Does Playing Doctor Turn You On? (Dr. Love, Pt. 1)

WORDS BY OLIVIA COURTING

It was my third year of college. I was young, invincible, living on my own, writing full time…it was bliss. Until that one day I had the scare of my life.

I was rushing across campus to deliver a zip drive to a colleague at the paper just as the skies opened up. In three minutes flat my clothes were drenched—I was pissed.

I delivered the drive to Edgar, who'd been waiting patiently for my arrival. I was shivering as I approached him, teeth chattering and nipples stiff. I could tell he was trying not to stare at my breasts under my soaked T-shirt.

Suddenly, I felt a fog moving in. My mind felt jumbled. I heard Edgar say my name… I felt him touch my arm… Then there was darkness.

I woke up in the university’s hospital ER on a gurney with a polite face staring back at me.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked.

"Are you a doctor or an orderly?" I asked.

"I'm a doctor."

"Then I'm in a hospital and not the psych ward," I said.

He didn't laugh.

"Do you remember what happened," the doctor asked, as the nurse reached for my pant leg.

I pulled my foot back; irritated that she was trying to undress me. I didn’t care how wet my clothes were, I wasn’t about to bear all. Without warning, the privacy curtain was pulled back.

On the other side stood one of the most beautiful male specimens I had ever seen. He was about 6'3" compared to my 5'6" frame. His deep, caramel brown skin, broad, muscular shoulders and sensual smile melted me. He was dressed business casual with a white jacket and carrying my medical chart.

"I'm Dr. Daniels," he said, extending his hand. "How are you feeling?"

"F-f-f-fine," I mumbled, thinking to myself, “Are you kidding me?”

To say I wasn’t looking my best was putting it mildly. My long black hair was wet and matted to my head, my mascara smeared down my face, and my clothes were sopping wet. I looked feral—I was certain of it.

As I sat on the gurney, I took more of Dr. Daniels as he worked his way around the other side of the room. He was beautiful, an earthy, handsome man and I was totally befuddled. I sat with my knees to my chest watching his every move.

"I don't know if you remember what happened," he began, "but you blacked out in your office. Has that ever happened before?"

I shook my head.

"Do you remember what it felt like?"

"Sort of like, just... I felt like, foggy, I guess. That's all I remember."

He was staring at me and I shifted my weight and looked down.

"Are you eating?"

I nodded.

"Getting eight hours of sleep?"

"More like five,” I chuckled.

"On any medication?"

"No."

"What about drugs?"

I shook my head again, blushing.

"History of blackouts, seizures, anything like that in your family?"

"No."

As he spoke, he stared at me as if he could look inside of me. He moved closer and asked me to stand. He began testing my strength, reaction time and reflexes. His voice was still as water and just as calming. It was comforting as he issued each request. He kept up a steady stream of conversation as he tested me.

"I read your piece on salary bonuses for tenured professors," he said. "I agree. It's absolutely foolish to give them that much money every year."

I looked at him, startled: "You read that?"

He was referring to my weekly column in the college paper, of which I was assistant editor.

"Of course," he said. "Your writing is brilliant.”

"You're a student?"

"In residency," he said, "and still perfectly qualified to take care of you. Do you trust me?"

He watched my face intently for a response. I couldn't speak. A current passed between us. Refocusing, he held an index finger up in front of my face. "Follow my finger with your eyes, without moving your head.”

My eyes followed slowly from left, paused in the middle, to right…back to the middle, up, then down, then back to the middle, then to the left, and then… darkness.

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