THOMAS DEAN IMPRINT PT 6 PRIVILEGE
My cute light brown haired secretary Sherry and I, out-patients in the Hospital's Fertility study, had to submit to temperature checks every other day. This perfunctory ritual often turned into a full -- blown, intrusive physical. After one intrusive exam, Sherry and I took advantage of the shower at the entrance to the secured sanitary area of the fertility study.
Frolicking in cascading suds, Sherry claimed, "Because we work for the hospital, the nurses love lording it over us." Imitating the syrupy sweet voice of the nurse, Sherry chanted, "` I can make you strip 'cause I can.' 'I can take your temperature by getting my jollies greasing your hole and ramming a glass dildo up your ass.'" Splashing me with soap, Sherry, teased, "Translate that into Doc -- speak for me?"
"'Doc -- speak,' as you call it," I spoke with mock pomposity, "standardizes medical language to make communication more effective and precise. The word that defines `cause I can' is `doctor -- patient privilege.'"
I splashed soap in her face and she splashed me back. "When did you last have so much fun?" Sherry declared in high pitched, enthusiastic tones.
"Quite awhile," I acknowledged. Since returning to Capital land after the Christmas holidays, I'd become consumed with the malpractice action my former friend Erica brought against me and the hospital. The lawsuit stirred up a bureaucratic war in the Hospital where I was in charge of training med and nursing students and Capital land firemen in emergency care at mass disasters.
"See, Dr Rebecca Barton," Sherry, addressing me with feigned grave intonations rubbed soap through the dermal and subcutaneous hair bearing tissue of my neurocranium (scalp), "without the white lab coat and stethoscope, stripped to bare skin, you're just another girl. Enjoy precious moments free of those damn hospital politics."
Sherry defined my primal fear: maintaining my aura of Godly infallibility in facing a bureaucratic war over a mis -- carried Emergency response exercise. Was I afraid of being `like everybody else?'
What had Erica said of bureaucratic wars, "To meet the challenge of those who regard you as a Secretary pushed ahead, you over-compensate by speaking in incomprehensible Doc -- speak and acting so straight like there's stick stuck up your ass." Shaking her head, Erica would admonish me, "Like a person bitten by a vampire, you've absorbed—a Doctor persona."
Back in the shower, I baited Sherry, "C'm'n, you speak better `Doc-speak' than I. It took me months -- years to pick up `Doc-speak' from pedantic real-life instructors. You picked it up in an afternoon from typing my reports."
Handed towels, Sherry mocked the imperious style of medical reports, "Subjects in an unclothed condition exiting facility provided terry cloth covering."
Modestly wrapping the towels around her, Sherry, biting her labria oris (lip), asked about my Saturday evening rendez -- vous with my lawyer Sam Pauling, "Is he ballsy enough to show up for a date in bed?"
"Yes, the whole idea is outrageous, wholly unlike me," I acknowledged, "to suggest a guy date me in bed."
Grabbing me in a hug, Sherry whispered, "No, you're so liberated, you're an inspiration." Looking down, Sherry suggested, "For your sleep -- over, wear the dressing gown and stockings with the fluffy boot slippers, rather than the baby doll night gown. You won't feel so -- eh so silly if he gets eh -- scared off."
"If he shows up," I replied, "I'll apologize: `I didn't know if you'd have the courage to come.'" I looked away as the nurse assigned to the shower roughly plucked off our towels.
Disdainfully looking over her glenohumeral joint (shoulder) to watch the nurse, walk away with our towels, Sherry protested, "You've swiped my towel and left me bare assed and shivering."
"Privilege at work," I quipped. We laughed at my comment, "Shivering in 'doc -- speak': hmm, `physiologically producing heat through involuntary muscular contraction, or an aerobic skeletal muscle activity..'"
Hands on the crests of her iliac (hips), accentuating her narrow ilium (hips), Sherry teased me, "Cheer up. Your guy'll come..."
"In both senses of the word?" I prodded Sherry.
"You may think you're a bad girl, but remember," Sherry held her first digit up, "you can't coo to him. My temperature is elevated. I need your labia to osculate my vaginal lips to lubricate them before your throbbing, tumescent, engorged penis is introduced in my vaginal cavity -- ," with a devilish contraction of her facial musculature (smile), Sherry cautioned with psuedo serious intonations, "Remember, Dr Barton. I won't be there to translate `Doc-speak' to English."
Yes, I smiled. The God complex Doctor persona was indelibly imprinted on me. And that was at the root of my conflict with my former friend Erica.
At the approaching echo of shodden feet, we broke an embrace. Left in an unclothed condition (naked), waiting for permission to dress, Sherry looked around. "The hospital pours millions, into a fertility study. Why don't they ask my girlfriends from school? They have no trouble getting themselves pregnant."
Saturday, the day I dreaded dawned quicker than I might have wanted.
That Saturday began like every other when Rose the maid started work. Rose dated back to my days with Erica. To Erica's taunting, "For all your pretense to have succeeded to the old elite, Dr Rebecca Barton, you don't understand them!"
"You hire a maid," Erica reproved me, "so that a poor family eats. It's an obligation that comes along with your noblistic affectations to special privilege." What part of my life had Erica, even now that she sued me and University Hospital for malpractice, not intruded on?
At 5:30AM as I was leaving, Rose uttered her usual parting words, "Brainy young girl like you. Get an outside life before your biological clock breaks a spring."
At the door, I turned to ask, "You're doing the marketing and making dinner today?" Receiving a nod, I ordered, "Make two dinners, a visit from a friend."
First thing at the hospital, I reported into the sub -- basement for my usual weight and temperature check. The nurse who did the exam was gruff, "I don't know about you doctors," the nurse said as she had me in the forward bending maneuver (bent over) as she rubbed ointment into my anal sphincter, "but nurses should never let themselves get admitted to their own hospital."
"Wouldn't they know everybody?" I held my breath as the nurse continued to massage my anal sphincter with that warming lubricant (goo). Probing my anal cavity (asshole), the nurse penetrated my external and internal sphincters first with one finger then with two. I was fully aroused. My sphincter muscles clamped down like a vice on her fingers. My vagina was secreting a natural lubricant (dripping wet). Massaging sphincter muscles brought me to the edge of orgasm.
The nurse laughed. "Many girls get a little worked up by the prep for insertion of a rectal thermo. There's no need to get red -- faced over it."
The nurse respired heavily (took a deep breath). "Like I said, a nurse hospitalized in her own hospital gets treated like shit, dearie," the nurse complained as she withdrew her fingers from my rectum (asshole).
"Their eh -- friends think hospitalized nurses can cure themselves?" I suggested.
"Hmm," The nurse hummed to herself without responding to my comment. With the palmar side of one hand on my gluteal prominence (rump), the nurse implanted the rectal thermometer penetrating my sphincter muscles (rammed the thermometer up my ass).
I involuntarily released an agonal respiration (gasp) as the thermometer was held in place by the powerful sphincter musculature.
The nurse continued to speak as she clamped her hand down firmly on my lumbosacral joint, "A nurse in hospital has to worry that someone will see weakness, have an opportunity to get even for some imagined slight or to learn some dirt."
"Privilege?" I asked.
"Privilege, Dearie," the nurse snickered, "keeps information away from people trying to help the patient. If someone here knows something about you, they'll use it against you. Keep your private life out of here—That's my advice, Dearie!"
I exhaled as the thermometer was withdrawn. Pressing down on my lumbosacral joint (low back), the nurse told me to remain still, "Hmm, normal, but," the nurse hesitated, "Your temperature isn't rising like I might expect with resumption of the lunar cycle after your egg donation. I'll check with Doctor on duty."
The nurse decided patting me on the gluteal prominence, "Shower first, then see doctor. You smell like an over -- worked prosie at a whore house."
In the shower, the access point for personnel entering the program, the Nurse on duty was asleep in the corner. Why not, I mused, it's Saturday, the patients would be locked down for another week; no visitors were expected. How I wished I could spirit a pair of surgical shears to cut her bathing suit off. As all persons entered `in an unclothed condition' (naked), it would be hard to sneak a pair of material scissors in here.
What had Erica my former friend and present nemeses, said, "A certain sadistic streak in medical people lurks under the cover of privilege—I'm afraid you're included." Had that streak caused the bad decisions which led to Erica's lawsuits?
With the billowing suds banishing negativity, I was tempted by de facto privacy to allow my dexterous digits to palpate (massage) my mammaries and my mammary papilla and slide down my body to my mons pubis (mound). As I anticipated the pleasure, an electric surge ran down my vertebrae (spine).
I released a long, loud audible exhalation (sigh). What would it be like tonight? Would Sam be as good as a woman like Erica or cute little Sherry?
My former friend Erica composed a ditty, "more hidden // behind a gentle smile // feminine mystique// to beguile // casting a spell // target suddenly smitten// with whom will she lie // when bed springs creak // is it a girl or is it a guy?"
As much as the warm water and billowing soap bubbles invited me to hoover for a moment at the edge of ecstasy, I held back. I needed to rinse off for a physical.
