This is a long, slow moving romance...in six easily digestible parts. I hope you enjoy it at your leisure. Please send feedback and vote at its conclusion. Thanks for your support.
Part 1
In early 2003 I went to the medical center for a complete check-up, not having had one since I was in the service. When I first saw Karina, a nurse in the doctor's office, I thought that I'd never seen a more attractive, desirable woman. Though she was dressed in a baggy green "scrubs" uniform, which effectively hid everything but her smooth arms, gorgeous creamy complexion and long, nearly black hair to the middle of her back, I was convinced that I'd gotten my first glimpse of an exotic Pacific Island goddess.
Karina is no more than five feet tall in stocking feet, weighing 100 pounds at the most. Her black brows and very long lashes highlight dark brown almond eyes that indicate an Asian heritage. Yet her light pink lips and a flush in her creamy cheeks betray a Caucasian lineage as well. Her narrow, straight nose emphasizes that influence and blends the two ethnic lines in a stunningly feminine way.
At first glance, my breath caught in my throat as I watched her hold open the door for an elderly female patient to enter the examination area. She gave a dimpled smile and spoke softly with the woman as they disappeared behind the door and it closed slowly. I folded the magazine I'd been reading, exhaled, and tossed it onto the table at my side. God! I hope she's
my
doctor's nurse, I muttered to myself.
"Christopher Commanday!" I heard, which snapped me out of my reverie.
It was she – the gorgeous nurse – calling my name. I jumped up, almost to attention, and banged my knee on the magazine table...very hard.
"Oooh," she said, "...are you all right?"
"Yeah, just a flesh wound," I joked, lamely, yet she smiled radiantly – showing deep dimples – at my hokey attempt at humor. Her pearly white teeth spoke well of whomever had been her orthodontist.
"Mr. Commanday, I'm Karina," she purred in a soft, lilting soprano voice, losing her smooth hand in my paw as she shook it. "Please come this way," she said, and strode ahead of me to a small room with a scale and other equipment. As she walked, I noticed her hips twitch under her scrubs and their lively animation made my pulse race. A fresh scent came off of her that didn't smell like perfume. "Please remove your jacket and shoes. I need to weigh you," she requested.
"Two hundred and ten pounds," I said. "Wanta bet?" I threw in, trying – as usual – to be disarming.
"Wagering is against the rules," Karina said light-heartedly, as she moved the weights on the bar, the heat of her arm warming my chest. "Hmm, 212. Must be something heavy in your pants!" she said, glancing up at me with glinting, yet non-committal, almond eyes. Her look seemed to bore through me, almost as if I were naked.
I gazed down at her, nearly a foot-and-a-half below as I stood on the scale, and restrained an impulse to grab and ravage her, given what I considered to be a suggestive comment. Should I acknowledge it? I wondered. No, dummy, I told myself. She's just showing you that she's adept at the give-and-take.
"Now, your height," Karina said, as she raised the telescoping height bar to place it on my head.
"Six feet two," I said, wanting to continue the game.
"You're right! Even with socks!" she beamed. "Now, sit down here...for your blood pressure, please."
While cuffing me, her warm hands caressed my upper arm and she asked, "What sort of work do you do?"
"Architect," I said, my heart beating soundly as she leaned forward to place a thermometer under my tongue. As I opened my mouth, she opened hers as well – automatically, as nurses and mothers do for some reason when taking one's temperature – and I beaded with perspiration as I saw her pink, satiny tongue, wet with saliva.
"Really!" she said, surprised. "I expected you to say 'construction' or something...what with your...your build."
"Nope. Just a picture draw-er," I responded, intentionally trying to sound like a simpleton, thinking it might draw a smile.
"A little more than that, I imagine," she said, soberly, eyeing the LED numbers on the console. "Your blood pressure's a little high, Mr. Commanday...especially for your age of 32. It's 160 over 90. And your temperature's 99.2."
"Must be the surroundings," I said, trying to capture her eyes with mine. "I'm a little nervous."
"What's there to be nervous about? You look pretty
healthy to me!" she said, turning away and saying, "Come with me, please." She led me to an examination room, leaving the door open.
"Please take off your shirt. Doctor will be in to examine you in a minute," she said, and started to leave.
"Uhh...Karina," I said, pulling my polo shirt over my head as she stopped in mid-stride. "What's his name?"
Her eyes scanned my bare broad shoulders, pecs, arms and muscular stomach. My vivid imagination told me – no, I wanted it to tell me – that she liked what she saw. "Oh!" she said with a slight giggle, "Dr. Wong."
"Thanks," I said, and she was gone.
The doc examined me, which included the humiliating, gloved finger up-the-ass bit to feel the prostate, and I was pronounced superficially fit. He re-took my blood pressure and temperature and both were normal. He smiled knowingly and told me that when Karina pre-examined other men, their readings spiked as well. He gave me a lab requisition for a blood work-up and chest X-ray. I admitted to a minor neck injury suffered in the service and he told me to get my neck X-rayed, too, and to bring it back to Karina after it was taken.
On the way out I passed her in the hallway and she smiled. "See you next time, Mr. Commanday," she said. Then she looked at my neck, and reached up. I shrank back like a nervous pre-teen when she reached for me. She pulled the collar of my shirt out, since it was folded inside against my clavicle. "There," she said softly, looking into my eyes. "That's better."
When her fingers touched the base of my throat, I felt light-headed. Covering my awkwardness, though, I said with bravado, "See you in about an hour, with X-rays. Shall I carry my shirt so you can dress me properly?"
What a wit I am. She just smiled that incomparable smile and patted me on the arm to acknowledge my lame remark.
In about an hour I was back with the X-rays and my dream girl had gone on a break. I told the receptionist that the nurse was waiting for the films and bullied her into telling me that Karina was in the cafeteria. Minutes later, downstairs, I spied her – alone at a table, reading – and I boldly invaded her privacy.
Forget good manners, I told myself. "Here're the X-rays of my neck...and please call me Chris," I said, sitting down.
She looked up from her book, a bit startled, then smiled, saying, "Thank you, uuh...Chris. And... no, I can't go out with you, for two reasons. Want to know what they are?"
Wow! I thought. She's way ahead of me! I'll bet guys hit on her all the time. "Okay," I gulped. "Why?" I asked, sitting down across the table from her.
"Because you're a patient," she said. "And," she hesitated, "...because you're a
haole
...a white man," she murmured, fingering a small, round black stone on a long silver chain around her neck. It was thin, flat, about an inch in diameter with a hole in the center. Around the center hole and the stone's outer edge was hammered silver.
"Wha-a-a-t?" I gasped, dumfounded.
"We're not encouraged to date patients," she explained. "And, in my case, the women in my family have had bad luck with men in the military."
How did she know about my hitch in the service? I wondered. "But I'm in the Reserves!" I objected. "My active duty is over!" I'd spent four years in the Marine Corps, separating as a non-commissioned officer, after my first two years at the university, then returned to complete my five-year architectural degree, which took six.
"Sorry. I don't have time to talk about it now," she said, looking at her watch. "I've got to get these back to the doctor," she said, picking up the X-ray envelope. "Maybe next time you come in."
"How 'bout tomorrow?" I asked. "I've got an eye appointment across the street," I said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. One of my job's benefits – though I'm the junior man in the architectural office – is a complete health plan with the HMO, and I was taking full advantage of it...getting everything checked.
"I'm here every day at this time...reading," she said, as if to underscore her preference for being alone.
"Okay. See you tomorrow...Karina," I mumbled, somewhat deflated.
That night I jerked off to her tantalizing image. I could hardly wait to see her again. The following day I kept my eye appointment and waited for her in the cafeteria. She was as punctual as she was sensual. I waved to her after she'd gotten her cappuccino and she slid onto a chair opposite me, gliding butt-first onto the plastic seat in that ultra-feminine way that brings to mind a dainty bird lowering itself onto a nest.
"Your eyes okay?" she asked, looking into them.
"Slight astigmatism," I replied. "I use glasses for work."
"Such a nice, deep blue," she said, absently, her thoughts wandering as she stirred her coffee and looked around. She then said, "Anyway, you probably guessed that I'm Hawaiian...a mongrel...lottsa' different Asian bloods, Portuguese, French, English...you know,
Hawaiian
!"
I'm a typical sort of WASP – a Yankee mongrel myself, with French, German and Scottish blood – the kind that populates much of the North American continent. The archetype of such folk evokes a rather basic image: if it doesn't concern food, sex or money, then it's worth little. So, I tried to embellish my humble background – and seek a smile from her by saying – "French? Maybe we're distant cousins." She responded by tilting her head and half-smiling with mirthful eyes, as if to say, "Yeah, right!"
"Okay," I said, at least pleased with the way she was loosening up and talking. "What else?"
"My folks moved to the mainland in the '80s," she began. "I went to Cal-Berkeley, and now I'm head day nurse in Internal Medicine."
"And your family...," I started to say.
"My Mom fell in love with a Marine – a white man – when she lived on Maui," she continued. "He was killed in the Middle East in the late 70s. Then she married Dad, a Hawaiian. My Grandmother's white lover died in Vietnam in the '60s. She also married a Hawaiian, and still lives on Maui. My Great Grandmother's guy – another white man – went down in a plane in the South Pacific during World War II."
