28 10 / 2011
This Won’t Squirt A Bit - Part 2
The doctor looks up, first at me and then at my wife. “I erm… suppose I could… ah… take a look at it.” His face is now a vivid shade of hot pink. “Would you mind erm… removing your top please? And umm… your bra.”
We seem to have accidentally stumbled into a terrible John Hughes coming-of-age movie. I start to wonder if our doctor is actually a doctor, and not just a nervous teenager here on work experience. Or perhaps he’s the lucky winner of a hospital radio competition. Have the NHS cutbacks been that bad? Are they plucking random idiots off the street, handing them a stethoscope, a copy of FHM and asking them to cover for the Boob Specialist?
My wife complies with his request. She looks glad to be finally making some progress. I too am glad, although it’s tempered by the acute realisation that I am now sitting in a room with my half naked wife and a man who I only met 20 minutes ago. Worse still, a man who is now very tentatively fondling my wife’s left breast. This really isn’t how I imagined my first threesome would unfold.
“It feels, erm… normal,” he says.
“Not compared to other one,” protests my wife.
It’s true. Even to the untrained eye, her right breast looks much fuller than the left one, which is just as well since nobody in the room is in possession of trained eyes. The doctor considers my wife’s right breast for a moment. He makes a thinking face.
“Feel it,” she says.
The doctor grimaces, and then slowly reaches out his other hand to cup her right breast.
“Be careful!” says my wife mischievously. “I don’t want to squirt you.”
The doctor recoils sharply, hand still outstretched, fingers still holding an invisible mammary. His wide eyes flick urgently between my wife and I, looking for some kind of guidance.
“Just kidding,” she says.
But the doctor doesn’t laugh. For this is not a laughing matter. His face radiates with hot fear. Sweat glistens on his brow. His outstretched hand trembles in the air. Never has a man looked so uncomfortable about the prospect of copping a feel. Granted it’s not every day you squeeze a woman’s breasts while her husband watches on, but I can assure you my presence isn’t even remotely intimidating.
I start to wonder whether he might be waiting for me to give him permission, some kind of signal which says, “Please, feel my wife’s jugs” but then I realise he’s still holding her left breast. Eventually, the doctor seems to realise this too – and so he takes a deep breath, contorts his face into something approaching composure and summons the courage to carry on. Both my wife’s breasts are now in his hands. He nervously scrutinizes one after the other with all the enthusiasm of an airport security guard examining a ticking suitcase.
Silence envelops the room once again as all three of us intently study my wife’s boobs. Finally, the doctor looks up at my wife and clears his throat.
“I erm… think you should ah… make an appointment with a specialist.”
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