It was much like the tricycle in Laugh In, a decidedly non-spectacular accident but enough to break my right leg below the knee. Oh, the acute pain was long since over with, but then, weeks later, I'd been reduced to the chronic malaise of boredom.
The doctors--the "orthopods" -- had done a magnificent job of patching me, but it required a couple of operations and a long-leg cast only a little lighter than the Staten Island Ferry. I was mostly confined to a lumpy day bed that'd been set up in my living room and there I vegetated, sinking slowly into terminal ennui.
There was no one to blame but myself. Inattention and distraction perhaps were the culpable causes. I'd just left the hospital on my motorcycle and was going home to grab my bags and take off for two weeks's vacation in the Caribbean. I loved to SCUBA dive and hadn't had the chance to explore warm water reefs in far too long. Too, I reflected ruefully, this surgical training was a marked impediment to the most rudimentary social life, for it'd been equally too long since I'd been laid. Two weeks in the Caribbean would surely treat both those problems.
Anyway, driving in traffic, thinking of those long-standing deficiencies, I was totally unprepared for a sudden stop by the gal in the car just in front of me. A rabbit, I guess, had darted out and she'd slammed on the brakes. I swerved and didn't make it. My tibia and fibula were caught between my engine and her bumper. Damn! Once again, steel wins out over bone.
In the first few weeks after the operations, I hadn't been much concerned with horniness but later, five or six weeks out, that biologic imperative kicked into in overdrive. And I was a beached whale! For example, just the previous evening, I decided to take a bath. Wrapping my cast in garbage bags for the shower worked well enough, but didn't allow a relaxed soak much less the opportunity for a casual wank. Then a solution came to me, the brilliance of which was dazzling!
With the help of a woman friend -- a friend in the strictest sense of the term -- I lay in the empty tub with my plaster-casted leg held straight up. She measured the distance from the bottom of the large tub to the top edge of my cast. We'd put in an inch or two less water than that and I'd get my soak. Such hubris. Completely ignoring Archimedes, I lowered myself into the warm water with a self-satisfied grin. That is, until the water rose and inundated the top portion of my cast! My friend, Joanne, thought it was hilarious; I thought it was a conspiracy between fate and the perversity of inanimate objects.
The next day the orthopods took some delight in explaining the principle of displacement of water to me as they immobilized me in yet another to-the-crotch cast. However, they didn't think the coat-hanger excoriations they found on my leg were funny. They were the result of of my home treatment for the excruciating itchiness under the cast. I knew they were right, of course, but I suppose I held that rules were for other people.
In the past few weeks I'd experienced several, mostly unsatisfactory, self-induced orgasms. I suppose there was something too clinical about the whole thing. I couldn't jack off left handed and the cast on my right leg was in the way. My wrist kept banging away at the casts's edge and I ended up with flecks of plaster all over the place and worse, the tell-tale deterioration of the cast's upper edge. I might as well have painted an arrow and wrote: "See, Billy's been beating off again!"
Besides, I wanted to get laid, not jack off. But how in Hell could I do that? I was getting around much better with crutches but I could think of no way any woman would be attracted to me in that getup. And even if she were, I couldn't flex at the hip worth a darn. Perched firmly on my personal pity pot, I wasn't coming up with much to alleviate my tubocharged libido.
At the time, I was living in an old house on the corner in a middle-class neighborhood south of the university and just a few miles from the hospital. I was a house officer, a fancy name for a post-doc fellow. The house was a mess when I "inherited" it, looking like the Gestapo had just left. Lots of elbow grease and several trips to Pier One and Cost Plus had transformed it into a bright and friendly place. Not admitting it to anyone, I'd made some burlap curtains and dyed them orange.
That afternoon the sun had turned the orange to a bright flame, coloring the old hardwood floor before me. The discordant ring of a phone that'd been dropped too often cut through my rumination. Probably the hospital, nagging me to catch up on my charts.
"Hello? Dr. Hayden?"
I didn't recognize the voice, but then I didn't know all the clerks in Medical Records.
"My dictation's all done--just signatures--that's all that's left."
"Uh, Dr. Hayden, this isn't... I mean this is Bobbie."
Bobbie? The only girl I knew who called herself Bobbie was, of course, Bobbie Johnson! That Bobbie was an impossibly long-legged, short-haired blonde medical student who'd been with me on her rotation through surgery, oh, about six months ago. I remembered her well. Lean, yet with good breasts, boyish hips, and pale blue eyes, she was somewhere between tomboy and feminine. She'd been working across from me once in the ER, wearing a overly-large scrub shirt, one that afforded me a long look at her braless breasts. I guess I stopped working, for she looked up, caught the direction of my gaze and then looked down into her own shirt. I looked away and she murmured, "Shit."
"Johnson?" I asked.
"Yes. Bobbie Johnson. Do you remember me?"
I laughed and said, "Oh yes! I remember you, lady."
Mostly I remembered how incredibly smart and talented she was. She had walked through the unreasonable grind of a surgery rotation without complaint, often doing more than anyone might expect. I recall writing her evaluation and adding that, 'Ms. Johnson assumes responsibility well... often when it's not offered.' That wouldn't be a good recommendation for an administrator, but in surgery, it'd be regarded as praise.
"I heard about... uh... about your motorcycle accident."
"And you wanted to suggest that I should know better, right?"
"I suppose you hear that more than you like, but I can't say a thing -- I'm riding a Triumph Bonneville myself."
"Good bike. Bad brakes."
"I'm careful," she defended herself.
"Did you call to talk about motorcycles, Bobbie?"
"Not really, but that's the first non-medical thing we've ever discussed."
She couldn't know about the conversations we'd had in my head, about her curvy butt and the way she licked her lips before she said something. She didn't know how sexy and attractive I'd found her and that was simply because I'd tried not to be a predator with female medical students.
"Well, Johnson, it's nice to hear your voice. Did you match for Duke?"
I knew she wanted to intern at Duke and stay there to go into surgery. In the bad old days, she'd never have had a chance, but the combination of a gradual shift in bias plus her outstanding record could well gain her entry to a prestigious program.
"Can you believe it? Yes! I got the internship. That's my foot in the door. They'll never be able to get rid of me now."
I smiled, thinking how dogged and persistent she was. The chief of my service was a Harvard-trained, stuffed-shirt surgeon who openly held that women should stay at home and have babies. Bobbie had gone after him repeatedly, wearing him down until he consented to have her take a rotation on his service. That's how I first met her, wondering how she'd managed to move that stubborn old man.
"Bobbie, I'm pleased you matched for Duke. I'm really pleased for you, but is that why you called?"
I'd never known her to socialize; she lived in the hospital and the library it seemed and she'd never chatted with me before. Jeez, was she feeling sorry for me? I couldn't stand that!
"Uh... no, Dr. Hayden... "
"Christ, Bobbie, school's out. Call me Bill, won't you?"
There was a pause and I could see her thinking this one out.
"Sure, uh, Bill," and she laughed. "So... I wanted to thank you for your help and to say good-bye before I leave."
"When's that? I asked.
"You called me to say good-bye?" I asked.
"Well, I really called to see if I could stop by to see you and say good-bye in person."
She'd graduated last week; she wasn't a medical student anymore. I wondered, did my self-imposed deal end when they graduated?
I said, "As it happens, I'm not doing anything right now. To be honest, I haven't done anything in weeks. I'm about to go stir crazy. I'd love to see you."
"I got your address; I know where you live..."
"I know how poor medical students are, but could you stop and get some ice cream?
"I can afford that... just. Mocha chip okay?"
"To die for!"
She said she'd be here in under 30 minutes; my thoughts were whirling. What was this about? Why me? And why now? Did she feel the same chemistry? She never gave a hint. I'm probably thinking with my dick.
I remembered seeing her in a short skirt the first time. I'd been riding a bicycle around the campus near the hospital and I stopped to watch some people play tennis. I'd once played a fair bit, but the demands of training had pulled me out of that sport years before. Still, I liked the game and enjoyed watching good players. The mixed doubles game that had been playing on the end court was just breaking up as I arrived, but the two women stayed to play some more.
.... There is more of this story ...