Adam’s penis stirred every time his gastroenterologist Dr. Brighton mentioned “endosperm.” This, of course, was inappropriate. Adam had been having painful stomach distress for months and, as Dr. Brighton explained, the culprit was gluten, a composite of the proteins gliadin and glutenin found in the endosperm—hard on!—of certain grass-related grains, notably wheat. Dr. Terry Brighton had bright blue eyes and a pair of firm perky breasts were suggested by the aqua-coloured cotton of her scrubs. “I bet she has a belly piercing,” thought Adam. He regretted Brighton hadn’t asked him don a paper gown for then surely his raging chubby would have gained attention and, so he thought, purchase in one of Dr. Brighton’s useable three holes.
Terry’s pussy went wet every time she conned a fucker. She got off on duplicity, orgasmed to Madoff. Terry had gone to Fordham, majoring in Dance, she was a smart cookie. She was an artist too and used her steady hand to ape the font of University of Miami Medical School. She signed her name, soaked the piece of bright white A4 paper in Earl Grey then heated it. And she opened up shop in Williamsburg, treating idiot hipsters without insurance. That’s where she was—on the second floor in what she called her loft/office in the building on Bedford just north of El Beit Coffee—when Adam came in. His tummy hurt. She made up some shit about endosperm and watched his cock grow as he contemplated her nipples and her pubic mound until it scrunched uncomfortably against the inside of his Acne jeans. “Works every time,” she thought and said, “Yup, gluten allergy for sure.”
Adam sat there, looking forlorn, concerned and turned on. She had him just where she wanted.. “Go ahead and lie down, Adam,” she said, doctorally. Adam obeyed and from this position, his erection was a mound, like a denim Indian burial ground, on his crotch. Dr. Brighton lifted Adam’s shirt and palpated his hipster belly, ever so convex. “You know,” he said to distract her, “I’ve been eating wheat my whole life. Why would I be allergic now?” Dr. Brighton ignored his question and slid her well-manicured hand around for a bit. She couldn’t believe Adam didn’t realize she clearly had no idea what she was doing. It’s no wonder he didn’t for she knew exactly what she was doing. This was her m.o.: diagnosis and, if questioned, sex. Terry bid Adam to remove his pants. His bovine eyes flashed for a moment but the momentary glint of passion, of expectation, was quickly opaqued back to well-mannered Upper Middle class proprietary. He obeyed. Now his dick was a Maypole, a mound no longer. Dr. Brighton pretended not to notice as he lay back down. But as she palpated lower and lower, Adam began to moan with enough volume to render plausible deniability a non-option. Dr. Brighton said, “Adam, can you close your eyes for a moment?” Adam obeyed with a hunnh. His eyes remained closed as Terry slid off her Rachel Comey flats, let her scrub bottoms slide from her slender legs. She—obviously—wasn’t wearing any underwear. Adam’s eyes bolted open only as Dr. Brighton grasped his dick in her hand and lowered herself onto him. He looked up, uncomprehendingly as if what was taking place was so far from what he could conceive of happening that it must therefore not be happening but somehow still was. His stomach growled and he shifted under Dr. Brighton’s weight. Brighton, herself moaning with pleasure, assumed the reverse tabletop position and rode Adam like the L train. Her orgasm, when it came, was vaginal, not clitoral and tears of intensity, neither joy nor sadness had caused them rather they were like a psychosomatic highlighter. As abruptly as she had started, Dr. Brighton dismounted Adam who had not yet reached orgasm, so shocked was he by the situation. “Ok,” she said, “so…stay away from wheat, okay? You can give your insurance information to the receptionist.” “That’s it?” Adam asked, his dick still exposed, shiny and hard. “Feel free to call my office any time,” said Terry. She left Adam there. He contemplated finishing himself off but settled on not. Slowely he buttoned his dick back up and slid on his shoes.
At home that evening, Adam told his roommates what happened but—of course—no one believed him. He tried to look Dr. Terry Brighton up on Facebook but the only Terry Brighton he found was a middle-aged English historian who wrote Patton, Montgomery, Rommel: Masters at War. She wasn’t on Facebook. She wasn’t on Google. And when he called her office, the message said the number was out of order. “She’s a fucking fraud,” Adam concluded. But on reflection, he concluded that though the medical advice had been erroneous the fucking had been boss; He’d pay the $20 copay again and again and again. Adam smiled, picked up the phone and ordered the mac and cheese from DuMont.
Submitted by female reporter, Brooklyn