The Beds

The Beds


“Sometimes, you never know your wife’s not happy with your performance until you find her oiling another man’s lug nuts.”—He Who Wishes to Remain Nameless

“I got an idea. Why don’t we push the beds together? Or maybe get one big one. All the married couples on the block have one.”

Her husband stood there appalled, with his mouth hanging wide open. “Why, the very notion of that is just atrocious. Not to mention disgusting! How could you listen to their hedonistic garbage? What next? See each other naked? Or open-mouth kiss? Insanity! ”

His wife arched her eyebrows. “Eugene, we’ve been married a year now and yet we still can’t have children. You know how badly my parents want grandchildren. We have to try something.”

“Occasional handholding should work fine enough. That’s how I was conceived, you know. What you’re implying is sinful and goes against Catholic teaching. Inappropriate touching and unnecessary closeness. Do you realize what you’re saying? You’re basically just asking for a one way train ride to you-know-where.” He pointed a finger downward.

“I’m just saying we should explore our options. A lot of couples do it, you know. Does that mean they’re all going to hell?”

The husband cupped his hand over his mouth and gasped. He turned a chalky white at the very word. “Oh my stars! You said it! You said it! You know what that means? You have to say ten ‘Hail Mary’s’ by the end of the day or you’ll end up you-know-where!”

“Of course. But I was wondering if we could first see a gynecologist today. Maybe he can help us with our baby crisis.”

The husband’s eyes narrowed. “Well, all right. But you know how science is against Church doctrine. As soon as he even suggests the possibility of cloning or robot children, we are leaving there like a bat out of you-know-where.”

———

Dr. Mark Watson hates his job. He’s a gynecologist. And he’s the only gynecologist in the whole town who smokes cigars and drinks whiskey regularly in his office, with or without patients in there. He has nothing to hide, he says, smoking and drinking kill and he wants everyone to know that he’s killing himself in a slow pleasurable way and he wants them to know that they’re the reason why he’s doing it. It’s funny how suicide can bring such joy into someone’s life.

Mark wasn’t always suicidal. No, when he first got out of med school—bright-eyed and hopeful and probably doped-up on the ‘pheen—all he wanted to do was study gynecology. Mark thought that gynecology would be a springboard that’d help him dive into the many attractive young virgin ladies in town and also give him an excuse to touch them as inappropriately as he wished.

Boy, was he wrong. In fact, in the twenty years he’s been practicing, he hasn’t had a date with (or hasn’t slept with, for that matter) anyone younger than fifty-five. Or anyone who’s a virgin for that matter. According to him, he forgets that boobs are firm at one point in a woman’s life.

So, I guess you could say Mark reached that point in every man’s life where he’s waiting to die or waiting to fuck the hell out of a tight-twatted blonde virgin.

A knock came to his door. His receptionist introduced a tight-twatted blonde virgin. And the tight-twatted blonde virgin’s husband.

She was a real pretty thing: flowing blonde hair, milky skin, a tight tummy, and a nice curves that were still showy through her Amish-esque blue-white dress. She’d make Hugh Hefner drool.

Oh, and the husband looked like he had something crammed up his ass.

“Doctor, my husband and I can’t seem to have kids. We’ve tried everything.”

Mark lit his second cigar of the day and took in a long steady puff. “What exactly have you two tried?”

Before she could talk, the husband stepped in. “Excuse me, doctor, I’m not sure what that has to do with anything. It’s a private matter.”

Mark smiled. “Sir, I understand your concern. But I’m here to help. I can’t help if I don’t know the exact intricacies of your problem. Don’t worry: everything said in here, stays in here. Completely confidential.”

“Honey, he is a doctor, after all. It’s ok. I think we can tell him,” said the girl in sweet reassuring voice, caressing her husband’s hand.

The husband sighed and finally nodded. “Fine. Tell him.”

She peered back at me with vast green watery eyes. “Why, doctor, we’ve tried everything: holding hands, wearing each other’s shirts, caressing knees, and even things that veer near scandalous, such as close contact dancing.”

Dr. Mark spewed out a long stretch of pensive smoke. He let the words sink in a bit and with his most detached and cynical voice, he asked the husband: “Have you tried fucking her?”

“I beg your pardon?” asked the husband.

“You know what I mean. Screwing her. Having sex with her. Making love to her. You know, just plain ol’ fu—”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Where did you get your medical degree? Pottymouth University?”

“No, Harvard Med, actually. But you’re close enough: it’s a liberal deathtrap there. The only reason I’m here is because I made some horrible career choices. My lesson to you: don’t drink and decide.”

The husband grunted and snorted and faked a cough. “You know, you really shouldn’t be smoking in here, in front of your patients. Smoking kills. And God doesn’t want us to kill.”

“Yeah, but it’s patients like you that drive me to smoke. So really, you’re the one killing me. Smoking is a reminder of how incredibly annoying people like you really are. If anything, maybe God doesn’t want you to be some damn annoying.” I hate my job and my patients, thought the doctor; it’s like fucking Amish country out here.

Eugene, the husband’s, eyes bulged out of his skull; his skin exploded into a heated rare-steak pink. “That’s it! Honey, get up; we’re leaving!” He grabbed the cute girl’s hand and forced her up. “There’ll be no more talk from Dr. Potty-and-Smoke-Mouth.”

They walked out; the husband slammed the door.

“My name’s actually Dr. Watson. Dumb fuck. The cute ones always go for the gentle dumb fuck gay guys. Then she wonders why she’s unhappy and why her uterus is emptier than a buffet tray after serving a line of fatties.”

The doctor sighed. I’ll be drinking for weeks to try and forget that, said the doctor to himself while drinking out of a flask he had in his shoe.




A month or so later, the married couple returned.

“Hold on a sec, I need to get ready for this,” said the doctor, downing a whole flask. He knew there wasn’t enough liquor anywhere to make this experience any more bearable.

“Oh, so you drink too,” said the husband, shaking his head.

“Of course not. That’d be unhealthy. It’s my medication. It helps make annoying things less painful. And it also helps my liver grow big, strong and inflamed. I was born with a small liver, you know. Now, how can I help you?”

This time, the girl talked. Thank God too, she had a sweet little choir girl voice that sounded a million times more sugary than the shrill annoying sound of Eugene. She had a certain innocence to her. A certain innocence you wouldn’t mind fucking out along with her brains. “Doctor, I convinced my husband to stop by again to ask you about the method you suggested last month.”

Dr. Mark nodded. The little sixteen year version of him smiled in his mind. “All right. But first, when was the last time you visited a gynecologist?”

“Oh, this is my first real visit, not counting last month.”

“Ah, I see. Then I’m assuming you’re a virgin.”

She nodded. The little sixteen year old version of him ran across his mindscape naked, screaming, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“How long ago was it since your first visit from the monthly twat monster. Um, I mean your period.”

She had a dumbfounded and confused look on her face. He explained.

“Oh, that. When I was twelve. About thirteen years ago.”

“I see. I think it may be time for a mammogram. Should I schedule one?” Nowhere near the time for one. But why not?

“Sure, doctor, if you feel I need one.” Oh, indeed he’d feel something all right.

The husband cleared his throat. “So, doctor, are you going to show us this method of yours? Or are you just going to continue pestering my wife with useless perverse questions?”

Mark smiled. “Would you like a model demonstration or a live one involving your wife?”

Eugene squeezed his wife’s hand. “Use the models.”

Dr. Mark dug into his desk and found his model organs. He started playing with them and banging them together like a little kid playing with action figures. He even made the noises to help enhance the experience.

After a little bit of this, the girl giggled, trying to hide it with her soft tiny hand. Eugene gazed at the doctor horrified; his mouth wide open and twitching.

“But why would that be out? And what’s that other model a model of? A European electrical outlet? You want me to stick my…my…you know…in…an…an…electrical—?”

After yet another lengthy explanation of the mechanics of it all, the husband said, “Oh my God! That’s absolutely disgusting and grossly sinful! I feel nauseous and sick just listening to this…this…this banter! Why, are you implying that we see each other naked?”

The doctor slammed his hand on his forehead and slid it down his face. He whipped out his flask and shot it to his lips. He sucked on it, but nothing but air flowed out. Empty. Damn.

“I wasn’t implying that you see each other naked. I basically and blatantly said it. And I was implying a lot more, really, than just seeing her naked.”

“Why, that’s horrifying! And you call yourself a doctor?”

“No, just my patients and the National Board of Allopathic Medical Examiners call me that. My mother just calls me Mark.”

“Well, Mark, have a wonderful day. We’re leaving.” And so they did. Mark left the office, put up a sign that said Back in Five Minutes, and ran to the liquor store. God, he needed a drink.

———
Give or take five months roll by. The doctor is once again sipping a drink and smoking a cigar with no regard to his health at all.

Eugene, ‘Mr. Uptight’, strolls into the office. “Well, doctor, my wife is five months pregnant. We’re expecting a nice healthy baby boy. My nice healthy big baby boy. And guess what? We never once tried your disgusting uncivilized method.”

“Well, that’s very nice. I’m glad for you, I really am. Are you here to invite me to the baby shower, per chance?”

“No. I’m here to show you that your sinful methods are wrong and that you’re steering your patients down an evil sinful path. I’m here to tell you to repent your ways or be consumed by the fires of you-know-where.”

“Oh, I see.” He put out his cigar in a glass ashtray. “But I’m curious, Mr. Barker. Have you ever once masturbated or swore or drank or even thought about—um—pleasing a member of the opposite sex?”

Eugene shook his head. “No, never. The one time I did think about a girl impurely my mother beat me over the head with a frying pan and poured scolding water down my pants. She figured it out after she found a pair of starchy boxers from the night before.”

Dr. Mark gagged and scrunched his face. “Ouch. Wow. What the fuck? I mean really, what religion are you weirdoes? Hell, are any of you guys still around?”

“Oh yes. Many. We’re Catholics.”

“Oh, really? Me too.” Eugene looked like he was about to have a heart attack. “I thought the Church said that most of that stuff was ok. I’m pretty sure that you can have sex if you’re married.”

“Lies! Heretic!” Eugene launched a paperweight at Mark’s head. The weight slid by his face, just swiping the hairs of his sideburns. The paperweight tapped against the wall and dropped. That could’ve been ugly. Thankfully, Eugene throws like a girl and aims like a Russian sniper who’s had a little too much vodka.

The doctor brushed himself off and pretended not to notice. “Well, I guess not. And all this time I thought I was a great Catholic. I help the community, I say ‘Our Fathers’ every now and then, I get my hour of sleep once a week at Mass—and for what? For nothing. Jesus Christ, what the fuck am I doing wrong?”

Eugene vaulted from his seat. “I wouldn’t know where to begin answering that. Nor do I have the time. I must be going. I just wanted to stop by and tell you you were wrong. God’s will prevails again. Goodbye, doctor. I hope to never see you again.”

Eugene headed for the door, but the doctor grabbed his arm and stopped him. “Before you go, Gene, I just want to say this: I fucked your wife. And enjoyed every damn second of it. And let me just say this too while I’m at it: she’s a wild one and a half. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

Eugene looked bitter and his face scrunched and his eyes narrowed. He shrugged off Mark’s arm. He stepped out the office. But before he left, he poked his head back in. “Before I go, Mark, I just want to say this: go fuck yourself next time.” He slammed the door and walked out. Their eyes never met.

Eugene went home, but first he stopped by a bar. His first bar. He took a sip of whiskey and got smashed beyond all recognition. Granted, he was out in a sip, but he was still out cold.

Then he went home and fucked his wife. “That bastard doctor was right,” howled Eugene, “you are a wild one.”

And from that day forth, they slept in one big bed like everyone else on the block