Dr. Stud

by Jess Bentley

  I take a deep breath, imagining the sensation with my eyes closed. It’s like a flashlight beam wandering around a forest at night. Just moving along, sweeping back and forth over the groundcover.

  “Excellent, Joanna,” he says encouragingly. “This may tickle just a bit…”

  The hand on my belly shifts, adding pressure toward my pubic bone as the device slides between my labia. I suck my breath in between my teeth and automatically tense up.

  “Relax, please,” he says louder, nudging me with more force as though reining a disobedient horse back onto a path. Automatically, I try to obey. I try to relax my thighs. I try to unclench my fists.

  “Just concentrate on the sensation,” he directs me.

  It’s a struggle. The sound is so distracting. That buzzing noise, it’s like a hive of hornets. The device slides over my clit, rhythmically massaging it in circles. It’s getting warm. Very warm. My belly begins to clench. I feel a brightness inside me, almost a cramp, almost a feeling like I have to—

  “Really, I’ve got to go!” I announce, kicking my heels against the stirrups and pushing myself back up to sitting.

  I snatch the gown over my breasts, pulling myself together, overheated and panting. Dr. Warner scowls at me and flips the device off, dropping it on a metal tray with a clang.

  “My medical advice is—”

  “I think you know enough about me now!” I huff. “I would just like that prescription, please!”

  He snaps the blue gloves off one by one, flaring his nostrils as he drops them in the lidded garbage can.

  “Of course,” he replies. “I will ask Jen to call it in for you.”

  Shaking, I slam my knees together and curl my toes defensively. He crosses his arms and leans back against the counter as he looks me over.

  “You need to take better care of yourself,” he announces as he clicks the pen open and scribbles on my chart. “You can’t just let things go, Joanna. You need to be proactive in your own health management.”

  “Yeah, fine. Thanks for your time, Doctor,” I sniff, ready to get dressed and get the hell out of here.

  “Okay, then,” he nods, taking a deep breath and flaring his nostrils as he squints at me curiously. “It was nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy your stay in Willowdale.”

  I mutter my thanks, and he drops the manila envelope in a holder on the wall for the nurse to retrieve. Just before he leaves, he reaches out and pats my knee reassuringly. And dammit if that doesn’t work. I am fricking reassured, like a well-trained patient.

  He leaves the office, and I hop off the exam table, leaving the paper torn and smeared with my own juices behind me. After a moment of hesitation, I rip the paper off the exam table and crumple it into a giant wad, then throw it away so Jen doesn’t see the remainders of our session.

  My legs wobble as I get dressed again with my fingers fumbling over the buttons. I can still feel that buzz deep inside me, as though the hornets’ nest was transferred to my pelvis. I feel it right there, like a sneeze I’m holding in. Like a cough. Something really did happen and I don’t really know what to make of that. Was that the thing? Was that the feeling I’ve been missing?

  In some ways I feel slightly more relaxed than I did when I walked in. But in other ways, I feel more tense than ever.

  Chapter 10

  Sturgill

  After Joanna leaves, I do not feel quite myself. The only other appointment is Mrs. Randall coming in for her osteoporosis medication, which only takes a few moments. She is pleasant and pretty, the kind of woman who probably sought my father’s care rather frequently.

  Now, well into her seventies, she tolerates me fondly as though I am a child. She’s beyond needing too much feminine care, though of course I would be happy to oblige if she asked. She has never asked.

  For some reason, as soon as Mrs. Randall is gone, I am beyond irritable. Jen takes the patient folders from me with a grimace, obviously sensing my foul mood. She hurries away to the medical records station, keeping her head down.

  Am I that obvious? I wonder as I change clothes in the back room. Can she tell that Joanna distracted me?

  Apparently the answer is yes. Which makes me wonder, why?

  As soon as I get outside, I realize a trip to the beach is going to be fruitless. The wind has shifted direction and waves on the Gulf are only suitable for surfing occasionally. They are generated a few hundred miles away, instead of a few thousand miles away like they are on the east side of Florida. On our beaches, a westerly wind wipes the waves right out.

  Still, I could use a change of scenery. I let my feet just carry me down the well-worn path, past Main Street and out toward the line of palms. I can smell the ocean, the ozone, and here the seagulls cry.

  As soon as I see the water, I realize I was right. The sea is very calm. That’s the reason we sometimes call it the “Lake of Mexico.” It may be an ocean, but it doesn’t always act like it.

  Surfing would have driven her from my mind, definitely. Instead, she keeps ping-ponging around the inside of my brain.

  That first image of her: sitting primly in my office, twisting her fingers in her lap. That really caught my attention. Something about it felt so right, as though she was a missing piece that had finally found its way back home. And yet, she was frustratingly out of reach.

  Even her name is a dodge. Joe? Does she seriously expect people to refer to her by that name? Joanna is a perfectly beautiful name. Lovely, even. Joe is a pretentious moniker for a feminist phony in a novel. I’m not calling her that.

  This is so unlike me. Professional distance is something I have never struggled with. Seeing the way that my father treated my mother, held her above every woman in the world even though he also had to care for an entire town full of other women, that set the stage for me. Professional distance is what kept their marriage together.

  But as soon as Joanna was on my exam table, I was curious about her. Did I need to do a full pubic exam? Well, it’s the safest thing. And in executing the exam, I am certain that she is holding unhealthy amounts of stress in her body. Was my interest in her sexual health completely therapeutic? I think it was. I’m certain it was.

  Of course I have never offered that therapy to anyone as a first-time patient. That might not have been completely wise.

  She did respond to me, I’m certain of it. The way that her breath trembled over her lips as I examined her breasts—that was unmistakable. The way her pulse raced, also unmistakable. Not unusual, certainly. It’s an unconscious response.

  The fact that I failed to give her an orgasm? That is… annoying.

  Very professional, I tell myself. Being annoyed with a patient for failure to climax.

  White seabirds sway over the water, diving in to catch fish in their beaks. Without a surf, visibility is so much better for them and they congregate by the dozens, screeching to each other as I trudge along the sand. The beach is almost empty except for a few older couples and a man with a metal detector slowly working his way along the sand. Everyone smiles at me, and I do not feel like smiling back.

  It doesn’t take long for my ocean walk to seem fruitless and I turn around and head back to the office. In fact, today seems a good day to go get a glass of bourbon with the old-timers, maybe drop by and see my father in the assisted-living facility. He normally expects me on the weekends, but at this point I’m not sure he always knows the difference anyway.

  “You’re back quickly,” Jen says cautiously when I return to the office. I simply grunt in response.

  “It’s really nice outside,” she says carefully. “Would you mind if I close up for the day? I’ve got some things I could be—”

  “That’s fine, Jen,” I growl. “Have a nice afternoon.”

  I hear her take a breath as though she’s going to say something else, but thankfully she just retrieves her purse from under the desk and heads out the front door. I can certainly close up the office when I’m done, and I don’t mind being alone. I rather pre
fer it.

  I should be nicer to her, I know, but I need to ensure that she understands our relationship belongs strictly in the office. Though I have treated her in the past, she hasn’t asked again since that night she had a few too many drinks and found me at the taproom, watching a basketball game by myself as I sometimes like to do.

  She climbed onto the barstool next to me, grinning. As soon as she started to push the hair off her face I could tell her movements were slow. She wasn’t in control of herself.

  “Sturgill, how come you have never asked me out?” she asked me.

  “Jen, that would be totally inappropriate,” I answered immediately. “You work for me, and I would never take advantage of that.”

  “Then I quit!” she laughed, leaning over so that her breasts brushed the top of the bar.

  “That’s your decision.”

  “Oh, man, you are such a grump!” she slurred, dropping back into her barstool and taking a noisy slurp of her drink. “I just think we would make a great couple, you know? I mean, since we work together and everything? You like me, I can tell.”

  At that point I reached over to the back of her chair and pushed on it to swivel her to face me. She raised her eyebrows in surprise but then grinned up at me, apparently waiting for me to say something to complete her fantasy. Instead, I had to let her down in no uncertain terms.

  “Jen, I think I will only have to tell you this once,” I began, measuring my words to make sure she kept up, even in her inebriated state. “There is nothing romantic between us. There never will be. It is not an insult to you in any way. I am simply your doctor, and your employer. That is all I will ever be.”

  As I spoke, I could see her expression change. She went from hopeful, to doubtful, to angry. By the time I finished my last sentence, her eyes were flashing furiously.

  “You know what?” she hissed in a dangerous whisper, “you are an asshole. I am a lady, and I do not normally say these things, okay? But you, Sturgill Warner, are an asshole!”

  And she slid off the barstool and clomped away, weaving slightly between the tables on her way back to her group of friends. Everyone else turned their eyes toward me disapprovingly, pursing their lips in silent judgments before resuming their conversations.

  I am fairly certain that Jen is the one who started people calling me Dr. Stud. It is not meant as a compliment, I am sure.

  But since then, she has maintained a cold professional distance, usually without any bitterness. She is careful around me, and I guess I can understand that is the best I can hope for. Other than finding someone much older, Jen is the best I can do. At least I was right, and I only had to tell her once.

  The rest of the afternoon seems to go by slowly. I peruse medical articles online for a time and answer a few emails. My Peace Corps buddy in Costa Rica, Arthur, sent me a invitation to join him for the annual surgical event they have. They repair cleft palates in babies and children free of charge. It is a grueling few weeks, but a worthy cause. Repairing that birth defect changes the quality of life for those children in monumental ways.

  I almost delete the email without responding, for the third year in a row, but then decide that would be rude. I participated years ago and found it rewarding, even if the surgical suites were somewhat primitive. Peace Corps memories are some of the best I have. I decide to send him a brief note.

  “Thanks for the invite. I will have to get back to you on this. Hope you and the wife are doing great!”

  When the phone rings, I almost ignore it, then remember that Jen has left for the day. I answer absentmindedly as I stare the email before clicking the send button.

  “Warner medical,” I murmur distractedly.

  “Oh, Sturgill?” Grant says, surprised. “Is Jen out? I just need her real quick.”

  “Yeah, she left for the day. Can I help you with something?”

  “I guess so… This prescription she called in? The Loestrin? Do you have a phone number for her? It’s ready and I want to close up.”

  “You think the fish are biting?” I smile, bringing up Joanna’s file on the screen.

  “They damn well better be,” Grant huffs. “I’ve got a new carbon rod to try out.”

  I squint at the form, trying to find her phone number. “Grant, I don’t see it… She’s a new patient and it looks like Jen left that out or something…”

  “Dang it, that figures,” Grant sighs dramatically.

  “No, it’s all right,” I sigh, standing up. “I was just heading out anyway. I’ll swing by and pick it up so you can close.”

  “Yeah? That would be great.”

  “You bet. I’m a full-service physician, after all.”

  Yeah, that’s what I am, I tell myself wryly. Just a regular old country doctor, making a regular old house call.

  Chapter 11

  Joe

  That doctor is a jerk.

  I mean, he wasn’t mean or anything. I realize that. But was that whole exam even necessary? I don’t think so. I think he was just messing with me since I blew him off at the hat shop.

  Gallery. I mean my gallery.

  After my appointment, I rushed to the pharmacy. The old man at the counter seemed completely surprised to see me, and even more surprised that I expected my prescription to be ready. I mean, I was the only customer in the place and the pills come prepackaged. What on earth could have possibly been taking him so long?

  But with my mother’s voice in my head scolding me for my Manhattan manners, I just smiled as politely as I could and promised to come back later. Surely I wouldn’t just spontaneously ovulate because I missed my pill this morning. I know I can take two tomorrow and be fine.

  I hurried back to the cabin to work on gallery business, but my mind was buzzing with energy, refusing to settle in an orderly way. I flipped through images of the works I should expect for the show, trying to imagine a plan for the walls. That’s my biggest task right now: setting a gallery plan.

  That’s all I should be doing, and it’s something I’m good at.

  So why can’t I concentrate?

  Sitting is uncomfortable. I’m still damp and swollen from my exam. After a little while, I decide to grab a beer from the fridge and take my laptop out onto the back porch. Maybe the ocean breeze will settle my nerves. But quickly I find out that the breeze is actually going the wrong way, sucking the oxygen from the house out to sea.

  It’s hardly helping at all.

  Back inside, it’s a stew of childhood smells and visions and memories. Everywhere I look there’s a piece of my life looking back at me. The shells we collected from the beach. This afghan on the futon that Grandma Ann crocheted in various shades of blue. I remember sitting at her feet and wrapping the afghan around me as she worked on the other end.

  I wonder why I don’t recognize Dr. Warner? I suddenly think, seemingly out of nowhere.

  He’s definitely several years older than me, but if he’s from Willowdale I’m sure I should’ve seen him around. And when I was a teenager, I certainly would’ve been curious about someone who looked like that. I certainly would’ve been curious about the son of Boss Warner, considering all the rumors that swirled around him…which, I suppose, aren’t even rumors. It’s true.

  I remember Didi trying to explain this to me on several occasions, but I did not want to hear about it. Ladies would talk about it every once in a while, maybe at barbecues or after church meetings. They’d whisper with their foreheads tipped together, their eyes bright, their lips pursed. Lady treatments, just like Didi said. A remnant of Victorian gentility, some pseudoscientific hocus-pocus about backing up humors in the body or something like that.

  Total baloney.

  Like I’m supposed to believe the lady equivalent of “blue balls.” How can that even be a thing? Everybody makes a big deal out of sexual satisfaction, out of the magic of orgasm. If you ask me, they all know the Emperor has no clothes.

  Totally naked Emperor.

  Oh my God, why am I even thinki
ng about this? I scold myself. Knock it off! Focus!

  I glare at the pictures on the screen, trying to imagine them on walls, lit by color-corrected LEDs. But in moments, I’m fixated on the whole “lady treatment” phenomenon.

  So the rumors are true, and now I know for sure. I had forgotten about it until Didi mentioned it, but now I have confirmation. Dr. Warner believes in lady treatments. His dad before him offered lady treatments. That is a fact. And everybody in town went to him. Also a fact. Like my mom…

  Okay, can you please focus? I practically scream at myself. Grab a pencil! Draw a diagram! These paintings are not going to hang themselves!

  As soon as I stand up from the sofa, I feel another gush of wetness soaking my panties through. Just thinking about lying there on that exam table, my legs in the stirrups, that machine pulsing between my thighs…

  “Oh no,” I hear myself say as the room begins to swim in front of my eyes. Blindly I reach out and find the wall, leaning heavy against it to steady myself. It’s still in me, I can feel it. That nest of hornets, that vibration deep in my core. That warmth, spreading and pulsing.

  Was that it? Was that the feeling that Dr. Warner was driving me toward? It seemed so strange at first, but then his professional manner lulled me into automatic feelings of security. I played along until it got too hot. I thought I was going to pee my pants or something and had to stop it, had to do something.

  What if I hadn’t?

  I suddenly remember Didi mocking me, telling me that I’m too much of a control freak to have an orgasm. Could she be right about that? I haven’t felt that way before, exactly, but I have felt similar things.

  Have I been holding myself back this entire time?

  What if that was my chance, right then? I mean, I’m only here for nine more days. Then I can head on back to Manhattan and let Willowdale become a distant memory again. Go back to my real life. What if the lady treatment really works?

  Boot steps on the front porch startle me back to reality and I stand up straight, shaking my head to clear it. I need to get back to reality, back to focusing on the work in front of me.