Ethan sat in the waiting room, impatiently crossing and uncrossing his leg over his knee. He slid down in the seat, squirmed back up, and shifted in the chair. He’d never been to a urologist before. This thing with the glowing… it had to stop. It wasn’t hurting yet, but it couldn’t be right. He didn’t trust doctors any more than he trusted any other authority figures (and perhaps even less, as doctors knew so much about drugs and their manipulation that they were probably partly to blame for the contaminated particles in the water, for the addictive carcinogens in cigarettes, and for the preservative chemicals food. But there were limits, and green glowing pee crossed that line for Ethan.

The room was a dirty daisy color, like the yolk of a hardboiled egg. Comfortable chairs with blue cushions lined one wall, divided occasionally by tables. Magazines spilled and spread across most of the tables, and also lined a rack by the door. Along another wall were a few straight-backed wooden chairs. Opposite these was the sliding window of the reception desk, and a single plastic and steel chair. It was in this uncomfortable spot that Ethan sat, valuing the vantage point (he could see the door and the other patients, and watch the door open to admit people to the bowels of the office) over ease of posture.

Twelve minutes past the scheduled time, they called his name. He rose awkwardly, shook his left foot which had fallen asleep, and followed the nurse through the door. She watched him as he shuffled along.

“The pain is pretty bad, eh?”

He looked at her, startled. “I… excuse…what?”

She looked down at his leg and his limp. “It’s ok. But it’s a good thing you came in when you did, if it’s that inflamed.”

Ethan’s face became inflamed.

“Oh, no ma’am,” he coughed. “My foot fell asleep. That’s all. Really. There’s no pain.”

The grey-haired nurse fixed him with a look. “You’re sure?”

Ethan swallowed hard and nodded.

She smiled. “Well, good, then. You just have a seat in exam room three, and Dr. Resnick will be with you shortly.”

Ethan nodded his thanks and entered the room. He sat on the observation table, flinching slightly at the crinkling of the sterile paper. He let his feet dangle over the edge and sat with his shoulders slightly hunched, his hands on the edge. His palms stuck to the paper, and it crinkled again when he lifted a hand to scratch his nose. There were tongue depressors in a jar across the way—Ethan found this somewhat odd. Next to these were two boxes of rubber gloves and a biohazard recepticle. This made sense, though it did not reassure him. But least reassuring of all was the large tube of what could only be some sort of lubricant. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

As he waited for the doctor, Ethan kept his eyes closed. He didn’t really want to keep reading about how to do a testicular cancer self-exam, or the warning signs for the human papilloma virus. The door was closed, and since it was getting chillier, the heat was on, making the room somewhat humid and warm. He’d slung his jacket over the chair in the corner. Somehow, even with the climate control, he knew any instrument they needed to press against any part of his bare skin would be colder than a Coke can from the cooler. How they managed that was beyond him, but he figured that the guys in the sterilization industry moonlighted in refrigeration. The warmth coaxed him into a sort of woozy, dreamlike state, and the walls of the room seemed to spread out and away, and he was in the dark behind his eyelids, floating, sleepy, wandering somewhere not inside his body…

The door opened.

“Hello, Mr…. Donne. How are you doing today?”

Ethan’s mind froze, crystalized back into place and lodged somewhere just this side of shock. Was that voice… female?

“Mr. Donne? Are you alright?”

Ethan coughed, took a breath. “I’m, uh, fine. Sorry Doctor…” He opened his eyes.

She smiled at him, briefly, a curt gesture that seemed fit for her thin lips. Her nose was narrow and fine. The cheekbones were seemingly cut from glass, and high, and above them rested frozen blue eyes. She looked like a scalpel, and the blonde bob framed her face perfectly.

“Oh my god.” Ethan moaned slightly under his breath. He didn’t know if he dared take another breath.

She offered her hand. The nails were unpainted, and short. “Resnick. Leslie Resnick. I’m a urology specialist.”

Ethan could hardly raise his hand. This was the moment he’d ached for, and dreaded. He could’t believe his hand was actually about to press against her skin and wrap around her fingers. He swallowed, loudly, and took a deep, ragged breath.

“Ethan. Donne.”

She shook his hand quickly and firmly. He felt a need to wipe the sweat from his palms when she let go, though she made no indication that she had noticed. He closed his eyes tightly, squeezed them shut, and then opened them and looked again. There she still stood. But instead of the pale teal scrubs and white lab coat she wore today, all he could see was the black leather straps, stilleto heeled boots, and rubber ball gag she’d worn the night before at the club. Was that a stethoscope around her neck, or a coiled bull whip?

It was her… the leopard woman…the ringleader… the leather queen. Here, in front of him, about to examine his gonads, was the object of every fantasy he’d had for the last 2 weeks. In the flesh. Not similar, not familiar, but exact. Dr. Leslie Resnick, urologist, was a dancer at the Crystal Palace.

“Now. What seems to be the problem?”