The Doctor's Assistant

September, 1983-

Autumn in Vermont is awesome. Peak color for the trees is still weeks away, but the days are already getting cooler and I can feel my most loved season in the air. Summer at home with my family was nice, but I'm happy to be back on campus. I've missed this place.

I'm Mike, I just turned twenty and I'm starting my junior year of college. Now that I'm an upperclassman, my days of having a roommate are behind me. I am in a single dorm and I feel like I won the lottery. Not that I don't enjoy sharing and playing nice with others, but nothing beats having my own private little space.

For two hours this afternoon, my private little space will have a visitor. I am on the wrestling team and I have an appointment with the college doctor for my preseason physical and a therapeutic massage. It's standard stuff with college athletic programs. It's been a long summer and they need to check my height, my weight, my heart, my blood pressure, my pulse, my lungs... Basically, a full physical. They need to give me a clean bill of health before I can compete. Plus, it's these results that officially determine my weight class. The doctor is busy having to be available for the whole student body, so his assistant is coming to my dorm at noon to do most of this stuff here today. He'll chart my results in advance of next week's in-office appointment with the actual doctor where I'll have blood and urine testing and get an official onceover.

I have headphones on and my rad Sony Walkman clipped to my waistband as I head back to my room. I just finished two hours in the weightroom and I plan to shower, change and grab some lunch in the dining hall before my noon appointment. It's 9:45 right now, so I have plenty of time. My two-hour workout flew by with the help of Duran Duran, Men At Work, Michael Jackson, Adam Ant and ZZ Top.

I'm about to strip off my sweaty sweats, slip on my robe and head to the showers when there's a knock on my door. I answer it revealing a guy carrying a briefcase. He smiles and says, "Mike, right? I'm Paul. I'm here for your physical and massage."

"You're a bit early, aren't you?"

He checks his watch, "About ten minutes. I'm sorry. Are you not ready for me?"

"Umm, my appointment is at noon. You're two hours early."

He shoulders his way past me and sets his briefcase down on my desk. He pops it open and pulls out a folder. "My schedule says Jason is at noon. Mike is at ten. You are Mike. It's just about ten." He takes my hand and shakes it. He tells me again that his name is Paul. I hadn't forgotten.

"There's been some sort of mix up. Someone else must be expecting you right about now, because I was expecting you in two hours. Maybe it's Jason."

He checks the schedule again. "Even if that's the case, Jason's dorm is on the other side of campus. I'd never make it on time. Then I'd be behind all day. You're here, I'm here... Is there any reason we can't do this now?"

Well, I'm a smelly pig from working out. I haven't even stopped sweating yet. I say, "I was hoping to grab a quick shower."

Paul looks me up and down. My face and neck glisten in perspiration. He says, "I have days of back to back athletes to examine and massage. If a little sweat bothered me I wouldn't be pre-med. You are just another face in the crowd. I'm sorry for the scheduling mix up, but please Mike, can we do this?"

I look at Paul. His smile is warm and his eyes are kind. I feel my shoulders begin to untense. These preseason physicals happen every year. The other guys on the team all complain that the doctor's assistant is never a girl. They would much prefer that a hot chick give them their therapeutic massage than some random dude. And it is random. This is my third year and Paul is the third different guy. I tend to agree with my teammates. I would prefer a chick too, but for the opposite reason. I am very much a closeted gay guy so I wouldn't be attracted to or affected by a hot chick's hands all over me. A hot guy though...?

The first two years, the guys weren't all that hot and I managed just fine. Paul is another story. And he is still looking at me. His steel grey eyes seem to see through me. His black hair is gelled into haphazard spikes and his striped Izod Polo shirt hints at some nice toning through his shoulders and arms. I already feel a little twitch in my crotch and, other than a handshake, Paul hasn't even touched me yet.

I let out a breath and close my door, slipping the lock into place. "I would hate to be responsible for making you late or causing you trouble."

His smile widens.

~~

Paul sits in my desk chair and I sit on my bed. He asks me a bunch of screening questions about such things as new medications, recent changes in my health, my dietary habits, my sleeping habits, alcohol use, tobacco use, drug use, etc. Next, he pulls a stethoscope out of his briefcase and asks me to open my robe. As long as Paul keeps his shirt on, I think I'll be okay. With my robe now open, I catch a waft of my own post-workout funk. My cheeks flush. Paul is a really polite guy because there's no way he doesn't notice that I reek.

Having checked my heart and my lungs, he asks where my scale is. Being on the wrestling team, I am required to check my weight regularly. Fluctuations can lead to changes in class. We all keep personal scales in our dorm rooms. I slide mine out from under my bed and step aboard. The scale reads 180. That's fine for a six foot tall athlete like myself, but it is a bit more than I weighed at the end of last season.

Paul asks, "Are hoping to move up to a heavier weight class?"

"Not really."

"I'm sure we can fix this," he touches my shoulder and I sizzle from the contact. "Slip out of your big, clunky shoes. They look heavy."

I forgot to pack flipflops when I moved back in, so I slipped my sneakers back on for the walk to the showers. They are size eleven Reebok high-tops. They're not light.

"Is there anything in your pockets? Keys, wallet? You know what? Just lose the whole robe."

I'm about to protest, but there's no point. I'll be wearing nothing but a towel for the massage anyway. I drop the robe and get back on the scale in just my undies. Does a body weigh more with an erect versus a flaccid penis? It's just a matter of displacement, right? And it's only a partial that I'm concealing at this point anyway.

Paul says, "That brings you down to 175. Still a couple pounds more than last spring, but you're safely in range."

"I worked out a lot over the Summer. My waist is actually an inch smaller but I have more muscle."

Paul's eye's roll up and down the length of me, all tan skin and scant, threadbare tidy-whities. He clears his throat, "Muscle does weigh more than fat."

He validates my height at six feet and measures my waist at 29 inches. Checking my chart, he says "You were a 30 last year." His eyes slide down my chest and zero in on my stomach, "Soon you'll be able to skip the laundry room and clean your clothes on your washboard abs."

He winks at me and I blush again. My dick also twitches again. I need to tread lightly here. The last thing I need right now is an embarrassing full-on boner. Just because I'm a twenty year old virgin, doesn't mean my body has to behave like I'm in the midst of a raging case of puberty.

Paul instructs me to trade my underwear for a towel and then to lie face-down on my bed with the towel over me, but uncinched. It's time to begin the massage. There is nowhere to hide in my tiny one-room dorm, but fortunately, Paul busies himself with making notes in my file. His big strong hand wrapping around that pen is making me think things I have no business thinking. In moments, those very hands will be kneading into me. This massage is not supposed to be erotic, sensual or really even enjoyed. It is supposed to be therapeutic. Almost a medical procedure. Why couldn't Paul be an ugly dude, like last year's guy? Or a girl like my teammates want? Shit.

Once I'm in position, at least I can't see him anymore. His grey eyes, that cute face. I bury my own face in my pillow. I hear the top pop on the bottle of massaging oil and brace myself for contact. Last year's guy drizzled it cold out of the bottle all over my back, making me flinch. Kind Paul pours oil in his hands, warming it as he rubs his hands together. He starts with my neck and I can't quite stifle a moan of pleasure.

Hoping to distract my own thoughts, I start peppering him with questions. Where does he live? Boston. What kind of doctor does he hope to be? A GP. What are his favorite subjects? Biology and photography. Is he into any sports? He was on the basketball team his first two years, but with his job in the medical office this term, he has to give basketball up due to time constraints.

I knew he was some type of athlete by his strong hands and toned arms. "Will you miss it?"

"I'll miss it more than it'll miss me. I enjoyed it, but I wasn't all that great."

"What position did you play?"

"Besides bench warmer?"

I laugh.

"I was a small forward."

While we talk, he completes the back side of my arms, shoulders, neck and back. For the moment, he bypasses the gluteus region and begins to work my thighs after dosing his hands with a fresh squeeze of oil.

He says, "Your tan doesn't look like it's from Vermont. Where did you spend the summer."

"I live in North Carolina. I spend my days off at the beach and my summer job for four years running has been lifeguarding at the pool in the park district. The last two years I've been lucky enough to be able to teach kids to swim."

He moves from my thighs to my calves. "That's cool. What do you want to do after graduation? Become a professional wrestler?"

I laugh again, "No. These last two summers, working with kids, it's made me think about teaching."

"Also very cool. What subject might you teach?"

"History or English."

"Nice. Being a science and math guy who sometimes struggles in other subjects, I can tell you that the world, or at least Boston, could use some better History and English teachers."

The time has come. He pushes the loose towel up my back revealing my ass. Another splash of oil and he digs right in. I need conversation now more than ever. I start babbling about my fall schedule this year. Paul listens politely as he awkwardly massages my buttocks. His fingers graze my crease multiple times, causing me to clench, but it was clearly accidental as he never actually penetrates.

Done with my rambling, I ask, "What is the best book you've read recently?"

His answer is delivered deadpan, "Grey's Anatomy."

I laugh for the third time. I like Paul. He's funny.

He says to me, "Mike, it's time to turn over."

He lifts the towel, allowing me to turn underneath it, while shielding my naughty bits from view. This is just a charade for now, though. We both know that soon enough the towel will be gone and I will be on full display as the massage encroaches and the health of my testicles is examined. Fortunately for the moment I've distracted myself enough that I still only have a semi erection and I don't think Paul has noticed. The towel is not in the shape of a teepee. Yet.

He pulls my desk chair to the foot of the bed and sits. I realize that I forgot to remove my socks when I stripped before. I apologize and begin to sit up, but Paul stops me. "I've got it."

I'm no longer sweating but my socks are still damp from my earlier workout. I probably don't smell like a rose garden down there and he is up close and personal. Paul begins a two-handed massage of my left foot through the offending sock. The sock that is molded to every contour of my foot. I embarrassingly moan again. Dammit!

He hooks a finger and slowly pulls the garment away like he's peeling a banana. Gradually. Deliberately. When he regrips my bare foot, I gasp.

He chuckles and apologizes. "Sensitive feet. I'll make a note in your chart."

He works my foot for a long time, kneading into my heel and inching his probing thumbs up the length of my arch. I know I moan several more times despite my best efforts not to. As he massages each individual toe, he says, "You have very healthy feet. That might seem an odd comment, but people often take their feet for granted and they take so much abuse. The support of properly fitted shoes is a crucial first step."

I smile sheepishly, "I'm sorry I got the schedule wrong today. I really intended to shower prior to your arrival."

He pats my foot, "You're overreacting. You're fine."

He's still being kind.

He slides over and grabs my right foot. I jump and elevate six inches off the bed before crashing back down. Paul laughs again. "Right. Sorry. This foot hasn't been touched yet. I guess it hasn't had a chance to desensitize."

He's grinning. Maybe kind Paul has a slightly devilish streak in him. He totally just tickled me on purpose while pretending it was an accident. My other sock slides off, like a snake shedding its skin. Thoughts of foot odor and inadvertent tickles vacate my brain as his magic thumbs work their long journey up the length of my size eleven arch. Paul knows his stuff. He's much better than last year's guy. And not just because he's ridiculously cute.

When he finishes my feet, he works his way up my shins and my thighs. I force myself to think unpleasant thoughts as he approaches homebase. Once he runs out of thigh, his fingertips graze my scrotum, causing me to gasp and flinch. He apologizes again. The towel remains in place as he moves up to my pecs. He moves my arms above my head and has full access to my whole upper torso.

He looks down at my body and says, "Did you know that 75% of all belly buttons are innies?"

I feel another twitch in my dick. That seems to happen every time Paul assesses me and comments. I ask, "Did you learn that reading Grey's Anatomy?"

He laughs, "I haven't gotten to that chapter yet. Just unofficial observations from what I've seen making the rounds. I'm sure that as a lifeguard all summer, you saw your share of belly buttons winking at you. What do you think?"

"Let me see yours."

I figured he'd laugh that off, but surprisingly he obliges, lifting his untucked Polo shirt. The sight of his concave innie in a vertical oval causes two more twitches under my towel. I want to reach out and touch him, but I restrain myself. "To steal your line from earlier, just another face in the crowd."

He chuckles and drops his shirt before applying another squeeze of oil to his hands. He starts at my pecs and slowly works his way down to my abdomen. I try not to show that this is another ticklish spot, but I think I fail. He works my lower belly from side to side and I quiver uncontrollably. The bulge under my towel is much more pronounced than when I first turned over, but Paul politely ignores the emerging elephant in the room.

He says, "We're approaching the finish line. I have a few more questions before the final physical examination."

I gulp and my penis bumps up a notch firmer.

"Are you sexually active?"

My cheeks burn red, which surprises me as I thought that most of my blood was rushing to another part of my body. "No," I reply.

He makes a note on my chart. "If that were to change, are you prepared to be safe? It's a different world out there. A scary world. It's not the 70's anymore."

I think of the unopened box of condoms in my dresser drawer that my dad gave me on my eighteenth birthday. "Paul, I don't remember these questions last year."

"We're learning more every day about this new cancer. How it spreads. We in the school's medical office take awareness and precautions seriously. If you ever run out of condoms, we have some available on site. Safety is nothing to be embarrassed about." He glances at the towel, then back at my eyes, "We're in stock for all sizes."

I continue to grow beneath my veil. "Yes, I understand. Safety first." What I don't tell him is that I can't imagine needing a single condom before I graduate and the whole box of them expires.

He goes back to his form, "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No."

"Are you a virgin?"

That pushed me to almost fully erect, "What does that--"

"Mike, we're not posting test results outside of the office door. This is strictly for your school medical file."

I sigh, "Yes, I'm a virgin."

"But you masturbate?"

That did it. I am now officially at full mast. The towel slides up my hips as my manhood stands proud underneath.

"Yes."

"Mike, it's time for me to finish the exam and the massage. I am going to remove the towel now."

I swallow and nod.

He pulls away the towel and I feel the cool air of the room hit the wet, glistening precum coating my head. I close my eyes and pretend that Paul is a wrinkly old lady. It doesn't work. I imagine his grey eyes and cute face as clearly as if my eyes were still open. And his toned arms and strong hands...

He says, "Well, everything appears to be in good working order."

My eyes are still closed but I can hear the huge grin in his voice. And I didn't think it was possible, but I just got harder.

I feel something strange press into my skin at the base of my erection and run up the length of my shaft. I open my eyes and find that I'm being measured. What the fuck?

Paul says, "Seven and a half inches. When you find that someone special, they'll be very lucky."

This time I don't have the spare blood for a blush.

Paul is standing over me and I can't help but notice that the soft fabric of his pants is revealing quite the bulge of his own. He makes a final note in my chart and re-oils his hands. I gasp as he takes hold of my scrotum and gently fondles each testicle. Next, he grasps my steel rod and I grab onto the bars of my headboard. He uses both hands and slides up and down my length. I immediately see skyrockets. Paul senses I'm already close. He releases me.

"Mike, I want you to fight against it. Hold out as long as you can."

He takes the towel and spreads it over my stomach and chest.

He once again takes hold of my penis. "Not everyone is a two-handed job. You sure are."

He winks at me and how the hell does he expect me to not blow my load just from that? He knows I'm a virgin. He knows I'm locked and loaded. He can see how horny I am.

He begins a slow stroke and my hands grip the headboard harder. As he reaches the top of each stroke, he drags his fingers across the glans and I shudder and shake. He stops the stroking and changes to a dual thumb massage that runs up and down the underside of my shaft. I can't believe I'm not blowing my load yet, but what feels like holding out for five minutes is probably more like thirty seconds. Then he grabs my shaft with both hands again. He twists several times, each hand in opposite directions, and the room starts to spin. Then he runs his thumb in clockwise circles just below the mushroom cap and my whole body jolts. I am about to disappoint Paul because I can no longer hold out. His last move triggered my pending explosion. There's no stopping it now. No going back.

But he doesn't seem to mind. Or to judge me. And to my extreme delight, he never stops those thumb circles. My head pushes into my pillow, my hands squeeze the bars, my toes curl and my whole body racks as I rocket ten ropes of cum onto the carefully placed towel. My one victory was that I manage not to scream.

He keeps the circles going until my convulsions cease. Paul carefully folds the dirty towel and puts it in the corner. As I try to catch my breath he says, "Hopefully today is laundry day." He smiles and I snort.

He makes one more note on my chart, "You, Mike, are an extremely healthy twenty year old young man. There are not many guys like you around." He gives me a knowing smile. "If you ever need any medical advice or treatment, call or visit the medical office and ask for Paul." He almost whispers, "I am available for dorm calls."