Queenie Gets the Warmies

Back, with a shameful, disgusting confession: I have a bad case of the hots for my doctor.

Oh, yes. I do. He's an absolute fox, no ifs, ands, or buts. I'd like to sit here and lie to you, as a married woman and general keeper of vows, and tell you that I didn't think about making the beast with two backs every time he walks into the patient room, but it is not in Queenie's nature to bullshit about such serious issues. And it is serious; I seriously wanna do him. Every time he looks at me with those freezing-blue eyes, his thick thatch of hair - the boyish blonde slowly greying - falling into his needing-a-pluck brows as he tells me we need one more x-ray...well, I melt into a puddle of quivering chickliquor, and then I usually just dribble right onto the floor. The guy is amazing, ladies. Big. Strapping. Nordic, but with those crazy kind of eyes that tell you he's a fucked up freak in the sack, and probably a serious sonofabitch out of it...sigh. Really smart. Really sassy. Just too dreamy.

I saw him recently. Nothing major, I just had to go in and let him poke me and prod me (which was wonderful, just short of orgasmic) in order to get a regular medication re-prescribed. I was reading a book I'd brought with me when he came in, and he was interested in what I was reading. We struck up a conversation. In fact, we had a good twenty-five minutes of (literary and political) conversation, of which I remember almost nothing save the taste of the saliva I fought to keep from running down my chin as we spoke. Mostly, I think I just watched his mouth move, and licked my chops. When I got in my car, afterwards, I was giggling like a teenager and thinking stupid shit like, "I'll never wash this place where he palpated my stomach again!!"

I think it's a good thing I'm a healthy Queenie who doesn't often require medical attention. I'm as faithful to Mister MacFarland as he could possibly wish - ain't stepped out yet, in all these long years - but I'm not made of fucking wood over here either, people. If the rule is that where there is no temptation there is no virtue, then canonize me. I've got the fucking virture of three or four saints, because, baby, I am tempted.

Upon consideration, though, I guess it could be worse. He could be my gynecologist...