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But as she ordered me to sit, then booked me an appointment, seemed surgery would be an inevitability. The GP had warned me hernias wouldn’t mend on their own, my dog wouldn’t sleep downstairs (not unless I had an attractive male houseguest, anyhow), and my girls needed me fighting fit by next winter.
“He’s highly recommended,” she commented. “Look—all these people here, on the website, saying how wonderful he is. Honestly, Rob, we’re going to bloody sort it out. I’m sick of you moaning.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s going to be dropping your trousers and letting someone stick a knife exceedingly close to your tender parts. Have you read the list of possible complications? Spoiler alert: most of them contain the word testicles.”
Obviously, being female, and having pushed two kids out through a small part of her anatomy I tried my hardest never to picture, my sister wasn’t the most sympathetic. “Rob. A complication involving those would require you to grow a pair first. Listen. Would you like me to come to the appointment with you and hold your hand?”
“No thank you.” Having a stranger staring at my bits was enough, without my sister gawping too.
The posh waiting room at the private hospital was several steps up from the NHS. More like the foyer of a smart hotel, except without a much-needed bar. Mind you, it could have been a gilded salon in the palace of Versailles, and I could have been perching my bum on a priceless Louis XIV chair—my legs would still have turned to string. A cup of coffee appeared at my elbow, complete with chocolate sprinkles arranged in the shape of a heart. A couple of fancy biscuits were laid out on a little tray. Just looking at them, a wave of nausea sprang up.
Mr Christopher E. Richardson’s pretty blonde secretary handed me some forms to fill in. In a dreamy voice imbued with awe, she seemed utterly unable to mention her boss without referring to him as ‘the lovely Mr Richardson’. She repeated it a lot, as if by invoking his name her obvious worship of the bloke would be reciprocated. Maybe it was. Maybe the lovely Mr Richardson and she banged the hell out of each other over the back of the ridiculously plush waiting room sofa every chance they got. I’d sunk so deeply into it I’d be risking another bloody hernia trying to ease myself out.
“The lovely Mr Richardson will see you now,” she announced. I must have looked as sick as I felt, because, with a friendly pat to my arm, she added, “Don’t worry. He’s absolutely lovely, and it’s nothing he’s not seen a hundred times before.”
I liked to think my dick and balls were unique, but nonetheless, I appreciated the kind words. She ushered me into the consulting room, then, after another pat on the shoulder, let herself out, closing the door softly.
A man dressed in a dark jacket stood up from behind his desk, hand already held out for a perfunctory shake.
And suddenly, all my worries about the annoying hernia vanished.
She was right about one thing. Mr Christopher E. Richardson was bloody lovely. Naturally, in his work environment, Evan wore a suit, a deep navy one, paired with a lavender shirt. I didn’t know much about colour wheels, complementary shades and all that bollocks, but the combination of austere blue, pale skin, black hair, and lavender seemed a good one. Oh, and sparkling green eyes that blinked a few times in recognition before crinkling with undisguised pleasure.
My legs, which had been shaky before, now felt like I was trying to pirouette on a dish of chop suey. It wasn’t clear which of us was more stunned—or pleased.
“Rob! Hi! Goodness, how nice to see you! I didn’t recognise your name—your surname. I don’t think I ever knew it! Come in, come in!”
Turned out Mr Christopher E. Richardson tended to go by his middle name, on account of him and his dad sharing the same first name. He ushered me to sit, slightly flustered, caught as off guard as me.
“How are you?” His voice was rich and warm; all my nervous tension oozed away at his calm, deliberate manner of speaking, as if the three months since we’d shared wine and supper across my kitchen table had been merely three days, and we were already half a bottle down. “How’s the farm? How’s…oh my god, I can’t believe I’m asking…how’s Watermelons?”
I laughed, something I hadn’t anticipated doing at all this afternoon, while I tried not to blurt out precisely how wonderful it was to see him again. “I’m good, thank you. The farm’s less snowy, and Watermelons is…yeah, uh…still…um, big.”
“Good, I’m so pleased. And…and Zeus?” More delicately pitched. Asking after the wellbeing of any elderly creature was fraught with peril.
“Still smelly. He’s out in the truck, sulking because I wouldn’t let him join me.”
“Um…probably for the best. Send him my regards.” He retreated to his side of the desk. “I often think of you, you know. You were so kind; God knows what would have happened if you hadn’t come along when you did.”
I often think of you, too. And what would have happened if you hadn’t left when you did.
“Anyhow.” He scanned the computer. “Down to business. Your GP has referred you because of a hernia, yes?”
My heart couldn’t make up its mind whether to canter wildly or decelerate to a trot, settling on an uneasy mixture of both. To be fair, my head couldn’t either. On the one hand, I wouldn’t be dropping my trousers for a total stranger, something I generally only did when three sheets to the wind and with more seductive mood lighting. Even better were Evan’s green eyes and deliciously cool aftershave, both brilliant distractions from the terrifying certainty this consultation would conclude with a recommendation for surgical intervention. Don’t get me wrong. My irrational fear of blood and guts still bubbled below the surface, but seeing as he’d already witnessed my phobia at close quarters (and held the sick bowl), it receded.
On the other hand, the virtual stranger across the desk, who had solely occupied my thoughts when I’d banged a different random and unimportant stranger in Bristol last month, was minutes away from exploring my groin. My sister had hinted I should wear the new underwear she’d supplied me with at Christmas for my hospital visit. Thank God I’d taken her advice.
Evan interrogated me about the lump, and our conversation settled into a normal doctor-patient interaction. Struggling to concentrate, I wanted to interrupt, to ask him if his divorce had finalised, if he still thought he was gay, if he’d care to explore his newfound sexuality with me.
Instead, I had to make do with confirming an absence of bladder problems and that my bowel habit was unchanged. Not exactly the chat-up route I generally explored.
“Shall we have a quick look at your little bulge, then?”
That wasn’t one of my usual come-ons either. All fingers and thumbs, I began unfastening my belt. Was I the type of guy happy to get my kit off in front of another bloke? Absolutely. My day job provided a regular workout, gifting me strong thighs, broad shoulders, and a firm set of abs. I wasn’t gym-honed; I didn’t own the kind of six pack men bragged about on Grindr, but my body hadn’t gone totally unappreciated by the hook-up community of Bristol. That’s not to say I was an exhibitionist either—far from it—but sports changing rooms, communal showers, revealing all for a quick fuck with the RAC man? Not a problem.
Dropping my trousers, then peeling down my boxers in the quiet calm of Evan’s clinic, as he tapped out a few words on the computer, were more problematic, but thankfully, my cock was trying to turn in on itself. Which, on balance, was preferable to an inappropriate hard-on.
“Don’t bother lying down.” He looked straight into my face and not at my bits. “Just hold your shirttails up out of the way. Hernias are easier to examine with you standing.”
