Series Title: Perfectly Normal Hospital.
Chapter 4: No Guy Knows Gynos
“Sex is not a pathology.” Doctor Kim blinked twice, fanning long groomed eyelashes like Egyptian fronds. “It’s completely normal.”
Brittney ignored her. Not that she wasn’t listening. She heard rather acutely the individual words. Doctors of this kind always made her anxious. No one else in her life poked or prodded her genitals—and she determined to not show any sign of weakness, to be as unrepentantly hostile as possible to very concept of promiscuity.
“All girls your age feel this way.”
Other girls did not feel this way. The first promised awaking had been totally false.
As all the boys at school would readily tell you, they were all loud and gross. They farted regularly and with much gusto. They made squealing guffaws at crass low humor and saw nothing in the deeply compelling romance of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. There was not a single one among the rowdy masses, cheeks blushing with cruel laughter or pale with fascist intensity at their own disturbing fixation on nerd ephemera. Brittney knew many loud, horny, frustrated boys that all uniquely disgusted her to the idea of having sex with any of them.
“Many women, even my age—” Doctor Kim had a self-flattering way about her. Clearly aware that someone her age shouldn’t look this good. It was easy to picture her saying it, how she shouldn’t look this good while fluffing a fur collar against her cheeks.
“Have a great deal of trouble expressing themselves sexually.” You wouldn’t know it to look at her. From the casual slump of her shoulders to the sultry low cut labcoat was tawdry, the kind a slut would wear to costume party. She seemed ready to blow a globe of pick bubble gum across the room. A pair wide-rimmed, bookish glasses kept slipping on her nose; much larger than any modern prescription would require.
“They see themselves as mothers, as business leaders – as activists in the community. It’s not easy to reconcile adult roles with a healthy desire for sex.” Dr. Kim continued checking her notes only sort of talking to me with the side of her mouth, eyes fixed on her little rounded white tablet computer. Expressing herself sexually was obviously not a problem for Doctor Kim. “It’s hard for them to act like horny fuck slave and a responsible mother of five. They can’t just be having sex whenever they want, however they want. Only in the home, behind closed doors. Never ever in the street.”
“Not that- you know, the street would be very comfortable – obviously—the concrete—”
Brittney rolled her eyes to keep up. Everything about Kim was screeching and brazen. Hideously indiscreet, her breasts thrust up in her white doctor’s corset and everything, everything, lined with a thin peachy trim usually reserved for prop-comedy handcuffs. Magenta pink.
“It’s natural to have impulsive sex. It’s only human.”
“No.” Dr. Kimmy was visibly disappointed.
“Are you suuure you’re not sexually active?”
It was the kind of nonsense question that had made the bane of her existence on poorly written math exams. No, she wasn’t sure or, yes, she was sexually active. Any logical statement could be so easily bent in it’s phrasing as to become useless. Brittney chose instead to answer the question.
“I don’t—” Brittney paused. Choosing her words. “Find” It was either ‘find’ or ‘have’ and Brittney made the choice nimbly.
“Other girls” or “Other Women”? Should I have said women? I don’t find other women. It had a more formal, authoritative sound. ‘I don’t find other girls . . .’ It sounded foolish.
“Attractive.” There. That was it. That was good right? That sounded adult and to the point. ‘I don’t find other girls attractive.’ Exact. Concise. Zero room for misinterpretation. Brittney sipped at her cup, down the small hesitant drops that clung to the bottom.
“Reaaaally?” Dr. Kim squinted incredulously.
“Really.”
“But like . . .” Kim struggled to find her footing. “You’ve already said that like, you haven’t fucked any of the boys – or nothing!” NOTHING. It was unbelievable.
“Right. That’s- yup. Correct.” Brittney met Kim’s gaze exactly, her solemn teenage sobriety boring like acid into the innocent incorruptibly naive moon-pools of Kimmy’s amazement.
“So not even if like—”
“Nope.”
“like a really hunky kinda—”
“Still no.”
“Just uh—” Kim made a gesture that can only be described as gorilla-arms. “At a party was taking pictures.”
“Definitely not. Not cool.” Just the headline of that information was fundamentally wrong. A guy at a party taking pictures. The parties Brittney imagined included only very carefully staged self-portraits. Tasteful selfies that highlighted the important things in life, like books and studying with your friends in their Pjs.
“And you’re dancing with your friend and you’ve both been drinking—”
“No drinking. 18 sorry.” In middle school another student called her straightedge. She still felt somewhat proud remembering it.
“No? You don’t have any friends that would be into that?”
“No.” Brittney did not have any friends like that. Or rather, she didn’t have friends like that anymore. A day or two ago, one of her friends from school had sprained her ankle at soccer practice, and when she came back she had said some pretty hurtful things about her and boys and wanting to fuck boys. There was about a dozen unanswered texts fired in both directions that had left their friendship scarred, exploded debris everywhere. The last message was just a roster of boy names with a question mark. Brittney had absolutely zero desire to come over and watch Scandal and eat out her pussy in the shower.
“Ooookay.” Doctor Kim shook her head disbelieving, the way a sassy Sherpa might to climber forgoing an oxygen tank.
“More water?” I tipped the brim of the little cup towards the tiny faucet and basin dug into the nearby portable shelf.
“So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to show you a few pictures and all you need to do is rate them. From one to ten in terms of attractiveness.” Dr. Kim held a clicker, Brittney recognized it from her college prep course where you answered questions by pushing buttons on a little electronic stick. It was pretty cool.
“So a one being . . . ?”
“So one being less attractive and ten being more attractive.”
“This sounds really judge-y.” Brittney had seen many videos on bullying.
“OMG I know, right.” Kim clapped her hands, so easy to please. “It’s sooOOoo catty. It’s like, it plays to the worst stereotyping of women as like gossipy self-absorbed bimbos, but like- this can be really important. Like super important.”
Kim seemed to want me to say something. To validate it somehow. She had been tilting towards me in a searching sympathetic tendril of body language, like a cat leaning in for scratches.
“So it’s important then.”
“Like super-DUPER important!” Kimmy swung back around in her cushioned swivel seat to load a film sized canister into the head of a dentist’s lamp that hung over our conversation.
“Data about like, what people find attractive is so important. It’s worth like, a A LOT of money.” Kimmy enthused. She felt pretty good about it. Things were working out for Doctor Kim.
“That’s why we’ve limited the responses to just one number on a linear scale based on your perceived sense of what is average. We’re not collecting data on the people in the images, we’re collecting data on you. We’re looking to see if your responses match with expected patterns reliably found in large data sets. We are not talking about people who are ugly or beautiful. We’re just collecting data.”
“So think of it however you like. The test is about honesty. So if a one means: I’m not attracted to this person. Fine. If ten means someone so impossibly sexy that just the sight of them makes you cum your brains out and marry them then whatever. Anyway first picture—”
There was a click, like a revolver’s camber rotating into place and the dentist’s light bloomed into focus. On it’s bubbled, jaundice-yellow screen, a tall lean man in a clean collared shirt looking blissfully unaware that he was being photographed flickered into view. He was munching on a bagel. The beginnings of a trimmed orange beard wrapped neatly around his jaw. A man on the street image. He was neither particularly homely nor handsome, he looked as if he could be on BBC.
“One.”
Doctor Kim said nothing. She pressed a button on her tablet and there was the clicking sound again, like a View-Master toy. Just as plastic, just as clunky.
The screen blinked and you could see a roller of black pass over behind the glass screen. The tall ginger was replaced with a sort of mugshot. Their face and shoulders not in or out of shape, a superposition of both. One of those perfectly framed, exact center profile shots. It was either black and white or so naturally drab and colorless it made hard to place in time.
“One.”
That time Brittney heard Kim cluck her tongue. Maybe ‘one’ was a little harsh but I wanted to leave here in no uncertain terms. I was not irregularly horny for average dudes, I didn’t want to GRAB them or anything.
Kim clicked her little pen-like device and the slides changed, the knocking sound of hard plastic gears clunking together. Brittney imagined that this must be what Tinder is like. This amount of contact with their human profiles was less than a fly whizzing past. Not stopping to land longer than a second or two. A buzzing filled the room.
The slides continued. Doctor Kim affectionately mumbling “Number 1 . . .” Followed by indeterminate waiting. “Or . . . Number 2.” And the world would flip upside down and a new stranger of no particularly exceptional features would appear to take their place. I got another refill in that tiny little paper water cup they give you – just big enough to be fit for a mouse.
Blond, dusty brown hair. A sprinkling of sawdust. Black curls. Clean cut. They whizzed past, a conveyor of haircuts and mild jawlines. Sometimes women. Not many women. Brittney tallied up the five she could recall, all in great detail.
It was just data. A random, nameless collage of human profiles. Posed. Unposed. Free stock images or whatever cheapest package the hospital could afford, of different faces. Eventually Brittney began to loosen up and give out some two and threes. It was harmless. Really. All the girls were definitely fives.
She said a number and the machine rolled over like a music box. Her responses plunking the keys mechanically. After each the lens would shift and new human scenery blossomed into view. It was all just people, everyone of them. All the same, Brittney made a conscious choice to undersell her numbers.
Not that they didn’t reflect the nature of the question being asked. On a scale of one to ten, rate their attractiveness. Spelled out plainly in white text boot stamped into each image, it left a lot of room for loop holes. She was confident her average score indicated an appropriately level of disinterest in copulating with the general public.
The dampness she felt, well, that was from before.
“So do you . . . see many people with second puberty?”
“Oh yeah. Pretty often.” Six just this week. They were quickly becoming the bread and butter of the hospital, as regular as mammograms. Some days all Kim did was feel boobs. This last week at least.
The screen flipped, oscillating between some twee underfed beardo and a chubby Chris Hemsworth. Brittney registered them both as five, and reported them as fours.
“It’s just that, I’ve looked through my health textbook and there’s no mention of Second Puberty.”
“Well that’s because they just teach the first one in high school.” Kim’s tiny, delicate asian thumb pushed down on that silly red button, which still stood out even in the relative darkness outside the lamp’s halo, and a skinny ethnic Jonah Hill washed into view like a body nudged to shore by the sea. Another four.
Her throat felt sore and implacable, the dryness of her lips sealing shut like a tomb. Her white little paper cup was ruined by ceaseless fidgeting. The faucet miles away. “The second one is more of a college course. Which I hear that’s where you’re going next year! Congratulations!”
“Thanks- but like, I went online.”
“Not WebMD—” Dr. Kim groaned.
“But like, even other sites don’t say anything about a Second Puberty. Like not even Wikipedia—”
“You simply can’t trust every thing you see online. Besides we’re almost done.” The machine clicked again. A much younger Jeremy Clarkson, handsome but with those same clear deformations and vulgar expression.
“Three.”
The screen powered down. The lights undimmed.
“Aaand that’s it. That wasn’t so bad right?” Dr. Kim put down the clicker and returned to her notes. She saved the spreadsheet on her computer and closed it.
“I suppose not.” The walls of the room were still the pale yellow they were twenty minutes ago. The same indistinct floral patterns, grapes hanging from their stems like beads. A framed picture of a smiling baby nestled between medical diagrams. Something was missing. “So this will tell you if I’m going through puberty again?”
“Not completely.” Wheeling her little stool over to the wall, practically crab-walking in her heels, Kim flicked down the wall-switches. The room went black as if the light had been sucked out the ceiling. “That should do it for our ‘control group’. Now let’s try it with the scrambler turned on.” The lamp glowed iron hot.
The scram?—
Brittney’s head snapped back against the headrest as if all her hair were scooped up and yanked back into a ponytail. The veins in her neck went tight as piano wire and her whole body whipped to attention, bolted straight as if shocked by lightning. Panic signals sprinted in every direction, alarms and sirens launched fireworks and fired flare guns at every nerve ending. While she tilted slightly, her body remained stuck, board-like invisibly fused, pinned almost magnetically to the exam table.
Above her the glow of the lamp turned crystal. White rainbow flares hardening into ridges of translucent jewels, sharpened to an edge of iridescent jags. She couldn’t look away. Her legs pushed and scrawled at the lower cushions but found no strength or purchase.
“Okay so this time we’re going to try the same thing.” Kim was so reassuring. So blasé and confident in her gestures. She replaced a now smoking film canister in the lamp base.
Brittney struggled to shake her head, her cheeks turning side to side but her eyes locked in, staring up in the abyssal nothingness of the screen above her. It was like a night sky, packed full of stars. Every conceivable blank space between them filled in the with a sparkling diamond head of new light.
“I’m going to show you some pictures.” As if it were the simplest thing in the world. Like showing blocks to a baby. This side has the letter “A” on it. Can you say Ahhhhhh . . .
Brittney lunged this way and that with her shoulders, only really able to shift her chest side to side without moving. Never disturbing the stabilized rectangle of light above her. The screen could have been huge and a few miles away. It could have been tiny and pressed right up against her face. Her pupils were as wide as quarters.
“But this time, we’re going to measure the intervals between each cum.” Brittney could hear the blue of Kimmy’s sanitary latex gloves. “Okay?”
Something like panic wound it’s way up Brittney’s spine, she could feel it tunneling like a earthworm up and around the bones. Cum? That’s-
“So let’s just mark a baseline—”
And then she felt it. Not replacing, not over-riding. The feeling of orgasm coexisted with the terror and powerlessness, leaping right into the brawl and making way with it’s fists.
Brittney had never squirted before and it felt a lot like peeing. Fluid gushed out of her. Hot clear juices spitting out in sizzling bursts of ecstasy so intense and potent it shook her like a dead baby. She ran out of her, dazzling spectacular contraction. So hot it was practically steaming. It felt like she cum a pint of coffee. It left her legs shivering and her teeth chattering.
The screen above started to scream like a jet engine. Turbines howling. It’s peel growing louder and higher until finally it disappeared up past invisible and only the squealing image hung in the air.
“So I’m going to show you a picture and you just tell me when you’re about to cum okay?” Kimmy didn’t wait for a nod, wasn’t even looking at me as she said it. “Here we go.” She pressed the clicker.
The screen clipped into its new programing with the sound of slicing vegetables. Like a chop so thin it only takes off the skin. It was . . . it was two boys and a girl playing cards. It looked like a common area, unused couches nearby. The table between them was littered with the detritus of earlier games. They were all . . . clothed.
“You’ve got to tell me now, okay? I mean sometimes I can just tell, like it will be pretty obvious , but a verbal confirmation from you can be just as important.”
There was nothing special about any one of them. It wasn’t the least bit erotic. The girl was rather plain. Brown hair tied back in a way that framed her face really nice. She had just a bit of brown freckles dotting the tops of her cheeks and I guess that it did look kind of cute. All right she was actually really pretty.
The boys were, well, boys so nothing much going on there. Basket ball shorts and sleeveless shirts – which I mean I guess they wore pretty well. They both had that athletic post-puberty swimmer’s muscular to them which was all they really had going for them. I mean guess they also had a nice smile.
Genuinely warm faces. Supportive, dashing faces. The faces of young, confident theives. Ferocious, wily – and fixated lovingly on the girl. Competition splashed on their face like warm blood. Though there were three of them, they were both clearly playing for her. She says she doesn’t like it but it flatters her, its why she’s blushing. She invites it. She has a hand resting on both of their forearms, keeping them apart.
They must have been playing strip poker or something because half of her top was missing. A small pedal-red nub drunkenly freed from its garment and she didn’t seem to mind or notice. The boys of course saw nothing, snarling at each other ready to draw knives. Sizing the other up, their huge erections straining around their shorts. They looked massive and fierce. Like their cocks lift weights and drank energy drinks.
The girl had her tiny hands splayed out over both their tremendous forearms, her nails gliding astride the crest of their taunt muscles. As if trying to insert herself between them, her tiny little skirt rode up all the way over her ass as it slid over a set of perfectly formed abdominals. She left a film of grease like a slug. The boy would be quick to wipe it off and lick his fingers clean. They were seconds away from hands mauling at her breasts and big meaty dicks shimmying their way into her soaked pussy-
“There we go- let it out.”
It didn’t slip out. It didn’t dribble out in a restrained, or dignified failing of modesty. It sprayed out like a thumbed hose. A pressurized jet firing out in heady desperate bursts. It wrung her out.
“Mllaughhmm!” She tried to speak but every part of the process was failing. Brittney could hear herself cumming, it sounded like stuffing a turkey with mayonnaise and the bird liked it. Loved it. Huffed it like glue.
“There it is . . . good girl. Gooooooood girl. Brittney could feel Kimmy’s hands stroking her hair half a mile above the atmosphere, like her head were full of Novocaine.
“Let’s try the next one okay? Only a few more. That one was like twenty seconds or so, let’s see if we can get that down to three or four – okay?” Kimmy nodded for her.
This time when the screen clicked, the blocks of it’s machinery groaned in slow motion. Hideously massive stone cubes thundering with impact. Details of the new vision came in as if burned through her retina.
Two girls in impish swimwear, deliriously happy. The kind of mad unthinking happiness of too much physical energy. The left girl’s arm extended out towards the frame as if taking an selfie in the bathroom. Their bodies arched inward, presenting gorgeously rounded asses. The wet red glow to their skin and fog on the mirror told of hot showers and giggly drunken whispers. The girl on the left looked straight at the camera with an ironic duck-face.
The girl on the right stared down at her friend’s tits. The blush on her cheeks came out pink against her pale skin. There was a hunger in her eyes that made it clear this wasn’t just about fun. Her eyes were sincere, lustful. This wasn’t just some mad dare she would regret in the morning. This wasn’t a fucking game to her.
The girl on the left had no idea. No fucking clue. She had no idea how much her friend wasn’t just playing with her top. Naïve to hands on her breasts, thumbs wrestling with her nipples, and had been excited to see how many likes the photo of them kissing might get. No clue how much she wanted to pull that stupid top down and slurp her tits raw.
Brittney wondered how far you could get with that. How long you could sustain pretense of a friendship before it was no longer possible to deny that this bigger than some fun selfie for Instagram. That girl on the right wanted to hold her down and make her cum. Wanted to rip her jeans down the middle eat her stupid little pussy until she couldn’t breathe.
The girl on the left’s pussy was a complete mystery. A quivering El Dorado Spanish explorers could only excavate two at a time. She had no fucking clue what could happen there. Right girl could show her just how big her clit could get. How to tease it into a quivering swollen grub. How it could hum and shake, so thick with blood that it made you scream mercy. Again and again it made her scream. Could make her fucking scream herself crazy getting fucked pressed up against her friend, their lips all over each other, breasts sliding together, holding each other tight as their boyfriends fucked them stupid all day-
“OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHH GAWWWWWDDDDDD!!!” Brittney finally managed words. “FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK—” She chomped off every word like biting through fruit leather.
Again, the liquid. It was fierce. It felt like peeing though indescribably different and much better. Incomparable. Scorching, sour, sweet fountains burst out of her, singed with joy and shame. Brittney couldn’t imagine she held that much water. Somewhere in reserve, a hidden pouch of sex juice ready to fly out at a moments notice. It felt like a grape squeezed into a raisin. Everything had to go.
“There we go . . . good girl.” Kimmy soothed.
Brittney laughed or snorted. She was a good girl. She was the best girl. Brittney was so fucking great.
“Drink this.”
Drinking turned out to be super easy and Brittney was really good at it. Her mouth was already wide open. Doctor Kim spooned out a goopy white liquid from a bucket, thick as melting candle wax or hot icing. She fought it with her tongue, swiping at it as it dripped into her mouth. It was some kind of ranch. Some kind of butter-sweet, creamer-thick consistency and it was crazy good. Every part of her tongue that it touched left standing and shouting for more.
The orgasm she felt as she drank barely registered as annoyance as she had to grit her teeth and the precious fluid pooled between her lips. She hardly squirted at all. She kept her balance on the table. Her arm didn’t jerk wildly. It was just a pleasant rise and fall of emotion. Brittney wrapped her tongue around every tonsil and toothpick-place in search of it.
Not the bucket, not the wooden spoon or even Doctor Kim’s elbows as she worked at it obscured her view. The light stabbed right through her flesh, shone through like stained glass. Colored in human shapes and tones.
“Please—” When it stopped. “More.” She used her words.
“In a minute. More pictures.” The booming of the blocks above. A dancing musical melody of sensation blew through her consciousness like rocketship. Straight through highway billboards promoting abstinence, the nuclear family, and safe-sex. How silly it was that people could be joined in a union where no one was allowed to fuck. Where people covered their dicks with funny rubber hats and didn’t just keep them always buried in the nearest gash. All the TIME everyone spends on romance and how little of it on getting fucked up against a wall or with the neighbors.
All around her were big gorgeous, jaw-dropping man-cocks and she was supposed to ignore them. Brittney was expected to always maintain eye contact and never stare wantonly at all the thick, engorged penises or grope with her hand even though that’s what everyone wanted her to do. She was never supposed to rip off her clothes and let more than one man fuck her at a time. Not even when her pussy was empty! Oh god it was so horribly empty. The idea that she was allowed only one boyfriend to fill this duty was a nightmare beyond reckoning. The very idea of an oily brown dick and it’s fat red cockhead spurting cum made her want to sing.
Every boy she could think of would be a perfect, wonderful fit. They were made for it, their curvature a masterful architecture of want and desire. Brittney had the utmost confidence, a unquestioning certainty that her pussy would accommodate. It HAD to. It wasn’t fair to have this hunger and not the means to feed it.
She could feel the strings of Kim’s hair against her inner thigh. Could feel the cat-lick roughness of her tongue. All at once, Brittney realized what an incredible asset it could be to be sexually attracted to everyone. That women had a sexual beauty she could find accessible in her feelings and not just her mind.
How happy her friend would be if she just said “Yes”.
She just giggled. Brittney couldn’t see, but she knew Kimmy’s face was dripping with her honey. The orgasms came on quicker now. The images barely hit the screen before they were replaced. Blurring together. The pictures moved, like a movie. The thundering was constant now.
Kimmy had been able to get two fingers in once, twice, three times and then stop and wait for Brittney to stop gushing, then go back in and repeat. Now they hit her, one after an other. Two at a time. They exceeded the limits of rational mathematics.
Deep and incredible epiphanies about theoretical mechanics of a great tittyfuck thunderstruck with their simplicity. He could be on top of her, straddling her chest. Holding up with boobs with two fists wrapped around her nipples. The ease in which a veiny bestial cock could be squished between her tits was a revelation, her nipping at it’s head as it rushed at her mouth.
Because of course it could reach. Brittney imagined two smooth eggs shaped balls the size of lemons hanging low in the sack, pressed right up against the undersides of her breasts. Big enough that his thighs were just a little bit taller. And his cock would run like a freight train right through the valley up past her chin where she could only lick and hope to catch it. It was a game they played. Her and her boy- . . . friend.
She came so fucking hard. Doctor Kim made a mental note that the patient tasted like key-lime pie.