Where Wild Things Roam

Conflicted

Darby    

Dr. Myers and I lock horns in a tense stare down when our visit turns to the explanation and discussion about a pelvic exam. At my shoulder on the exam table, Ian looks like a deer caught in headlights, warring himself with the value and validity of both arguments.

“It’s a screening tool, Luna. To assess the internal organs of the cervix, uterus and ovaries,” Dr. Myers explains again.

“So you’ve said. It still provides me no rationale. Are you, a fully-trained, Board-certified Medical Doctor with years of experience, telling me that your fingers are the best possible medical screening tool you have, particularly on an asymptomatic patient?” I pause, waiting to see if she has an answer, pleased to see her question years of changing medical recommendations, and, more specifically, the relevance of it in this particular case. “You’ve read the exhaustive and intrusive medical history you asked me to provide. You took blood with the intention of running tests on it. And you’ve arranged for an ultrasound. What can your fingers possibly tell you that those won’t?”

“It’s your body, Luna.” It’s Dr. Myers’ concession without a concession. “If you’d rather not, we can certainly proceed to the ultrasound. Do you still consent to that procedure? The Alpha is welcome to remain with you.”

I glance at Ian, who shrugs half-heartedly and nods weakly, still looking green around the gills.

“Very well.”

Dr. Myers’ assistant rolls a compact ultrasound device towards the exam table, then extends the table’s protected arms with small cups at their ends while Dr. Myers washes her hands then pulls on gloves.

“If you’ll lie back, please, Luna,” Dr. Myers asks, taking a seat on a rolling stool at the foot of the table and laying a thin sheet over my lap. “Scoot your bottom to the end of the table and put your heels in the stirrups, and we’ll finish up here quickly.”

For the life of me, I can’t figure out the reason for the stirrups. Ian and I have been present at a few of both Lili and Anna’s ultrasound appointments. They involved some clear goopy gel spread over their abdomens to provide good contact and medium for the soundwaves administered through a paddle-like probe. But as I listen to Dr. Myers describing what she’ll be doing to visualize my internal organs with the inflexible plastic probe, I realize, that isn’t the experience I’m about to have.

Oh, for f**k’s sake! What is it with this culture and its degrading invasions of female bodies?

The flimsy sheet draped just over my knees obscures my view of the goings-on between my legs, but between his height and where he stands holding my hand, it’s abundantly clear it doesn’t obscure Ian’s. Dr. Myers’ gloved hands press against the inside of my knees, spreading my legs wider and exposing my personal parts, then she sets a hand gently on my abdomen just above my mound. “This will feel a little cold, and there’ll be a slight pressure.”

I gasp at the shock of lukewarm lubricant, quickly followed by the feel of the thin probe, that’s nevertheless about the width and breadth of two fingers, sliding into my p***y. My hand tightens around Ian’s, but I’m more surprised to feel his tighten around mine and look up, alarmed. His eyes have dilated so wide they’re more black than deep blue and he’s focused entirely on the space where Dr. Myers has inserted the probe.

Between my legs, Dr. Myers makes some control adjustments to the image, turning the ultrasound machine on its wheeled cart to ensure I can see it. Her hand returns to my abdomen, gliding over my skin as if guiding the vaginal probe with it as she pushes it about inside me, then points out the different internal organs on the small screen, those she had expected to examine moments before with her fingers.

 After entirely too long for my comfort, she removes the probe, and the uncomfortable pressure against my vaginal walls and cervix stops. Handing it to her assistant to dispose of, Dr. Myers cleans the excess lubricant from me with a wet wipe. Even though I know the ultrasound is a much better diagnostic tool than the doctor’s fingers, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been conned.

“Everything looks good here,” she advises, patting the outside of one thigh as she removes my heels from the stirrups and tugs the sheet over my legs. Rising, she walks to the sink, removing and disposing of her gloves in a bin beside it before washing her hands. “It’ll take twenty-four to forty-eight hours to get the labs back. Once I review those, I’ll give you a call and we’ll decide on next steps.”

When Dr. Myers waltzes out the door with her assistant in tow, Ian helps me sit up on the table.

“You look as disturbed as I feel.” I ease myself off the table, dropping to my bare feet on the cold floor, and begin dressing.

Ian rubs the back of his neck but doesn’t meet my eyes. “I think I am.”

I shimmy into the sundress I wore to the appointment, astonished to do so without his usual molestation. I turn to him as I fasten the corded frog closures on the bodice. “But?”

“No. I sympathize with you entirely. It’s an— intimate violation.”

Now he looks distinctly uncomfortable. Closing the distance between us, I step under his downcast eyes, forcing him to meet mine. “Oh my word,” I chuckle. “You were turned on.”

Ian squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth. “f**k! I’m sorry, baby.” He wraps large hands around my upper arms, gripping gently, and looks so conflicted and remorseful when he glances at me, I can’t help but laugh more.

“Oh, I understand. All that debate about fingers—,” I drawl the word softly, watching a crease start between his brows, “—and probing,” I let this word purr and the crease deepens, his grip tightening incrementally, “and having to stand there still and quiet, unable to participate.” My voice has dropped to a silky whisper. “Just watch.”

“Darby, stop! f**k!” Ian crushes me against him, quivering and burying his face in my neck. “You’re killing me,” he half laughs half chokes. “I’m sorry! I know what just happened to you was invasive and upsetting. I didn’t like that part. If we were alone though—I—I couldn’t get it out of my head. Sweet goddess, f**k. When did I become a pervert like Jack?”

It’s cruel on my part, but I’m entirely helpless to stop it. I tip my head back and shake with laughter. “Oh, Ian, please. You’re a far cry from Jack’s depravity. Now, look at me. Come on. Look at my face.” I kiss his mouth when he looks up, cupping the back of his head with one hand and threading my fingers into the blackened waves of silk.

“Forgive me?” he pleads in a whisper.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Ian. I’m quite certain you’re not the first male that’s ever happened to and you won’t be the last.”