A Moveable Feast

It was time for my annual physical exam today. I hate going to the doctor's office. The doctor's office is one of those places where drinking beer is frowned upon.

Once I had checked in I sat down and opened up the book I am reading, Hemingway's "A Moveable Feast." I was just getting to the good part of the book where Hemingway sits down to have a drink with the painter Pascin and two model sisters. Once Pascin gets the small talk out of the way and orders Hemingway a beer he asks, "Do you want to bang her?" singling out the darker of the two sisters before explaining, "She needs it."

Hemingway takes no shit from the French fuck, answering, "You probably banged her enough today."

I should have read all Hemingway's books years ago.

As I read and waited for the receptionist to call my name more patients entered and sat down. One of them was a pretty brunette. Tight pants, tight top, tight all over. I kept reading my book, looking up once in while and wondering what could possibly be wrong with her. When I was her age I never saw a doctor for anything but sexually transmitted diseases.

She had enormous, perfectly balanced breasts. They were not real. Nothing is these days.

The receptionist called my name and I followed her to the examination room where I waited some more. I tried to concentrate on Hemingway's story about one of his days at Paris' Enghien race track but I kept seeing those magically balanced breasts and had to keep re-reading every other sentence.

Finally my doctor joined me in the room. My doctor and I have a very good relationship. He thinks I should have died years ago. Should I live to seventy-five I will be known as the Jerry Lee Lewis of Steepleton.

"You got a real looker up once you are done with me doc," I told him.

He looked at me over his glasses and said, "She had her implants done in California, if you are wondering."

I was.   

Today's visit to the doctor's office was better than most.