My Hometown—September, 2014
“Lean back.”
I do, pushing into the padded head rest. The vinyl covering is cool to the back of my
shaved head. Nice. Relaxing.
I look at the handsome face looking down at me. He’s wearing pale green scrubs. I love the amount of hair on his forearms and
the dark forest peeking out of his shirt.
I close my eyes.
His slightly fleshy fingers gently prod my neck, graze
against the sides and touch my temples.
The bulge in my 501’s swells slightly.
“Now open for me.” My
mouth opens. “Wider.” I oval it as big as I can.
His fingers are in my mouth.
Probing.
God, I hate the taste of latex.
I open my eyes and stare at my handsome dentist as he tells
me to stick out my tongue and say “Ah.”
Now he’s scraping.
The combination of my ubiquitous cup of tea made with hard water and an
over active saliva gland at the base of my front teeth always make me feel like
I’m an unfinished David to his Michelangelo.
Well, maybe now more like Moses to his Michelangelo.
But he’s not doing much chipping today.
The dentist stops mid-cleaning and looks at me: “I don’t know what you are doing, but your
teeth are very clean. Keep on doing
whatever it is.”
It was the piss party I attended two days ago, of course.
I couldn’t quite bring myself to tell him, though he might
laugh. I have never had a check-up so
close to the event—and I know the amount of piss I usually consume takes tartar
off my teeth like nothing else…
It’s no accident the Roman Legion cleaned their teeth with
their own piss.
I open again and he goes to work. My eyes close.
Suddenly he’s hosing into my mouth.
If only…it’s just the water jet.
“Now spit.”
I do—but I’d be proud to swallow him…
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