After I wrote and posted about the breakup of my marriage with Tom, I got quite a few emails which surprised me.
Most were nice but some complained about my story not being a standalone. Others mentioned that I didn't explain about having been married before, or where all the sudden money came from.
I realize that if I did say all of that, my story would be very long. But I think in reading other's stories that it is easy make that mistake.
Then since my relationship with Tom failed but he didn't really go away I had more to write.
I decided to sit down and try to tell the story, to try and do better.
I don't even know why, something inside me makes me, it's some kind of...therapy? I find myself beginning to understand why some people write stories, it's because then we can go back and read them, and remember our mistakes? Or maybe relive a fantasy or a moment?
I don't mean the errors in the story, I mean the errors in life.
Of course I am not a writer, I am a Doctor, soon to be 40. I worked for a short time in a hospital after graduation, realizing quickly even before that that I really didn't want to work with sick or hurt people.
That sounds strange, doesn't it? A Doctor that doesn't like dealing with sick people? I know when someone was lost, I would nearly always cry, it was so hard to deal with.
After High School I knew I needed a profession, there was a huge push at the time for the medical field. Money to pay for college was available in that field, so I chose medicine.
Then for the first two years I worked in a Trauma center, I can't even describe what that was like. So many times I would just go home and cry myself to sleep, visions of torn bodies filling my mind. So many people in a hurry, taking risks. Paying the price.
Yes, I am a Doctor. Just not the kind some would think.
When the chance came to work in a wellness clinic, I grabbed it. Turnover there is high, mostly because the pay is so much lower.
For a couple more years I would see patients every 30 minutes, take their blood pressure, vitals. Then I would put on a glove, investigate their body's orifaces.
I can say I have had my fingers up many men's rectums, some seemed to enjoy it. I would be untruthful if I said I didn't also. I would sit on my little roller stool, take their penis in my fingers and inspect it. About 20% would erect, at least partially. I would smile sweetly at them.
"Your penis looks very nice and appears in good working order." That was my line, I must have said that 1000 times.
Yes, that was fun. I enjoyed it. There. I said it, being honest. I am human, too.
But I soon found myself in the position of Clinic Administrator, a position mostly shuffling documents and handling restock and personel, things like that.
I am the boss, I get to do things like make sure there is enough toilet paper for the staff, decide which anonymous human I see only on a piece of paper gets referred and to which specialist.
No more injuries, no more "Turn your head and cough" motions to go through. Clients were on a piece of paper, not right in front of me. This was a job I could handle, a good living with benefits.
There are a few men who come in about once a year or so, I recognize the names. So I will see them myself, partly because it looks good on my record to see a few patients.
The other part is some of them are the special ones. They often will pretend to have some type of sexual dysfunction or another.
I know the truth. I talk to them, inspect them and take my time doing it. A few times I have even ordered a "sperm sample", and I have "assisted."
All simply medical of course.
Yes, I admit here I do some things that cross the line just a little. I am human.
I am not one of those raving beautiful women, men don't stand in line to date me.
Most of them seem to not even notice me.
In the clinic, in the little room with me touching them, it's like they notice me.
So that is me, a 39 year old woman, no doubt insecure, inside I wish for sex, touch, love like any woman. Just as much as those who are so much more beautiful than me.
My hair is light brown, coming just over my ears, easy to care for. I have 15 pounds extra on my 155 pound frame, and it all seems to be in exactly the wrong place. My behind measures almost 6 inches bigger around than my bust. So I think seriously about not eating the extra doughnut, the bowl of Ice Cream...right after I just ate it.
No point in trying to fib, the description is mousy, plain, big bottom. But I do have very nice breasts, they measure 36" with a "B" size cup. I see everyone seems to like a big 36DD but I think those would just be heavy. My breasts are pretty and my best feature so I am proud of them.
My first husband lasted just months. His name was David and he insisted on that, he hated the nickname "Dave." He also drank like a fish, nothing I could do or say had any effect.
I finally had enough the day an argument over that ended up with him holding me by my hair with his hand back to strike me.
My foot got there first and he let go. The divorce was easy, we had nothing to fight over. I did get the trailor.
It was 8 long years later before I married again, this time to a tall lanky man named Allen.
That lasted two years, until his addiction to Porn became an online affair that progressed to meetings in motels. I went down to bail him out of jail, read the charges. It seems he was caught with a young man in a parking lot at a campground. I turned around and walked out, leaving him there.
I met Tom years later. That was an accident, he had some questions about his policy for his business, part of my job is helping the clients with that. One thing led to another, dated, then we became intimate, and married.
I had inherited a lot of money and things from my friend Lee, and moved into the house out East of Portland. It was a huge change from my apartment downtown on Burnside.
For one thing, the sounds outside were birds and animals instead of horns and traffic, roaring engines. I just hired a man who worked at the Credit Union to deal with everything, he was an investment broker.
I suddenly had enough money, I didn't even need to work. But I liked my job, so I kept right on with that. I did get my hair fixed and colored to hide the beginnings of gray, and some new clothes, that was about it.
Tom moved into the house with me, he owned a house on the East side but mine was nicer. He soon took over the finances, that wasn't my strong point anyway.
There was almost two full years of happiness. Then I found out Tom was cheating on me with his partner's wife, Sara. That was bad enough, I even tried to sort through that, work it out. Tom then began acting like he wanted me to be slutty, I even went along with that with reluctance.
Well, I pretended to be reluctant, it was awesome in a way to have men want to touch me, do things that are naughty. There were conflicts in my mind, I wanted Tom to step in and stop some of it but I was excited at the same time. When one man danced with me and actually slipped his hand inside my top and touched my bare flesh it was like fire. I let it happen but was ashamed at the same time.
All those emotions all at the same time. Good girls don't do things like that.
I guess I am not a good girl deep down inside?
I do know quite a bit about sex, illicit desires, things people do to excite themselves. We studied that in medical school. I see the results of what people do in the paperwork at my office.
