medicine {h.s.}

CHAPTER EIGHT

The on call room has quickly become one of my favorite specialities.

Adrian is needy in all the right ways. He's not so much of a stallion that I feel overworked in the sexual department. I never feel uncomfortable or annoyed to return back to him. It's not like he pages me every five minutes, is what I'm saying. But, he is direct in his communication. I always know what he wants from me. That's something that I appreciate in a man. Parental issues have the uncanny ability to fuck up children beyond belief. Lack of parental influence and communication changed my life in more ways than I care to admit. One way that I've more recently come to terms with: I do better knowing what people want and expect of me. Growing up, I didn't understand that my mother didn't want to be a mother. I blamed it on myself and I never knew what I was doing wrong. Only after my mother left did I realize it wasn't my fault at all. Some people just shouldn't have kids. That's all it comes down to.

Hips come down forcefully against mine. His lips are peppering kisses against my neck and his breathing is growing choppier by the second. He is close, and I am, too. Not once does he break his rhythm. His grip grows slightly tighter against my fleshy hip and he grows needier by the second. It's been a month since we first made our decision. In the time since, we've been fucking like rabbits. I know his indicators. He doesn't like to warn me when he is about to cum. Usually, he is rendered something speechless. Instead, he performs in his own language: his hands grow tighter on my waist and his lips grow slack in their kisses.

Patients are prone to experience false symptoms. This is a reason we really harp on the tests. Most often, they're the best way to receive an accurate assessment of the situation at hand. Fevers don't always mean the flu and bumps don't always mean cancer. Indicators can lie. But, Adrian's never do. Within seconds, he is coming undone on top of me. His fingers press tightly against my waist and his lips harshly bite down on the side of my neck. Twice I've already finished—he is good at what he does—and I am on the edge with him as well. Releasing with a soft, panting moan, I relish in the feeling of coming down while Adrian releases his grip on me. Seconds later, he is rolling out and disposing of the condom.

On call rooms are a favorite hospital location for a sexual rendezvous.

Though they are technically shared amongst all hospital employees, it's not as bad as it sounds. Most of time, we bring in our own sheets and wash them regularly; so, it's not like someone else is sleeping in the sweaty remnants of a dirty deed. More than that, there's a level of protected anonymity in the on call room that can't be found anywhere else in the hospital—save from some raunchy and questionable cleaning and supply closets. First and foremost: on call rooms have locks on the door, which is something that is a deciding factor amongst horny doctors and nurses. Not to mention, it's a hospital. Half the time, employees are too busy focusing on their patients than monitoring who comes in and out of the on call rooms at all hours of the night.

Maybe I'm just too preoccupied in my own life, too; but I think one of the most crucial parts of the entire situation is that I just don't care. I don't typically care when I see two ruffled employees share that mutual look of "we'll never speak of this again" after emerging from the locked door of an on call room before spreading their separate ways. The way I see it is simple: I have too many problems going on in my own life to be so focused on the un-impactful lives of others.

Of course, there is the obvious downside of the on call rooms: twin bunkbeds. Believe it or not, the on call room was not created as a place for employees to blow off some steam together. The real intent is to sleep. So that means no single rooms with queen sized beds. Instead, it's a maximized space with two to four sets of bunkbeds each. It's a tight squeeze, but Adrian and I always manage to make it work. The alternative—reveling in our shared sexual tension—is too unimaginable to entertain for much longer than the few seconds it takes to page the other.