The Imprint Ch 06

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.

Inside the auditorium sized area of the fertility experiment program, I was given a perfunctory physical by an intern clad in Haz-mat, a man, by accent a minority. "Tests show," the intern assured me, "you're not pregnant. While your temperature hasn't risen since your egg donation, I'm not concerned at this point." Looking at my chart, the doc remarked, "191, down another two pounds, It's still obese, at 5 -- 1, but I'm pleased with your progress."

Granted permission to visit my brother, I found Josh standing facing the wall in a cubbyhole no larger than one of those old fashioned telephone booths that used to speckle the cityscape of Capital land. When I entered the cubbyhole, Josh did not acknowledge my presence. Face covered by an oxygen mask, eyes shielded and ears blocked by earbuds, Josh rigidly stood secured to an upright "I" beam.

Aware of a woman's presence behind me, I jumped. One of the first hard lessons, new med students learn is never to allow a patient come up behind you.

Turning to face a tall shapely blond woman, unclothed (naked), depilated (shaven) pubis, obviously one of the subjects in the experiment, I, heartbeat racing, held my digits of my hand to my myocardium (heart).

The subject reminded me, "My husband and I are friends of your brother. We were sitting with Josh when you visited last." To my unasked question, the subject continued, "We're saving to buy a house. Three -- hots and a cot!"

"Don't mind me," I apologized, "Sadistic medical school instructors target female students to demonstrate the dangers of a patient creeping up behind."

"Tough on Push -- Ahead -- Program gals?" the female subject snickered. "Nursing school was no different," the naked woman nodding conceded, "but nursing students come from less dainty, tougher backgrounds."

"I'm sorry," I apologized, "I don't know your name."

"It doesn't matter," the subject answered, "Here, I'm just female subject -- number 72F1256. "However," repressing a laugh, the subject related, "in Nursing School, the stalking patient drill might backfire. Tough girls laughed while minorities might overreact and administer a beating. Get them -- before they -- get you!"

"I`m puzzled," I defused an explosive issue. The Vice -- President had recently decried the dangers of Doctors minted by Push -- Ahead -- Program - Equal Opportunity raffles. Certainly, that view was not shared upstairs in the ethereal airs of the executive suite. Already under attack, I could not take a position in this controversy.

Looking at Josh, I declared. "I see Josh's calcaneus (heels) are secured to the floor; his pubes, flush against the stock; his upper extremities (arms), locked in an embrace with the beam. His corpus (body) hangs away from the board, without evidence of acute discomfort. Body hair shorn, detectable erythema (redness) has spread across his gluteal prominence (butt). Cutis anserina (goosebumps) are prominent across his dorsam (back)."

"It's a study," the subject intoned with a devilish curl of her labrum oris (edge of her mouth) to advance science," the subject shrugged her glenohumeral joints (shoulders) dangling her prominent mammaries under my occuli (eyes). "In the natural state, all subjects are shorn of status."

"Everyone is equal?" I questioned. "Dr Windham, the hospital president, included? Despite her august status, Dr Windham strips down to visit."

"An exhibitionist showing off the privilege of position," the subject continued, "Real subjects are status-less research material, objects like a microscope."

"The purpose in leaving subjects in an unclothed condition (naked)?" I prodded.

"With subjects in a natural state," the subject continued, "there's nothing hidden."

"And how does that explain," I prodded, "my brother tied to a stake?"

The subject respired heavily (took a deep breath) before she continued, "Intercourse interdicted, but every other day the guys get released from the bird cage and hitched to the masturbate -- r which simulates the wonder and warmth of an aroused, lubricated orifice ... The ejaculate is collected for further study."

"And a good time was had by all?" I questioned.

"Sure watch!" The subject osculated (kiss) Josh's collum (neck). His body squirmed to meet her. "Before the male is secured to the hitching post transponders over the body are placed to report changes in heartbeat, temperature and skin's electric charge."

She proceeded to apply her lingua (tongue) to lubricate Josh's vertebral column calling out as she worked her way down, "Cervical Spine, supports the head. The atlas (C1) and axis (C2) as components of the craniovertebral junction enable the range of motion of head and neck."

"I never realized," I replied, "an anatomy lesson could be so entertaining and stimulating."

Reaching the lumbosacral joint (end of the spinal cord), the subject declared, "The best is yet to come. Where the spinal cord ends, you find a bundle of nerves among them nerves which service erogenous zones in the groin, thighs, buttocks and anus." Looking at the erythema (redness) burnishing Josh's gluteal prominence a deep red spreading up his back, the subject laughed, "How much longer will Josh hold out?"

A gentle palpitation (touch) of the tip of her lingua (tongue) against his lumbosacral joint sent Josh's corpus (body) into spasms. One long jolt, as if he had been defibrillated (touched a hot electric wire), was followed by a series of twitches. "He's coming darlin'," the subject announced. "Too bad, I had hoped he'd hold on until I teased the many nerve endings in the skin and muscles of the butt. Oh, for the joy of science! You understand. You're involved in research."

"Actually," I corrected the subject, "It isn't actually research. I train first responders to take charge in emergencies."

"Same difference," the subject responded, "You sit behind a desk. You don't deal with patients."

What a sore point! Playing God, I bungled the one patient, Erica, I handled and that led to a malpractice suit. I inhaled. "I came to see Josh."

"He'll revive in 20 minutes," the subject replied, "Oh, you can see him. I'm sure."

"But?" I prompted the subject.

"Once the boys have donated, the birds fly out of the cage to bathe," the subject reminded me, "To maintain sterility, the ladies are plugged. It sends an icy chill that rushes through your insides like it'll split you in two. That's why I need to exercise a privilege to get myself worked up before I get plugged."

Still on edge, I retreated to the shower where the shower siren was awake. "Want to hang around? Nothing like the feel of six inches of stainless steel," she chided.

Dressed and restored to my official aura, I complimented myself on restraint, notwithstanding frustration. Back at my desk, I reviewed memos on the upcoming disaster response exercise. Never has so much paper spewn so many empty words. I muttered, "Sherry'd quip a memo protects the writer rather than informs the reader. She'd return incomprehensible double talk for clarification."

Sherry poked her cranium (head) around the door. "Is someone invoking my name? What's the obscurest, rarest, inflated doc -- speak word of the day?"

"Laughter: defined," I replied firmly, "inarticulate sounds expressing an emotional state, potentially ambiguous, contradictory or duplicit, possibly elation, approbation, cynicism or contempt, depending on context. Is that OK?"

"I hope you never have me type that," Sherry declared.

"I may," I held up sheaths of memos, "everyone but the University Hospital president Dr Windham has written me some empty words without guidance on the upcoming exercise.

"I'm sure," Sherry interjected, "Dr Windham's note is in channels on its way."

I chuckled. Dr Windham who had never treated a patient wielded the sharpest scalpel in the hospital's internal politics. "How can I plead the truth: despite every possible precaution, someone could get hurt without directly saying that?"

"Fair exchange, I'll answer this trash in proper Doc -- speak; you can fill out my physical report to join the fertility experiment full time." Sherry proposed a deal.

When I didn't immediately answer, Sherry assured me, "You lose nothing. Under the deal, Dr Windham, the hospital president, set it up, I'm released to work everyday -- or at other times you need me.."

"No problem," I replied, "go in the next room. Get undressed. I haven't any hospital gowns. On Saturday, no one's around to watch us girls rough it through."

I steeled myself to show restrain, though my cardium (heart) pounded out a faster beat. I experienced hyperhidrosis (heavy sweating) on the palmar side of my hands and secretions (natural lubricants) warmed (wetted) my vaginal cavity when I thought of the examination.

Would she protest if I exercised a privilege to watch her undress? Releasing bite sized mammaries from the restrain of a bra, she'd bend her knees and leaned forward, to offer those mammaries as she dropped her panties.

I'd have her put the palmar side of her hands on her cranium (head) as I palpated (massage) her mammaries (breasts) while her papilla (nipples) went erect. I'd send my digits (fingers) across her abdomen to her vulva (external female genitalia), separating the labia (vaginal lips), and palpating her clitoris...

My day dream brought me back to my medical school class where an imperious instructor brandishing a pointer in a vested suit stood over an unclothed, expressionless, stoic anatomical model lecturing, "Two sets of skin fold engird the vaginal opening."

Sherry's voice, tinged with irritation, recalled me from my reverie. "I'm in a hurry. I hoped to just breeze through. All this," Sherry tossed the papers back to me, "can wait until Monday." Raising her penciled -- in eyebrows, Sherry wished me a good time with my sleep over date.