My Doctor

A visit to the gynecologist is not most women’s idea
of a great time. For some of my friends, those trips are a
source of anxiety and fear. Donning a paper dress and being
poked and prodded with various instruments can be a real
bummer – unless the man doing the poking and prodding is
absolutely gorgeous. I’m lucky enough to have such
a doctor. I’ve always been a sucker for Italian men,
and he’s the epitome of the type: thick black hair,
deep brown eyes, athletic body. My first gynecologist,
a sweet old woman who’d taken care of me since I hit puberty,
retired two years ago. She recommended that I transfer
my care to Dr. Santino, a man who had worked under her. From
my first visit, I found myself unable to stop thinking about
what it would be like for him to handle parts of me with the
delicacy with which he held his stethoscope against my
chest. He asked me questions while reviewing my charts,
and listened to me patiently, his eyes locking with mine
for so long it made me shudder. I wanted to believe that he
felt it, too – that he was as drawn to me as I was to him – but
to him I was probably just another patient. Or so I thought…



“That’s a lovely dress, ” was the first
thing he said to me that day. I shrugged off the compliment
with some deprecating remark (“This old thing?”),
even though I’d spent all weekend searching the malls
for the perfect outfit for seduction. The dress I settled
on was a clingy affair, high cut here and low cut there. Though
I knew he’d notice (he was always quick and generous
with the compliments), I didn’t expect his eyes to
slide down me the way they did. As I turned to take a seat on
the examination table, I could see his reflection in the
mirror over the sink as he stared lustily at my ass and legs.