'Spasms' behind sperm source bobbitting

“You must have many questions,” the doctor says.

Actually, I’m wondering why they don’t have questions. Like, why did you try and bite that man’s penis off? Also, why hasn’t anyone called the cops? Or are they outside? I want to ask but the nurse mentioned that I may have oro-whatever, so I’m going to keep my mouth shut until I learn more.

“You have a condition that is very challenging to live with. How long have you had it?” asks the doctor.

I shrug and start on the second glass of whatever to avoid having to speak.

“When was the last time this happened? The spasms?” he asks.

I have no idea what he’s talking about. I touch my head. The bandages. Head injury. I need to fake amnesia until I know what oro-whatever is.

“I really can’t remember,” I say, wincing in pain.

“Yes, I understand,” the doctor responds. “You have been through quite an ordeal. Rest for now, we’ll talk more later.”

He scribbles something on my chart and hangs it at the base of the hospital bed. “We may need to up your dosage on the pain meds. Let’s observe for the next two hours,” he says to me.

The nurse takes the now empty glass and they both leave. I hate hospitals. I hate the silly gowns that show your backside to the world. I hate the food. I hate the antiseptic smell. But most of all, I hate the medical charts they hang for everyone who walks in to know everything that’s wrong with you, with a quick glance.

But today, I love hospitals and their awesome charts. I give it a few minutes and then I slip out of bed. I open the chart. Oromandibular dystonia is what they think I have. I remove the pen from the side of the chart and cut off a piece of paper. I quickly write down the mystery disease and put back the chart where I found it. I crawl back into bed and ring for the nurse.  

“Did they bring my things in when I got here?” I ask.

“You had some papers stuffed in your clothing,” she responds.

Good, the contracts are safe. Thank you to the heavens.

“The paramedics also found two phones on the scene, a wallet and a handbag,” she continues. “I’ll bring them to you now and you can identify yours.”

She returns a little later. She hands me the contracts. One of the phones is mine, the other belongs to Chris. The wallet is his. I take my handbag and phone, informing her the rest are his.

“Who consented to his surgery?” I ask.

“He did,” she answers.

“Did he say anything?” I ask.

“Just that you bit off his penis during fellatio,” the nurse answers with no judgment whatsoever on her face. “You don’t remember?”

I furrow my brow.

“As the doctor says, you need to rest. All this will come back to you,” she says.

She leaves and I quickly grab my phone. I head straight to a search engine and type in the name on the scrape of paper.

Mmm. Found it. Oromandibular dystonia occurs when the muscles that move the mouth and jaw are affected by involuntary spasms. Oh my word. They think it was an accident. They think I bit off his trumpet because of an involuntary spasm. They actually believe that through no fault of my own, my jaw clamped down on his member. I start laughing. I laugh so hard that my head starts hurting. I have taken blows to my head; I need to get a grip.

Oh, blimey. I might just get away with this.