"Do you have any problems with having a female doctor examine you?"
As much as I give her shit and we verbally spar All The Fucking Time, Tabitha usually watches out for my best interests and I generally follow her advice. After I left her place Monday morning, I went home, took a long shower, ate a ridiculous brunch, then spent the next two days being stupidly unproductive playing video games. It wasn't until I found myself staring at one of my character's computer-generated companion's asses for so long I was marked 'AFK' that I realized I needed to be doing something else.
Went to bed with plans to get a fresh start in the morning, clear up that bit I'd jumbled in my new novel, see what I had going in my junk writing and idea folders for more Baskerville stories, and generally do my best to be productive. Hell, I might even manage NOT jacking off to memories of Tawny, Jessica and Rahne.
I got up, ready to go. Jumped out of bed, stretched, looked up...
And realized I was standing on the ceiling.
Nope. Crawled right back into bed. Crashed for another 4 hours until the runny nose and sinus headache forced me into the bathroom. And good timing too because I...
Know what? You don't really NEED all the gory details. It's enough to say 'I was sick as a dog' for the next four days. My diet consisted of OJ, ginger ale, saltines and dry toast. When Tabitha called on Thursday to tell me we had a meeting with my publishers on Friday, I barfed in her ear and suggested she put it off for a week or so instead.
I'm a miserable sick person, but I keep it to myself. I hunker down in my sweats, pile on the blankets and queue up cartoons until I pass out. When I die from the flu, they will find me buried in a nest on the couch, a pile of used tissues at my feet and Yogi Bear yucking it up on the screen.
I would PREFER to die in a tangle of arms and legs of a half-dozen energetic nymphomaniacs, but the flu is more likely.
It took me several more days of recovery before I felt well enough to haul myself to a local health center for bloodwork and a VD checkup. I felt reasonably certain I was clear, but you never know. Strapped on the old 2020 plague mask and went in late that afternoon to one of those corner store health places that seem to be everywhere nowadays.
Shit. Did that sound old? Do I need to tie an onion to my belt?
Seems like I chose a quiet day- very few cars in the lot, not many people waiting. Filled out my paperwork (Thank god I have good insurance. Tabitha set up a group plan through her agency for all the people they represent and I make sure to make my payments right quick.) and sat watching... I'm not really sure what that was. Some sort of home improvement show? There was no way I was desperate enough to crack open any of the three-month-old magazines. Instead, like everyone else, I pulled out my phone to check emails and the like.
Right there, top of the notifications- THREE SI compatible contacts within two hundred meters! A good deal more than I was expecting, truth be told. But there was no way in hell I was desperate enough to go looking for a quick and dirty hookup in a clinic. The chances of said person being here to deal with a problem I was here to rule out? Pretty fucking high I would think so...no. I simply declined them all and went on to my emails.
"Maxell?" called one of the MA's after about twenty minutes or so. One of the benefits of not having a regular job with schedules and a time clock- I can afford to be patient when I need to be.
"'Max' is fine," I offered him, stepping through the security door, then following his lead to the Vitals Station. At least, that's what I think it's called where they take height, weight blood pressure and all that. A couple of vials of blood for testing. We made the usual small talk while he worked right up until he handed me 'The Cup'.
"To the line," he told me, drawing a blue line on the clear plastic before pointing to a spot on the counter where he'd left labels bearing my name. "Then just put it here and head into Exam 3 down the hall to the left. I'll be right along in a few minutes to make sure you're settled before Doctor Giles can see you."
"No sweat. And thanks." I took The Cup, popped into the available bathroom and easily overachieved my current task, then finished in the bowl. Lid tight, Cup on the counter. Down the hall to the exam room on the right.
Popped open the door to immediately find out I was in the wrong room for my exam. I was in the right room to startle an MA who had her scrub top pulled up far enough to show that she was not wearing a bra and had cute little stethoscope nipple piercings, which she'd been in the process of taking a picture of. She tried to turn away quickly, but seemed a bit hampered by the binding of her panties and scrub pants that hung at her knees. She managed it though and I got a quick glimpse of her buns for my trouble.
"Sorry, wrong room," I apologized quickly, backing out to shut the door. "But, can I say, nice ink!"
And it was. Very pretty tat of three butterflies flying around some sort of flower on her right butt cheek. The kind of art and placement that asks you to linger awhile and study the canvas.
Shit, dry spell of less than two weeks and I'm getting poetic about a stranger's ass-tat. I'm starting to wonder if I'm getting addicted.
Staring right at me at eye level was a sign on the opposite door reading 'Exam 3'. This time I knocked, then ducked in, shutting the door behind me. You know what to expect here- fairly standard exam room with the padded shit-brown table that makes you feel like a deli ham climbing onto the paper sanitary barrier, the lone chair against the wall that no one sits in, the cabinets of minor medical stuff like gauze and tongue depressors and those foot long cotton swabs. The stool the doctor will use when zipping between you and the conveniently placed only writing surface across the room.
There was a knock, then the door cracked.
"You decent?" asked the MA who'd directed me here, sticking his head in.
"Not for years," I quipped, taking the offered gown from him. This SHOULD have set off some alarm bells but I'm slow on the uptake sometimes. "That's why I'm here getting checked out, right?"
He laughed in that 'I've heard that joke a hundred times today but it's still funny when YOU say it' sort of way, then directed me to get undressed, put on the gown (Opening to the BACK please!) and the doctor will be along shortly. The door shut and I once again followed my marching orders- stripping down and putting on the very thin gown.
I sat on the exam table, amusing myself by rocking side to side to make the paper crinkle in the essentially silent room. No music? And where do they get all these innocuous identical 'historical' paintings? I jumped up to grab my phone when a slight knock preceded the doctor coming into the room. It should be noted here that I haven't worn underwear for a while now, so all that stood between the doctor and a private showing was a big t-shirt split up the back, so she got a good view of my butt before I could turn towards her.
"Sorry about that doctor," I apologized, reaching back to preserve what little modesty I had left by holding the back shut. Not really realizing that, when I pulled the back gap tight, I sort of highlighted my front bits.
"That's quite alright Mister Connors." She pushed up her glasses, then made a few marks in the folder she had. She wasn't bad looking for a woman about fifteen-twenty years my senior. Just enough grey in her hair to be noticeable, nice face, smart doctor attire (Light blouse and knee-length skirt under her lab coat. Tall, leg hugging boots.)- pretty much what you'd hope for in these sorts of stories. "If yours is the last bare ass I see this week, I'll be surprised. Before we begin, would you like to have an MA present during your exam?"
"I don't think that's necessary doctor, but if having one makes you feel comfortable, then by all means." I felt reasonably assured I could control myself, but I've been wrong before.
Most of the exam was fairly routine- questions about my general health, diet, exercise, etc.. Got a bit more personal when discussing my social and sex life, especially over the last several months. I had to confess to a lot of risky behavior and some badly considered choices while she thumped my chest and listened to my pulse pound.
And I was starting to have a different modesty problem- just talking about my sex life was tenting the thin gown noticeably. I tried to cover it up or think about something else but the only thing that kept jumping to the front of my mind was that damn line from the song 'Cherry Pie- 'Think about baseball, swing it all night!' and the girl in that video was smoking hot! Damn it! Now I was fully hard!
I tried stammering an apology but she waved it off.
"I see hard cocks all the time Mister Connors," she nonchalantly informed me while switching to a new set of gloves. "It comes with the job. In fact, you're making my life a bit easier since I can now examine you for any outward symptoms of STDs. Any genital sores? Warts? Weird bumps or rashes?"
"No ma'am." Really having a hard time calming down now.
"Good." She looked up at me from her stool expectantly. "You're going to have to take the gown off now."
I know, it seems impossible that, by this point I was so flustered I had a hard time getting the gown off. I kept grabbing the fabric and pulling, only to realize I was sitting on it or it had bunched in a way that made getting it off (Getting it off.... groan!) difficult. I mean, seriously? What the fuck was wrong with me? This wasn't the first fully clothed woman to have her hands on my dick. Hell, she wasn't even the first doctor! And here I am about to hose her down like a teenager finally getting to third base.
In finally threw the gown to the unoccupied chair, watching it fall rather than paying attention when she effortlessly parted my knees and pulled the stool in closer. I would have exploded at first touch if she hadn't taken an almost painful grip on my balls, pulling and feeling them quite clinically.
"Thank you for being patient Mister Connors," she kept saying, making a slow thorough examination of my now sore balls and throbbing cock. I wanted to cum so badly I would have begged if she asked. "You're being a good boy."
