Chapter 2
"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes," the doctor said.
There was a trace of a British accent. He was perched in an overstuffed brown leather armchair with a wooden pipe cocked to the left of his lips. A half-empty cup of tea sat beside him on a small table, next to a copy of a book titledThe City and the Pillarand a well-worn stack ofAdonismagazines.
The doctor was a bear of a man with raven black hair. Though he was freshly shaven his broad face seemed encased in a permanent five o'clock shadow. He wore a crisp white lab coat over a neatly ironed white button-up shirt and a maroon striped tie. His beefy thighs were casually spread open wide in traditional black slacks.
"Are you a real doctor?" I asked.
"Indeed, I am, mate. University of Liverpool, class of 1932." He thumped his chest proudly, then took a puff from his pipe.
The sweet peppery fragrance of tobacco filled the air. It conjured up a long-forgotten memory of my father, who used to smoke a pipe too. The dark, masculine aroma was long missing from my home and smelling it again made me feel oddly at ease.
"I found your note in a magazine." I held it out for him, like a small child seeking validation from an elder.
He smiled and nodded at the paper. "So what can I do for you, Mister—"
"Collins," I said. "Thomas Collins... Sir."
The doctor took the note out of my hand and set it on the table since I was just holding it there in the air, unsure what to do with it. Then he took my hand and enveloped it within his. "Nice to meet you, Mister Thomas Collins. I'm Doctor Doyle."
His touch was warm and comforting. An odd tingle rippled through me. He seemed to sense it and let go, allowing me to continue fidgeting as I stood before him awkwardly.
"So, Doctor Doyle, uh, sir, I've been having some very bad pains in my private area. Your note said you'd be discreet."
"Yes, of course, my good man. Well, tell me, when did the pains begin?"
"Around the beginning of this month."
"Can you tell me specifically where the pain is at?"
I gestured with a circle to my general groin region. "Down here."
"In your testicles?"
"Um, I guess. Well, it starts there, but it seems to spread out to my lower stomach."
The doctor rubbed his chin as he seemed to mull it over. "Tell me, have you been engaging in any type of sexual activity?"
My cheeks felt hot and I imagined I must have been as red as a strawberry. "N-n-no, of course not, sir. A nun told me that's very bad. I haven't touched myself down there in years. Honest. I mean, well... Except to go to the restroom. I have to touch myself then. Oh, and, well, to wash myself. But that's the only time I ever—"
He raised his hand to try and calm me. "Don't worry, son. I'm not here to judge you. I just want to understand your situation. Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night with something sticky in your shorts?"
How did he know about that?My heart began thudding harder; so loud I wondered if he could hear it. "Uh, yes, sir. As a matter of fact, that does happen sometimes."
"That's perfectly normal, Thomas. Your body needs to rid itself of the semen it produces. If you don't get it out manually, it will eventually release itself—usually nocturnally."
"Nocturnally?"
"When you're asleep," he explained. "Have you woken up with sticky shorts recently?"
"Well, no, sir. It used to happen every week or two, but at the start of the summer, it just seemed to stop happening."
"And that's when the pain began?"
"Mostly, yes."
He took another puff from his pipe. "What do you mean, 'mostly'?"