Marty

Dr. Marty

I had been in love with Marty when we were six, in the first grade, and my first tooth fell out. His parents sent him away to boarding school when he was fourteen, and I never thought I’d see him again. He materialized years later, and became my oncologist, when I’d been diagnosed with a very aggressive form of breast cancer. I was in his office for the first time.

Marty did a full exam, and I was shaking the whole time. The full import of ‘cancer’ was hitting me. He said, “Ok, lie back down”, and as I did, he sat down on the table next to me. A smile played across his face. “Do you remember…?”, he started. He had this way about him, as a grown man, that was both cheeky, and comforting. We both started smiling big, and I began to relax. We both knew he was referring to the time when we were kids, and he’d steal his dad’s old stethoscope, and chase me around with it. Most of the time, we’d end up under a bathroom sink, and we’d play ‘Doctor’.

“Yeah”, I giggled.

“I read about your divorce a few years ago”, he said. “You seeing anybody now”?

I had just started dating T. I told him, and he said, “Well, are you serious?”

I said, “Marty, what’s up?”

And he said, “If you’re not exclusive with this guy…”

and I said, “Hold on, are you single now?”

He said, smiling at me, “Yes. Un hunh.” Then we were silent for a few seconds.

He said, “I have a hunch about something”.

“Marty, are you going to ask me out?”

“Uhhhhh, well, since I’m your doctor now — right — you wanna stick around here?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, Bibi baby (everybody from way back calls me that), if you go out with me, you’ll have to find another oncologist.”

“I’m keeping you as my doctor”

“Plus, you just started seeing someone — “

“Yeah? So, what’s your hunch?”

His face got all soft, and he brushed his hand across my cheek.

“You were my first girlfriend, you know.”

“Well, you were my first boyfriend.”

“Okay. This is what I know. It happens to be a fact that cancer patients do extremely well when they feel supported”, and he put his hand behind my head; “Cared for”, and he leaned down and kissed me on the mouth; “And above all, heard.”

He stood up, took his stethoscope from his neck, put the earpieces in my ears and opened my gown. I started to reach for the rest of it, but he stopped me. “I’m going to place this for you.” “Uhhhh… OK… but Marty-”, “Ssh, Bibster. (He was going back to early teen nicknames now). I’m going to place this for you because I want to show you something. You were a vibrant and electrifying little girl, and now you’re a vibrant and electrifying woman. You’re here because this cancer created a kismet for us (his exact words. I remember.) “Now, I want you to keep lying on your back,” he went on. “I have a hunch about something.” He placed the diaphragm (the larger round, flat disc) on my upper right chest. “I just want you to listen for a minute.”

He went to all four auscultation points — don’t worry, I’m not to get technical. I listened to my own heart beats, sounding strong, and regular through the earpieces, although they were super loud. I was rather blown away, and zoning in on the sounds, while at the same time noticing my body’s arousal response. I then realized that I was very wet, and I could hear my heart rate picking up speed. I looked up at Marty’s face, and he was smiling. “I’m just proving a point, Beeb. You can hear for yourself your very own life force.” He took the earpieces out of my ears, placed them back in his own, and started listening at the same spots he’d shown me previously.

I was in a state of conflict. I had cancer, I was reunited with a dear childhood friend, and this friend of mine had grown into a very kind, and very good-looking man. We had dismissed the idea of dating each other in order that I remain his patient. I must confess that I was finding it challenging to keep my breathing level even, and to keep from squirming. I was getting very turned on. With the diaphragm somewhere beneath my breast and slightly pressing in, Marty put his hand in my arm.

“I know,” he said. I looked up at him. He said, “I wanted you to hear your life force. I predict that you’re going to sail through treatments, kick ass, and outlive all of us. Seriously.” Now I was hornier than ever and touched to the point of tears. I laughed a little laugh, and he lifted the chest piece, and placed the stethoscope on his desk. I started to close the gown, and he reached over to stop me. “No, don’t.” He took off his white coat then, put it on the chair, and kneeled next to the table, so he could be at eye level. He put his hand back on my chest. “Your heart’s racing now,” and he then took my hand and placed my palm flat over his own heart. He was wearing a V neck fitted knit T shirt, and I could feel the hard fitness in his leanness. I could also feel his heart pounding. “So is yours,” I said.

“You and I probably simultaneously developed a steth fetish because of my Dad and having access to all his medical stuff when we were kids. Hey! It’s very cool, you know, this bond we have. My hunch proved correct.” I smiled, because I understood. “Your heart started speeding up. Dead giveaway. It’s again, that strong mysterious life force that I’m going to do everything in my power to protect, defend, and allow to flourish. I’m not going to let you down Bibi, because I know you’ll be doing the same for me.”

I lost it at that point. I started to cry quietly, because it was just all too much. My love, Jimmy W, had died about 18 months before, and my dad the year before that. I had called my ex-husband to tell him the diagnosis, and he had made me promise that I wouldn’t tell our daughters because it was “too dark” for them. My mom was showing signs of early onset Alzheimer’s, and I lay there, feeling like Marty had just cracked me into a gazillion pieces of emotion. I felt his other hand join his other, and he bent down to kiss me on my mouth. It was a light kiss. He stood up, but he kept his hands where they were, and it felt so good.

“I’m going to cover you up with a blanket, and I want you to stay a while longer.” He removed his hands, and put a very nice cashmere throw over me, and then he went to his desk. He owned his practice, and his office took up one half of an entire floor in a luxurious office building across the street from Northwestern Memorial hospital. I heard him speaking into his phone, telling his front clerk that he would be visiting with his old and dear friend for the next hour or so. Then he walked back. “I’m going to start your treatment right now.”

I looked into his eyes, and I was feeling much better. He was decisive, he was strong, he was a consummate healer, he was my first boyfriend, and he was, I’ll admit it, just so damn sexy. I couldn’t help smiling, because his eyes still held his seven-year-old self’s twinkle and mischievousness. “What are you going to do….?” I said this slowly, as I felt my mouth turning up. “Okay, Beeb. I’m calling this first treatment unconventional, and it’s fine to tell this new guy, if you feel the need. He’ll be fine with it, if he’s a grownup, and if he deserves you.”

He turned and dimmed the office lights. Turning back, he said, “My treatment today is all about celebrating your life, honey.” He put both hands under the throw and rested them on my chest. “Wow, pounding. You turned out beautiful, you’re fierce, and you are also a vital link to the soul of my past. It’s no accident that we’re both here together, right now, right here.” As he spoke, his hands began a deep massage around my upper chest. I couldn’t help it, I closed my eyes, and felt myself beginning to melt into the table. I briefly flashed on Wolf, my polarity therapist friend, and wondered at my life, and the humorous parallels and synchronicities that kept showing up. I was also aware that I was really, really turned on. I knew by this point what Marty’s intentions were, and I felt no need to vocalize any permission. It was understood, and unspoken. I was with a part of my own soul.

Marty’s hands eventually slipped down to my hips, and inevitably to my pussy. I just let it all happen, and his ministrations were a soothing and boiling balm that rendered me into melted, pulsing honey. I was sweating, softly panting, and without opening my eyes, I felt his heat, and heard his breathing paralleling my own. I was a hot, slick body; my back arching off the table as he brought me home to a super wild orgasm. I’m not going to specifically describe the erotic details of how he did that. I’m not even sure I can recall enough to call that forth. All I know is that his fingers and palms delivered healing ecstasy, and it was done elegantly, and beautifully.

I ended up on his leather couch, with two fabulous feeling cashmere throws engulfing me. I slept for a little bit and opened my eyes to see him walking in holding two small, white porcelain demitasse cups on saucers. He sat down next to me and offered me one. I sat up then and took a sip. “Espresso,” he said, smiling. “The next year is going to take all your strength and determination required to beat this. I just made certain that you were kick-started along the recovery mode path.”

I didn’t say much after that. He understood. I had prayed to my Gods using the wild energy of his gift of the orgasm; I knew it, and he knew it. I know that my Dr. Marty saved my life. We came together that year, in a life-affirming ritual, expressing in ongoing rays to the world the joy of being alive, and how important it is to fight for something sacred and precious. I had a vicious and very aggressive cancer. I wouldn’t be here today, if not for my Marty.

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