It is time for my annual physical; besides which, the ending of a medium-term relationship signals the need for a fresh STD check. Appointment with my primary care provider, Dr. Maria (her first name). Haven't been to see her since this time last year. That's right: I'm a healthy specimen.
The little oriental nurse takes my temperature and weight: 97.8 and 194, respectively. "194!" I exclaim in dismay. "It says 183 on my scale at home!"
"You're wearing shoes and heavy clothes," she reassures me, but I know better. That accursed scale at home has been lying to me. All right, that's it: no more picante-sauce-and-sour-cream-mix on Doritos at 10:30 PM.
She seats me on the exam table and takes my blood pressure: 168/98 - a little elevated, possibly due to the tumbler-sized Irish creme latte I made myself an hour ago. "The doctor will be in shortly," she says in businesslike fashion, closing the door, and I take up my reading material--Living The Martial Way, by Forrest E. Morgan, which describes itself on the jacket as, "a manual for the way a modern warrior should think". Darn good book, too, to judge from the fourth of it that I've read so far.
The door opens; Dr. Maria enters. Somewhere between 40 and 46 years old, she is short (probably five feet) with healthy long brown hair drawn back in a simple, functional ponytail. She is of Italian descent, as is obvious from her facial features. Dark eyebrows, dark eyes, medium skin, easily tannable. She doesn't have covergirl looks. Rather, she radiates a timeless beauty and earthy wholesomeness. Above her sensible shoes and black slacks, she's wearing a light brown turtleneck sweater under her white doctor's coat. The turtleneck fits her well.
She says, "Hello, how are you?" in a friendly, yet professional manner; but then I see what appears to be a spark of recognition as she looks at me, and her manner changes slightly. She looks me eye to eye, smiles genuinely, and offers her hand for a shake. "Hello!" she repeats, with more perk this time.
"I'm doing well," I say as she sits down in a chair. "Oh, good, that's good," she says. "My goodness, it's been a while since I've seen you! Sorry, my hands are cold..."
She trails off, so I make a hint of a shrug and say with a smile, "Yes."
"I'm babbling," she says. Then after a moment's hesitation, she says, "I like your hair."
I smile and say, "Which hair is that?" (For those who don't know: I recently started shaving my head). We both laugh and she says, "Well... your lack of hair. You have a nicely shaped head, it works very well for you." I thank her and we discuss the advent of the head-shaving for a few moments. Then the topic changes to why I'm there. Time for my physical, I say, and add, "...and, a relationship has ended, so I'd like to be thoroughly tested for STDs." We've done this before, Dr. Maria and I; she's been my doctor since I came to Dallas, and did the STD test when I split with the lady I was with when I moved here.
"How are you about the breakup?" she asks, concern flickering across her face.
"I'm fine," I say. "I've begun to accept that bachelorhood may be the way of life for me. There's a place beside me for a mate, should the right one come along. But I'm quite happy with my life the way it is."
"That's wonderful," she says, "that's the way it should be." She speaks for a few moments about the value of being happy with your life, and then asks, "Do you have any reason to expect positive results from the tests?"
"No," I say, "I know my partner's history. I talk with them about that stuff."
"As well you should," she says. "Wonderful!"
"It's just for the sake of being thorough," I explain. "And besides, a little laboratory confirmation of one's pristine state is always a good thing."
She does the exam of my upper body: cool fingers and cold metal on chest, then back as I breathe deeply to her gentle commands. "Cold hands... I'm so sorry," she says, sounding genuinely embarrassed.
"It's fine," I reassure her.
"So, that's everything except your lower half," she says, again seeming to be a bit embarrassed; or is it that she's just trying to ease the exam for me in case I'm embarrassed?"
"Do I need to pull my clothes down now?"
"Yes, if you're okay with..." She trails off, then says, "I'll need you to undo your belt..." Why is this such a touchy matter for her? I wonder.
I stand and pull down my pants and underwear to my knees, then stretch back out and lie down on the table. "It's really not a problem," I assure her. "You are a doctor, after all."
As she places her fingers in the right places to check for whatever it is that doctors check for down there, she says, "It's a touchy issue with some . I want you to be comfortable. Cough for me. Now I need you to turn over on your left side."
Ah yes, the precursor to the dreaded prostate exam.
Now, mind you, there is absolutely nothing sexual or arousing about having Dr. Maria see and touch my genitals on her exam table; nor is there any excitement in having her stroke my prostate with her index finger. But the whole time this is going on--in fact, from the moment she came in--there is, has been, a strong undercurrent of animal attraction in the room. We are both professional, calm, comfortable; yet all the while this undercurrent presses against me from behind like waves in the ocean, pushing, nudging, trying to lift me and set me down nearer to her; whispering that I should take her into my embrace for a deep, lingering kiss, a kiss that would warm her insides and radiate all the way through until those formerly cold hands had to be fanned in the air to dissipate their heat. This is the atmosphere we're working in; crackling, charged, pregnant with potential.
She sits back down in the chair again to talk with me. I don't leer, but as she continues to speak I absorb her essence into mine. Pretty eyes. Expressive; they meet mine full on. Ooh, I like that. Nice lips. Full cheeks. She doesn't use much makeup; I'm not consciously aware of it as a layer on her skin, like I am with most women. There's a modest but nicely rounded C cup beneath that turtleneck. She has just a bit of a tummy; I can tell by its shape that it would be smooth, soft, cushiony, womanly; I see myself drawing lazy circles on it with my fingertips. Her legs, although short, are not skinny by any means; she's a healthy, well-built woman.
We discuss a couple more of my health-related matters, and she tells me I'm in great shape. Then she excuses herself to let the nurse do an EKG, after which I'm off to the x-ray room. Then back to my exam room. "Is the doctor done with me?" I ask the nurse.
"No, she's coming back," she says, and I feel warm and happy.
Dr. Maria comes in again, and we smile at each other. She comments again on the new shaved look (warm glow). She comments on the book I'm reading, and asks if I'm a martial artist. "I'm training in aikido," I say.
"That's great,", she says. "And you're making it a way of life?"
"Yes," I reply, "more than just a weekend sports hobby. I want to apply the philosophy behind it in everyday affairs as well."
"That's good, that's very good," she nods approvingly. "The physical aspect is good enough by itself, but making it a way of life can be rewarding on so many levels." And so we talk about martial arts and philosophic esoterica for a few moments, and she gathers her chart and paperwork and starts to go. Then she turns back to me and says pointedly, "You look good."
I wait a moment and then respond, "You look good."
This appears to embarrass her, and she mumbles something about "more years showing up every day." Then she's out the door, and by the time I follow she's engulfed in the business demands of her profession, carrying on three conversations at once with nurses and staff.
Aiee, caramba, what a woman! So how do you ever find out, if your doctor enters the "available" list, anyway?
I live for moments like these.
Edited by - COMF on 5 November 2002 17:57:22