I had to attend an appointment with my general practitioner Dr. Cooke at 11.30am and they were running late. It was a medium sized village practice with quite a large patient catchment area which supported five doctors, three nursing staff, a dispenser and her two part-time assistants. There were also three administrative staff. I sat in the modern surgery in an almost empty waiting area staring at bland posters on the notice board, listening to 'musak' and feeling anxious.
I stared at the rounded nyloned knees of a skinny girl who sat near me and imagined running my hands up her skirt and into her knickers. I visualised her screaming with gratitude.
Behind the counter three female receptionists were discussing their future holiday arrangements. I noticed their dark hair was all similarly styled in neat geometrical bobs, although one had blonde streaks.
I didn't know any of them by name but they knew me, having attended the surgery fairly often (too often), for various tests, over the past six months. The tallest one was a curvaceous lady with a large bottom, whom I warmed to, in her middle forties. She had a permanent smile and sparkling white teeth. She often wore knee length pleated skirts over black tights. She knew me very well and always greeted me in the same jolly manner. "Hello Mr.Shaw, I'll make sure the doctor knows you are here. Take a seat please David."
I did not care for one of the others. She was about thirty and treated everyone like idiots. She had a fawning, condescending, almost snooty manner which may work on deaf old ladies but to me, a nineteen year old, it didn't. No way. (She had nice firm tits which clearly required sucking, presumably by deaf old men.)
At last I heard my name being called through the loudspeaker system and strode down the wide corridor in my tee-shirt and jeans, to room number four where I was greeted by Dr. Cooke sitting behind her desk looking at her computer screen with my records on view.
"Hello David, and how are you today?" she said in a 'sing-song' voice. I always thought Dr. Cooke was comparatively young and rather trendy for a thirty year old. She had joined the practice fairly recently and often wore ethnic style, embroidered A-line skirts. Today she wore a black skirt over black tights with black suede boots. I said I felt OK and sat on the chair next to her desk. Her shoulder-length blonde hair contrasted with her heavy black 'designer framed' glasses.
"We'd better just check your blood pressure David." She said and slid forward on her computer stool until our knees met. She parted her legs so she could get closer and wrapped the monitor sleeve around my right upper arm. I was aware that my right knee was well under her skirt, almost touching her crotch area between her parted thighs and felt body heat from between her legs. She allowed the monitor to 'do its thing' and she assured me that my blood pressure was normal.
I, on the other hand, could not fathom why I had not had an instant erection, given the circumstances. Clearly I had a problem, as most nineteen-year-old teenage boys are ruled by their penises.
"David, did you bring your semen sample as I asked you last week?" she asked checking her computer records. I explained that, because of my problems, which she was aware of, I found it difficult to initialise, or even maintain, an erection. In other words, I found it impossible to provide a sample.
