THE GIRL DOCTOR BUSTED–Girl of Bikernet

The walls of the prison cell seem to expand into the horizon. The stones blurring into a wall of sand. I seem to have encapsulated myself inside a sand castle. Except there is no sound of waves threatening to push down these walls. I didn’t ask for solitary confinement but my money bought me a good lawyer. He knew what would happen to me in general population. I even got a private shower curtained and with branded soap. My mouth is watery. It tastes salty inside my mouth. The water is from a boring well and we are far away from the world of Evian and Bordeaux. Among some privileges, they allowed me to keep my scrapbook and a diary. Everyday unfolds in systematic inspection, exercise, meals and laundry. I get to work with the other inmates but am protected from hostilities. Helps a lot that they don’t know what I did for a living or why I’m in here. I keep a low profile but the guards will give it away if they keep at this.

“Yo, get to the wall and spread your hands,” today’s routine begins. Officer Brown checks the cell, checks me and then shoves me outside the cell. Another client. Confidential. For certain privileges. I obey. Nod and accept my fate. I like it too.

“All in a day’s work, eh Jim?” asks the night shift Officer Gray. No I don’t care to remember their names. His head hair, moustache and chest hair are gray. Is a Caucasian. Officer Brown is Hispanic. Gray is teasing me, but even he consulted me for my expertise. Everyone is a player. I am game. I am addicted to this pseudo occupation. I am a derelict searching for a cigarette butt for sucking at it one last time before they realize what I have done.

Just seventeen weeks ago, I was a respectable doctor. Then sixteen weeks ago I was tabloid junk food. In matter of three weeks, they judged me “a threat to civil society and a pervert”. Can a judge call an accused a pervert? Even the prosecution used discreet words to describe my misdeeds. But this was a scandal that shook the city, gripped the nation and made the D.A. push back hearing dates of two death row prospects. I was a scapegoat for these prudish pundits of high society. The middleclass are worse.

“Kinky doctor up for trial” screamed the headlines. I was a running joke in every bar – “Did you hear about the gynecologist who asked for a cold one? The barman introduced him to his wife.”

As I sit in my prison cell, each night I remember my Mom telling me, “They all feel the same. Everyone is afraid. But you are here for a purpose. That’s why you will survive.”

“Hey Jim, did you here this one? Why did the gynecologist cross the street?”

“Why?”

“’Cause he ain’t no pussy!” And that was Officer Brown’s latest report from his daily news service.

I duly noted it in my scrapbook. Flipping through its pages, the memory of what was and could have been erupted into a violent fit of anger and frustration deep within me. I shivered and closed my eyes. I tried to lie down but my body was too stiff with hatred. I breathed and relaxed. I thumbed the pages, flipping them to stop at a random page.

I had photos and medical transcripts. Neatly pasted, marked for study and review. They always laugh at pioneers. The ones who take to uncharted territory. I was researching “The Gräfenberg Spot”. More commonly infamous as “The G-Spot.” The G-Spot has been studied since the 1940s, yet disagreement endures over its existence as a distinct structure, definition or location. It is the sexual urban myth. The illusion of success and satisfaction. A woman wants to believe in this “superstition”. A man wants to conquer this “obstacle”. In medical research, it is put aside as amateur investigation into superfluous speculation. I neither believed nor disbelieved it. I was a researcher. A man exploring a new world. A man discovering what hides in the dark mists of human psyche and physiology. It interested me. It interested many. I could answer the age-old question of practiced female orgasm. A way to break through the ceiling of female sexuality, where emotions are given priority over physical attributes. Is size immaterial? Is there an ideal technique for lovemaking? An opportunity to break out of the mould of flimsy poetic love and reaching toward immense sexual gratification by virtue of knowledge and craft. Human bonding created by raw lust and not logical brainwaves. My thesis published in serialized form in the popular medical monthly was eagerly looked forward to. The medical community was astonished that a successful gynecologist like me would risk his good name by observing sexual pleasures and debunking claims of how the act of sex creates unique bonds among couples. Everyone doesn’t enjoy sex and everyone doesn’t know how to make sex enjoyable. It is an art and a craft and I was going to make it obvious.

While my scrapbook gave me comfort and fulfillment, my diary gave me hope. I noted the petty things I did. It told me what I have been reduced to. And I knew by instinct that this wasn’t me. That I am not a criminal. I did a few things wrong. But I have no burden of guilt upon my heart, nor deception in my soul.

Officer Brown showed up all weary in the morning. He was not his loud self today. Asked me to join him in the library.

“Well Jim, I did what you asked. We did it twice. She still ain’t satisfied. I think I will need your expertise.”

“Are you sure?”

“Jim, she got herself the platinum piercing in her slut and she still ain’t enjoying what I do. Do your thing man. Treat her! She will leave me if I can’t do it. I am sure!”

That was that. The schedule was booked. At 3 PM, Mrs. Brown showed up. It was a shitty, stinky, puke-inducing van. Really a parked trailer now, it had no wheels. That was the room for conjugal visits. And here I am, starved for sex for months. There she is, chocolate skin and pink wrapper. She doesn’t even wear a lipstick. No eye shadow, no earrings. But I know she has a ring elsewhere. She is uncomfortable. I tell her I am a doctor. In here because of some idiot’s malpractice lawsuit. She sits. She looks around. She doesn’t throw up. I use a stethoscope provided kindly by the prison doc. She trembles as soon as I feel her chest.

“Breathe deep”

“I don’t even know why I am here. All I had was flu ten days ago and some painful menstrual cycle last week.”

“Hmmm!” I keep my eye on my wristwatch and as I feel her pulse on her tender wrist her pulse quickens. Smooth as silk, her skin is warm and inviting.

“That’s normal right? I always have some blood loss. I am not weak though.”

“Relax. I will need you to lie down. Who is your regular….gynecologist?”

“Dr. Dave Preston. I brought my prescription.”

“Just try to relax. This will be over soon.”

I penetrate, my finger curving around her clitoris. I see the shape with my hands. After all, there is but just a 5-watt bulb in this van. I let my finger slip and touch her anus. She lies still. I find my way back. Using the thumb, I separate the skin; it is sticky but not wet. I lean forward and take a whiff. She seems to be a classy gal. A nice odor, she uses cosmetics at the right places. The titanium ring is pretty. I let it tickle her. Her legs grow wider, inviting me in. I let a drop of sweat from my brow drop into the hole. She moans unconsciously. I know the drop must have been cold to her warm pussy. I let my index finger slip inside. Deeper and warmer. She moans a little louder. She knows what’s happening but it is too good to be stopped. She is not cheating on her husband. She just happens to like her medical procedure. Her back curves upward and her knees bend further. I let her have the pleasure. The ecstasy of a lifetime. With just one index finger. She comes. She spouts. The wetness blankets my hand like a warm blanket after a thrilling climax. I should have remembered to ask the prison doc for disposable gloves.

I am done too. She gets up. Steadies her hands and fixes her dress.

“Do I pay you?” she asks.

“No, it’s all taken care of,” I reply.

Mrs. Brown walks out and I wipe my hands on the bed-sheet. She is a changed woman. Now, every-time she has intercourse, she will orgasm. No more worries of manhood for Officer Brown. His wife is now assured of successful sex for a long, long time for a short, short solution.

“All in a day’s work, eh Jim?” Officer Gray smiles. That old bastard has a mistress younger than his daughter. Who cares?!?

“I feel like some whiskey” I whisper.

“Done! Hey, here is a good one. Was on TV too. Knock, knock?”

“Who’s there?”

“Gynecologist”

“Gynecologist who?”

“The gynecologist who wants to be inside! Hahahaha!”

My lawyer showed up on Monday. He wore a suit and looked uncomfortable. It was like watching a lapdog enter a street alley full of strays. He smiled. The fool was more incompetent than a castrated gigolo. I was unnecessarily harsh on him. He has been useful. He brought good news.

“They will hear the plea. The medical association’s recommendation worked. Not to mention the Harvard stamp of approval on your certificates.”

“How much will the bail be?”

“This is a unique case. No precedent!”

“I will be free?”

“Free. Not sure about practicing. Maybe consulting.”

“Sure! I have done some freelance work.” This was funny. I almost laughed. But he can’t know.

“In three days, you will be out. Many private clinics wish to consult you. Unofficially of course.”

“What are you, my pimp?” Now I laughed.

“Haha, good one. Anyways, you have to lie low. No more publishing of your thesis in that medical journal. And stay away from your known hangouts too.”

“Okay! Thanks man, I really appreciate this. Everything you have done.”

They gave me back my stuff. My patent leather wallet felt good in my palm. So did the cold metal strap of the Rolex on my wrist. The Hush Puppies slid like gloves on my coarse feet. I left the top two buttons of my shirt undone. Pocketed my necktie. Slung the black lounge suit on my left arm. I walked. Confidently. Tall. Held my chin up. They muttered. Like rats in a sewer. I was beyond them. I was better. I walked along and shook hands with the officers on duty. I was out. The morning sun shone bright upon my face. I wanted to hug myself. The lawyer drove me back to the city.

“There goes the cunt cleaner,” the neighborhood stirred to the jeers of the disapproving. I locked my home and lugged my bags to my car. The case was over but the sneers weren’t. I was forever shamed as the man who decided to shave a pussy without explicit permission. I should have asked, or rather prescribed it. But I thought her joy was apparent and ‘explicit’. I may never practice medicine again. Yet, my mobile phone rings incessantly. References. Word-of-mouth publicity. No, not gossip. Valid recommendations for services to be rendered in private. I may still have a career. I may still be a pioneer. I may just be the man who knows what a woman wants.

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