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She murmured a noncommittal response as I’d stepped out into the hallway, and then she promptly shut the door in my face. With a smile, I turned and made for the stairs. She obviously didn’t want to run the risk of me kissing her. And her kissing me back.
But I can wait. And the payoff will be more than just a sweet goodbye kiss.
I shower, dress, and then I head to meet my latest vagina appointment, though not for a bit of afternoon delight. Actually, I’m delivering a child.
I’m lucky enough to live within walking distance of my Harley Street practice, but as Princess Jowhara Bin Salman Bin something or other has gone into the very early stages of labour, I hop into my car to drive to the private hospital where she and her entourage of fifteen have been housed in several suites. I’m not kidding—fifteen people, from her hairdresser to her poor put-upon maid. Her husband isn’t with her, but I think that’s somewhat normal. She’d flown in via private jet last week from the Middle East somewhere—Bahrain? Kuwait? One of those places—to have her fifth child, along with a fifteen-strong audience.
Not really.
In the UK, the majority of births without complications are managed by the care of a midwifery team. But for those with the means to pay, it’s private hospital and an obstetrician all the way. As London’s youngest consultant obstetrician, I have the pleasure of both working in the private and public medical fields. As well as delivering babies at St Lotte’s, I also work out of University Hospital, a hospital in one of London’s lower socioeconomic areas. I have the utmost respect for the midwives there, who happen to be all women. Though I’m sure there are male midwives out there who, I suspect, are viewed with the same kind of curiosity as any man who goes into my field.
As it happens, I have the utmost respect for not only midwives, but also for women in general. Yes, I’ve been a bit of a bastard in my romantic life—a total chancer—and I might stretch the odd truth here and there for the purpose of getting into a lady’s underwear, but all that stops when I step into professional mode. Because, seriously, who wants to be spread wide and strapped by their ankles only to see the doctor holding the wrong kind of tool.
Believe me, those scrubs hide nothing.
But that’s not to say I haven’t enjoyed playing the very same scenario in my private life. Or bent the odd woman over my desk.
But never a patient.
The idea of banging a doctor, in my experience, seems to be a popular one with a certain subset of women. Add in the wordgynaecologistand you can often see interest double in their eyes. There isn’t a party I go to where I’m not sequestered in a corner to dole out advice “for a friend”. And when women find out my field of specialty is obstetrics, it’s pretty much the equivalent of walking into a room with a box full of Labrador puppies.
It’s safe to say my profession serves me well.
Why a man would choose gynaecology fascinates most women. But the word gynaecology literally translates to the science of women. Why wouldn’t a man want to study the science of half of the population of the world? And the more fascinating half, to boot. Women are wonderful, a fact I maintain in both my professional and private lives.
And while others tend to illness and death, I bring life into the world. How fantastic is that?
There are drawbacks, of course. I’ve been hit on by patients. At best, it’s awkward. At worst, a hazard. And men are the worst at understanding why I chose this field. But it’s harder to explain to them. The reasons are numerous. When asked, I generally just answer with a shrug.
Because I didn’t choose the pussy life, the pussy life chose me.
I slam the door to my Maserati, a car my profession wouldn’t ordinarily afford me. But I come from money. Old money. Old money that’s fast running out. Castles and homes that are national treasures cost a fuck tonne of money to maintain. And the running of it all will fall on my shoulders when my bastard of a father finally finds his way to hell. But those are worries for another day, especially as my phone buzzes with a text from the lovely Sadie
I’m sorry I slammed the door in your face. Thank you for looking after me last night.
You’re most welcome, I text back.Though I’m not sure you received the full service. I’m happy to slot you into my diary again.
I’m sure you would, comes her immediate response.
Free. Gratis. On the house.I quickly send her another text as I head towards the staff entrance.I forgot to mention the arse shagger was exercised this morning.
And how was it for you?Oh. Cheeky Sadie. I like it.
I’m processing.
Or maybe imagining.
The sound of my shoes echoes in the corridor as I send her the texts in quick succession, immediately following one with another.
Just so we’re straight, the arse shagger was the dog?
I know we snuggled last night, but I guarantee you’d know if you’d had the pleasure.
I can just imagine her expression as she read that. Slack jawed and heated, hopefully imagining it, too.
Thank you for walking Sir Lancelot.
That’s it?I respond.No thanks for the snuggles?
