However these emergency ambulatory services got started I don’t know, but if the services are the same throughout all locations as those I received in that particular one I attended, then they should spread-out through the country like wild fire. I guarantee a plethora of happy patients even if their ailments remain untouched, as did mine.
After a a few days unable to sleep because of an injury to my left shoulder, I decided it was best to visit the professionals at East Medics. It’s a new state of the art medical facility close to home. A short painful drive, I’m there being asked to fill out paperwork and hand in my medical insurance card. I’m unsure as to the benefit of asking someone at an emergency room while in obvious pain to spend time filling out paperwork – rather than being attended – but I suppose someone wants to get paid before providing the service; good capitalism some might suggest. So, I tried to hold the pad and still write, didn’t go very well, after all, I really couldn’t move the left arm. It hung down totally immobile.
Quite some time passed before I was attended, had it not been for the excessively high copay, I would have left. Never mind the pain, the cost alone was enough to make me forget that I might need the arm after-all. I saw time, other patients come and go, still waiting to be seen, struggling with the painful shoulder. Finally, the call to be seen came my way.
I sat down in the pretty room, new chairs, new table, new all really, except for me. I’m a bit broken down, and not too young. The triage nurse asked a few question and proceeded to take my vitals. Wouldn’t luck have it that instead of taking my vitals through the good arm, she lifted the bad arm, sending screeching sounds through the facility. She apologized profusely, over and over again. I thought the guilt was enough of a payment for not paying close attention to what I had explained. It hurt the same whether the arm was moved, or not, so I didn’t really care about the popping sounds coming from the arm.
Soon after, she left, telling me to hold on tight that the doctor would be in to check me in a few minutes. I didn’t wait long. Dr. Woo came into the room seconds after the nurse had completed her triage. She stroke a conversation with me from cooking to allergies. I found out what she liked, didn’t like and what medicines she refused to prescribe.
To assess my shoulder I had to remove my button-down long sleeve shirt, but, given I was only using on arm, it became difficult to remove it. Luckily, she was there to lend a helping hand. She came over and pulled my shirt down to my waist, leaving both of my arms still inside the sleeves, as if tying me down with my own shirt. I felt sort of exposed, and having someone look at my tattoos from so up close made me feel judged. While I’m not covered in them, I do have several in my upper body, giving me some type of bad boy look as she suggest. Dr. Woo spent a large amount of time talking to me, running her fingers through the tattoos, inquiring all sorts of peculiar things about them.
Before I fully finished explaining the stories behind the art work on my body, she had already began to trace my tattoos with her lips. I find it exhilarating, the feeling of lips and tongue following the same lines that create art on the human canvas. It’s as if the ink just shades under the skin enhances sensations. I recall the very first tattoo, and the woman who spent countless hours of our relationship running her fingers through it. Sigh…
The doctor’s lips ran through me, touching each line, each angle, all shades, all colours of all she found on my torso. I never did become aware of when she had unzipped my slacks, and laid me back on the triage bed. Her mouth ran through my chest, my shoulders, my arms, my left flank, ensuring to cover all the ink on my body. She softly spoke throughout the application of the treatment, continuously asking how it felt just there, or over there. If I desired her to move my lips lower and away from my shoulder.
She was the doctor, the one informed about cures for various ailments, I couldn’t possibly decline her advice, her offer to be directed towards the one spot that felt a dire need of soothing. I asked her to move lower, to have her lips meet her hands that had been stroking me engorged. They felt nurturing, healing, I had forgotten about the pain in my left shoulder, that my hands were held tight against my torso by the button-down-shirt, forgotten that I was at East Medic receiving treatment for a torn rotator cuff. All that my body could feel were lips tightly wrapped around me, finger nails digging on my slacks attempting to rip through.
I could see the use of her tongue sliding down to the base, trying to reach low, low below as her head slid upwards and out. She’d stop the withdraw just for a second at the very tip awaiting her tongue to return to its place. She was slow and deliberate with her tongue, making sure to cover as much surface of the shaft as she could. Her tongue would wrap around each side, she’d close her lips trapping her tongue between her lips and me, culminating with a kiss as the tongue returned inside her mouth. On the way back down to meet my pelvis with her lips, she would jerk her head from side to side down the shaft as if asking the opening of her throat to welcome this ailing patient. I’d watch me sink time and again, her long silky jet-black straight-hair moving about in clear joy, tickling my pelvis so good.
More than enough times she rushed me inside her mouth. I felt the collision on the back of her throat. She’d come up smiling, asking how close she was to making me forget about pains and aches. She’d then push back in, rushing back out only to repeat the same question. The sound caused by the speed in which she drove me in was intoxicating. I could be sick the rest of my life only if she swore to apply that knowledge of ailments on me. The last time she came up there wasn’t a question, rather she grabbed me with her right hand, pulling, tugging, snagging at me. She clenched her teeth, and release saliva from a distance… I watched it from a budding droplet until it splattered on the head, sliding down her fingers.
I sighed, I told her I wasn’t sure I remembered why I even came for a visit, but that now I was about to… she didn’t care to listen to remaining of the sentence, her lips, just her lips wrapped tightly around the very tip, while my pelvis rocked back and forth; her hands shifted up and down. She squeezed tightly with her hands on the way up, letting lose on the way down, repeating the action for a few strokes, after which she stood up, opened her mouth and pushed out with her tongue. I dripped out from her mouth onto my slacks, belly button, and it all. She closed her mouth before it all escaped her and the next time her lips opened, there wasn’t a sign that I had ever been present. It was all gone, taken with her as if specimen to a laboratory.
She took a step back, asked if I felt any better. I didn’t speak, I watched her clean her hands on the sink; looked at her robe thinking I wanted to feel ill right that very second to continue the treatment. She walked out talking about the allure of a bad boy’s tattoos. That she hopes when I fall sick, for the penciled in follow-up visit in a weeks time, to look at the tattoos, think of the one masterpiece she’s gifted me and know that it will be completed.
The door struck close, I looked down, the only sign of her having ever cured my shoulder was drops of me scattered through my belly button, slacks, and well, me. I stayed there for a bit thinking that East Medic… of Dr. Woo.