This blurs the lines between gay and crossdressing, so I wasn't sure which category to use. This is also a long story with less focus on the sex, though it's still there, if a ways in.
This is my first submission to any site, so please be gentle with feedback.
Dan -
Like most men you've likely seen or heard about, I tend not to want to deal with any medical issues until they start intruding into my daily life. I'm still like this, in spite of middle age proving time and time again that I'm not so young and spritely as I once was. When I fall these days, I don't bounce, I break.
Take this vulnerability, add a passion for adventure motorcycling and recreational sports, as well as a desire to work with my hands whenever I can, and inevitably I'd have to face reality. I needed help. It was probably not the best idea to get into many of these activities after spending a decade and a half in front of a computer for work.
Not that I'm all pale and doughy. Being a contract consultant is as much about image as it is results. To this end, I worked to make sure I stayed reasonably fit. I was never going to compete in any body competitions, but I wasn't carrying much extra weight. I had all the other hallmarks of middle age, though. My hair was peppered with gray, and I had to grudgingly admit that it was thinning. But, I think I still looked pretty good. I'm just 5'9" with dark brown hair and brown eyes. I keep a beard, but it's kept groomed, most of the time.
I tell myself I feel good as well, but the truth is, the decades of life have left some marks. My knees ache from the years of playing baseball, skiing and snowboarding. My hands have been abused from the various jobs I've done throughout my life. My back carries a lingering injury from a snowmachine incident some ten years back as well. I mean, I say, "incident", but what I mean is I missed a turn during a hill climb and rolled back down the mountain. That was also where I got a rather severe concussion that left me in a coma for three days.
And through it all, I've had exactly one broken bone. My finger. I received that one the first, and only, time I played ultimate frisbee while drunk. I'd tell the story, but honestly don't remember it.
I made an appointment with my regular doc a couple weeks ago and was currently waiting to be seen. I'm not sure how long I sat there, but I managed to get through all the unread social media posts I cared about and had moved on to window shopping for motorcycle accessories when the door finally opened.
"Hello Mr. Smith, looks like you're dealing with a bum hip?"
"Hey there, doc. And yeah, I think so."
"So let's start with you telling me what happened while you hop up on the table."
I knew I'd have to move around, so I arrived in just a t-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts. Coincidentally, the same pair I was wearing when I'd injured myself, or was injured.
"It was just a soccer game. I think there were two instances that happened within a few minutes."
I laid back as the doctor extended the table to support my legs. I involuntarily let out a groan as I supported the weight of my right leg fully extended. I told the rest of the story as she manipulated my legs in a variety of positions. I'm not afraid to admit that not all the noises I made in those few minutes were very manly.
"So two collisions with another player while your leg was extended and now your right hip area is causing you problems."
"That's about it."
"I'm guessing it's mostly in this area?" With that comment, she probed with her fingertips into an area just inside my right hip. Pain lanced into my abdomen and down my leg. I managed a strangled "Yep!"
"You can sit up."
She pushed the table back under as I sat up. She squirted alcohol onto her hands and rubbed it in before sitting down in front of the computer in the room to type up her notes.
"Ok, this is a relatively common hip abductor injury that I've seen over and over with soccer players. I'm going to refer you to physical therapy. We've just partnered with a new group that combines treatment with massage, so you'll be getting that as well. Saves you a stop."
"How long will treatment take?" I was asking mostly out of idle curiosity. I wasn't as concerned about the time commitment since my next contract for work was some time away, still. I was frugal with my money for the most part, so I could easily afford to work just four to eight months a year. I was more worried about how long I'd have to take it easy.
"I'll leave the treatment plan to your PT, whomever that ends up being, but from what I've seen it could be as little as just a few treatments and taking it easy. As little as a few weeks, or a number of months."
I felt the tension leave my shoulders when she said that. I'm ignorant enough of most things medical, so I was convinced it was going to be 9-12 months until I was better. Instead it looked like maybe I'd possibly get away with a few weeks.
I denied any need for pain medication, and left the office with the assurances that someone would be calling me from the physical therapist to book my consultation. Sure enough, two hours later, I had just sat down at home with a freshly opened beer when my phone lit up with an unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Smith?"
"This is he."
"Hi, this is Dr. Kepler with Performance Physical Therapy. I'm calling to set up an appointment for your first consultation."
I found myself straining to pick out the accent more than I was focused on the actual conversation.
"I have openings on Wednesday late afternoon and either Thursday morning or early afternoon."
"Oh, uhh...either work fine. I'm available whenever next week."
"Excellent. I'll put you down for Wednesday, four pm. Do you need our address?"
"No, thank you, I got your card from my doctor."
"Excellent. We'll see you next Wednesday. Have a good afternoon Mr. Smith."
"Cheers, thanks."
My mind was wandering when the call ended. I wasn't sure whether I was focused on the beguiling accent, the fact that the doctor called me instead of an administrator, or that I was disappointed that I would have to wait five days for the appointment.
I decided to ride my motorcycle to the appointment. I rolled up on my KTM and, as I unstrapped my helmet it dawned on me that I clearly hadn't thought things through.
How am I supposed to move around when I'm wearing riding jeans?
I stood in the parking lot for a good three minutes thinking about how much of an idiot I was, and whether I had time to run back home to change and get my truck. That clearly wasn't an option considering I only had five minutes until my appointment.
Berating myself further, I opened the door and stepped into what almost looked like a living room. The floor was hardwood, there was a large area rug, a couch, two chairs, and a TV playing a show with the volume down and subtitles on. The walls were painted a sandy color where I was expecting an institutional white. The only difference I could see was a rather conventional admitting station against the far wall.
I approached it and met the eyes of a rather pregnant administrator who looked like she was in her mid 20s or so.
"Hello, I'm here for my four pm with Dr. Kepler?"
