1960s.We smoked cigarettes outside in the September southern warmth.We kept our heads together and laughed as we whisperingly talked dirty to each other.Then we’d go into our room and act out what we talked about.

I was in testosterone heaven.I can actually feel it, writing this.My eidetic memory remembers the details of that afternoon at the sprawling motel in Jackson, Mississippi.She touched me and I can feel her fingers on my skin, right now, Forty three years later.For ten days, the sex was amazing, just astonishing.Then we got to San Antonio.

It was a hot afternoon and the Holiday Inn had a large lawn you walked over to get to the pool.There was a wind and I could hear the big trucks out on the highway.I took a vodka and tonic with me.Not my favorite, but again, in those days, drinking alcohol was just a thing you did.

Donna had been quiet throughout the drive from Houston.Interstate 10 was not finished so about half of the drive was difficult, on two lanes, through small western towns with raised wooden sidewalks.She was not herself and I actually became a little concerned when she refused to have sex.It was a first.

She stayed in the room.It was the first day of the unraveling of the marriage and we were only out one weekend.For the next nine years, when she did want sex, she wanted rough sex.The way daddy did it?It was not my thing so I was not that cooperative unless I had had a few drinks, then I banged her just the way she wanted it.

After the pool, I went to the room to get ready for dinner.1965, I wore a long sleeve shirt, slacks and polished shoes.Donna, always a dress.She was drunk, passed out.The brand new quart of vodka was empty. Her first day as an alcoholic.

So what happened?I wondered.Years later, I put it together.I had been filling a few prescriptions for Donna.She ran out of her Rx in Houston.The pharmaceutical was called Daprisal, SK&F.A combo of dextroamphetamine and aspirin.She had been taking it on a prn basis since before I met her.I was pretty dumb about amphetamines as all of us were.

If she needed the speed to be a happy, creative attractive small woman with lots of energy, she was a different woman without it.Morose, unhappy, demanding.I was a naïve kid and she worked me to get whatever she wanted.She was sleeping with strange men right from the start.She drank a lot. She ended up a wino.Almaden Mountain Red Burgundy. She had cases of half gallons delivered.

I bought three houses to make her happy.I was a pharmacist, making three times my Ohio wage. Near the end, she would go away for the weekend and come back all beat up, bruised and hurt.She has gotten her “daddy sex”.

This is a very unhappy story, but I’ll tell it, dole it out a little at a time.My eidetic memory allows me to remember details with astounding clarity.So I can’t give you too much of Donna at a time.It feels too bad.This is healthy though.Those secrets will grind you down, my friend.Secrets are what killed Donna.She was never unfaithful to daddy.She never gave up what her family demanded she not tell and it killed her.She told me once.She used a metaphor that I didn’t want to believe.My paradigm for marriage did not include a wife who had been regularly banged by daddy.The childhood friend who told me of her suicide also told me that Donna had confided in her when they were teens.Her promise not to tell was no longer an issue.Donna was dead.

1/4/09

“The Girl From Ipanema”

Parts of this may contain “adult” content. It relates to pharmacy only in that we met when we were at work, at adjoining “offices”. If you want 100% pharmacy stories, there are plenty, but this is not one of them.

There are so many other women that I don’t know where to start. I’ll just close my eyes and see what I see in my mind. Oh, her!

She was 19 years old and I was 30 years old. My biggest negative was that I was married and her biggest unhelpful attribute was that she was never NOT STONED.

This girl was the daughter of a woman from Brazil and a man from England. She was tall, dark and gorgeous. She walked with a graceful stride. I liked her calm. Of course, she was calm. She used marijuana morning, noon and evening. I didn’t think it was a good thing.

She worked right next door as the receptionist/assistant to the optometrist. This was in White Front, a store like Target or Wal-Mart. We spent a lot of time just talking and getting to know each other. We got to know each other very well.

I was separated from my first wife, living in a small apartment. I had not yet invited this girl over. We met one evening in the spring time at a public park near downtown Walnut Creek, California. We talked. We held hands. We kissed.

I was very shy about this and was hesitant. I was still married and I was inhibited. I had no psychological need to be faithful to my wife, but I did to the marriage. I was raised in Ohio, during the 1950s. I knew that my wife had been cheating on me with multiple men, but logic played no part in this.

We ended up driving to a town south of Oakland. We rented a room. We slept all night. I was the original ED victim. Nerves. Guilt. I don’t know. This “condition” certainly assaulted any studly ideas I had about myself. We did not know what to do, so we sort of entwined our nakedness around each other and went to sleep. In the morning, I was cured.

This girl, later, confessed that she had never had sexual intercourse before me. She seemed to like to engage in fellatio a lot, but I was too dumb to realize that she wanted me to be pleased without going all the way. It was hopeless for her. I was 30 years old, not 19.

We did what a man and a girl are supposed to do when they are having an affair. She showed up at my apartment one early evening and spent the night. She brought out her stash of marijuana and encouraged me to smoke some. “It will make it better. You will relax,” she told me. She was right.
I still had that unrealistic guilt.

We slept together a lot. We stopped for a number of months when I went “home” to my wife and started up again when I moved out again. She always brought her stash and made it clear that it would be better after I smoked up. It was her in control of a part of it, I guess. If I hesitated, she played the coquette. She was a marvelous prick tease. She made me a little crazy. It had to be the Brazil influence. The second I put the doobie in my mouth, she changed from flirtatious to my mistress.

When I finally left Donna for good, my job had been moved and we lost track of each other. I saw her once at a restaurant. She was with a friend. I loved the way wisps of her long dark hair had fallen away from the comb to her neck. I liked her laugh. I was so happy to see her.

I walked up behind her and kissed her neck. She spun around and screamed. It was not her. It was her identical twin sister.