Summary: Once he got a taste of her, his world changed.
Author’s Note:
This is a light-hearted romantic comedy. There are a number of sexual situations as the story progresses, with everyone involved over the age of 18.
_______________________
A female acquaintance of a particular persuasion once told me that once you get a taste for a woman, you never go back.
In her case, I’m not sure if she was speaking of a particular woman, but in mine, it was. I also know, in my case, she got the preposition wrong.
***
Spring semester, 2000
As a PhD candidate in charge of the testing, I knew the clinical trials for the new experimental drug weren’t going as expected, so I wrote a memo expressing my concerns to Dr. Watson Leander, MD, PhD, the project director.
“Give it time, Frank,” was his reply. “And pray we see improvements soon.”
Time passed and the results didn’t change, leading Dr. Leander to become increasingly worried. As a leading professor in the medical school of a mid-size private university with a less-than-stellar endowment, he was well aware of what failure to produce positive results would mean for the grant we’d received from one of the second-tier pharmaceutical firms looking to move up a level.
After reviewing the latest results with him one afternoon, he nodded in frustration and said, “Unless we see major changes in the results of the next round of consults, word is that they’ll be shutting the whole project down. Their beancounters have been pushing for it for several weeks, and now their management is starting to listen.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“I know you will, Frank, but if the drug doesn’t work as expected, there’s nothing you, I, or anyone else can do about it. The results are what they are and we have to give them to them straight.”
The clinical trials for treatment of a certain skin condition had been going on for four months at our university and a number of others. We had 88 participants in our part of the study, with about a third being students at the university and the rest being of various ages from the surrounding area. Approximately half were male, but it was the female group that was a major problem for me…or rather, one female in particular.
Dorothy Anne Brewster, age 22 and a college senior, was 5’-4” tall and 115 pounds, according to her paperwork, but more importantly, she was as cute as the proverbial button. Shoulder length brown hair, brown eyes, dimples and a pearly white smile made my heart race, my hands shake, and my tongue to practically trip over itself every time she came in. I think she picked up on my discomfort, because she grinned like a Cheshire cat about to break out in hysterics at my awkwardness every week.
Having recently turned 25 and having had significant and generally good experience with young women over my adult years, I was quite embarrassed to be reduced to such a quivering mass, but the project rules left my hands tied. Therefore, having become increasingly interested in her as the study went along, I went to see Dr. Leander one afternoon after she was in for her third weekly check-up.
“I know some of the women in our study are absolutely gorgeous, Frank, but as a PhD candidate and their primary testing contact, you’re prohibited from having any significant outside contact, including dates, with them until after our clinical trial is completed. I’m sorry, but it’s a sacrifice you agreed to when you became the project representative and accepted the research assistantship.”
Ah! The research assistantship. My livelihood and the means by which my tuition was being covered without me being taxed on it. Yes, I’d agreed to it and had to follow the rules.
Still, it really was a great sacrifice not to tell her how I wished to get to know her better, to see if my impression of her was anything close to the real thing, to see if she was as beautiful on the inside as she was to me on the outside.
Therefore, with each visit, I gritted my teeth and looked into Dorothy Anne Brewster’s beautiful brown eyes with open desire in mine but with my hands and tongue shackled by the project protocols. I wasn’t sure but I thought I could see the same in hers, but she always had that playful smile that threatened to turn into laughter despite never volunteering a word of small talk; she had, I suspected, read the fine print when she signed up for the program.
It was a couple of weeks after my trip to see Dr. Leander when I began our session with, “Thank you for coming in again today, Miss Brewster. It’s always nice to see you—”
Okay, that part wasn’t in the project script, but it was true so it slipped out. Getting back on track, I continued, “—and we really appreciate you participating in our test program.”
“Dottie,” she volunteered. “All my friends call me Dottie.”
“Ahem, ah, Frank. I’m Frank.”
“Yes, I suspect so,” she sniggered, looking at the nameplate on my desk: Franklin T. Beirney, Ph.D. Candidate, Project Administrator.
I felt like hiding under my desk, but she kept smiling at me and watched closely as I took her temperature, checked her pulse and BP, swabbed the inside of her cheek, and took the blood sample.
“Goodbye, Frank. See you next week,” she said with a playful smile as she left. She repeated it each visit that followed.
A sacrifice, true, and a terrible one it was each week to see her go.
***
The results didn’t change and it finally came.
Advance word that the pharmaceutical firm would be shutting down the clinical trials came on Tuesday. We were to do one last round of observations on each of the trial participants before dismissing them with thanks.
Dottie Brewster’s appointment was the next day. I did the usual tests and found no obvious changes. The blood sample came last, and it read the same as always.
