When the hunter becomes the hunted

Can a man say no when offered sex without asking?

In Summary

• Doctor pressured to stretch his oath to mean kiss but don’t tell



Being a doctor is no walk in the park, especially not while one is single. Sometimes we bite off more than we can chew. Case in point, my 11 o’clock appointment today.

As a physician, one is trained to be impersonal. We aren’t supposed to see patients as individual people, but rather as mere cases that require our attention.

So, my 11 o’clock appointment was supposed to be a “throat infection,” not Mrs Masharibu, a bombshell suffering way more than a fake cough.

“What can I do for you, Mrs Masharibu?” I opened.

“Can you do me, you mean? The answer is yes, doc!”

“Pardon me?”

“Just kidding. I have a problem with my beaver.”

“You have a beaver? I’m impressed. Most people make do with a cat. Or a dog.”

She laughed. “I’ve heard it called a ‘cat’, but never a dog.”

“Wait!” I shifted my eyes from the chart in my hands to her face. “Are we talking about the same thing?”

Without warning, Mrs Masharibu hiked up her skirt. “I came in for this.”

Beneath the rich folds of red chiffon was nothing but miles of flawless chocolate skin. On her clean-shaven pubic region was a tattoo that read, “Insert probe here.” For emphasis, an arrow pointed downwards.

I quickly averted my eyes. “Mrs Masharibu, I thought you came in for a throat infection.”

“You’re a doctor. A hole’s a hole, isn’t it?”

“But… I’m not a gynaecologist.”

“I know that, silly. But you’re a man, aren’t you? That’s what I need. A man!”

I caught on. “You have a husband for that.”

“Half a husband, if that. Since he started that new travelling job, I hardly see him. And when he’s home, he’s deader than a sack of potatoes. Just give me a pap, doc. I just want to feel something between my thighs.”

I held the door open. “I’m afraid you visited the wrong shop. Psychiatry department is down the corridor to the right.”

She rushed me, banged the door shut and dropped to her knees. “Please, doc. It will remain between us. No one will ever know.”

“Why me? A beautiful woman like yourself must be spoilt for choice.”

“Why you? Two words — Hypocritic oath.”

“First of all, it’s called the Hippocratic oath. Secondly, I know you’re referring to the part about doctor-patient confidence, but I’m afraid it also states, ‘primum non nocere’ — first, do no harm. In your condition, that’s exactly what I’d be doing.”

“No, doc. You’d be doing me. It’ll take no more than a minute of your time. Besides, you’re single. It’s not like anyone will be offended. She went for my trousers, clawing around for the zipper.

Diary, before I said “No way, Mrs Majaribu,” and kicked her out of my office, I had to summon more will than Samson needed before bringing the temple down on those blasted Philistines.

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