Trauma Drama

Everyone remembers their first online-dating IRL [in real life] meeting. The nervous, the awkward, the unknown. Will he have magically packed on 30 pounds from his profile picture? Is he actually a surgeon and not a serial killer? As I was sitting in front of the restaurant, I couldn’t help but make a pact with myself that if he failed to bring a bottle of something of 11% or greater to this BYOB, he failed to win my heart. I was walking immediately.

“D?”

I’m looking at a 6’2” (check), slender (check), tan male, who only has 35 more grey hairs than in his online photo (half-check). Play it cool girl, and not like you’re terrified he could be wielding a meat cleaver in his back pocket.

The highlight of dinner was the culinary portion. His resume was rather impressive. He came to the US from abroad and began college as an Ivy-Leaguer at the age of 16, continuing at said pretentious Ivy League Medical School. He graduated with his MD before he was allowed to legally drink, which I think is a travesty. (My leisurely persuit of alcohol was at the top of my list on the special skills and hobbies section on my residency application) However, my ADD started to kick in as he went through his atas of residency, fellowship, and memorable publications. I had lost interest long before this monologue of a resume was recited in the manner of a Shakesperian sonnet, but I humored him anyway. He was currently an attending trauma surgeon at a hospital a few towns over from mine. I have never dated an attending, how inapropriate (gasp!). I could not imagine dating one of my own. That’s even a bit too scandalous for me, famous last words.

After dinner, I was somehow convinced to be taken out for post-dinner drinks. The company wasn’t that enthralling, but I didn’t have to be in early the next morning, so what could go wrong, right? If there’s alcohol involved, the convincing portion of the date is really not a difficult task. We went to a very trendy lounge for cocktails. I was way underdressed. The kind of underdressed when you show up to morning conference in your scrubs from the day before that have a stain draped across the front that is indiscernible from coffee, ketsup, or a bodily fluid while everyone else arrives in freshly pressed jacket & ties. This has only happened to me 3 times in my career as the most astute medical student thus far.

“Want to see the view of the city my place?”

View? Eh, why not? I was so uncomfortable as the trendy housemusic blasted. I welcomed the invitation to escape.

I for sure wanted to see this view, as I knew it wouldn’t be as disspointing as the rest of the components of this date. The thing about trauma surgeons is they’re loaded. I had already calculated out his potential earnings before the evening began because online dating and googling salaries goes hand in hand like Piperacillin & Tazobactam. I calculated it out to be roughly a half a million before taxes. This is on the upper end of the physician pay scale as other types of insurance (car, ect.) pay a lot of the bills for the stuff he deals with. Health insurance in general tends to pay doctors the amount it costs in toilet paper to wipe their asses in the morning. And sometimes a lot of shit come out of them, so sometimes it can go as high as 13 Pesos.

The view was stunning, it really was. At this point I had had a couple in me and as soon as he goes for the kiss I willingly accepted.

“OOOOOWWWW!” WHAT WAS THAT?! All I could feel were daggers going into my lips. Stunned, I wasn’t sure what to make out of it. Did he just bite me? Was he a transplant surgeon as well and replaced with teeth with mini machetes? Maybe it was a mistake, those commonly happen on first kisses, especially once the ETOH starts to kick in. We go in for another kiss.

“OUCH!!!” I couldn’t believe it. This was this guy’s actual kissing style. Ok, time to move on. Test CN 11 and just turn the head, make him work done the neck. OK, slightly better. His hand starts to reach up my dress. Maybe this session is salvagable.

“WHOA BUDDY!” Dr. Trauma misses my awaiting lady bits completely and heads straight for my anal sphincter. Maybe he missed? I’ll just do a little wiggle jiggle and try to reposition him. He could have missed this chapter in anatomy class. Next door my friend. Then again! Maybe he felt he didn’t get enough stool for the Guaic test on the first try. I felt a twinge in my belly button he pushed so hard. I reach down to make sure my vagina and accompaning accessories were still present and where I last left them. Confirming my venus butterfly was intact and in it’s proper place I decide to reposition his phalanges myself.

“No, I want this.” He said in a deep breathy voice.

Having my anal wink reflex tested on the first date is not my idea of a good time. Especially when I have a perfectly good purple people penis eater that is being completely neglected.

“I hear my beeper!” I explained, hopping out of the sheets like they were doused in hot sauce and my gluteus maximus was on fire.

“But you’re off tonight.”

Struggling to find my fake pager that doesn’t exist and on silent mode to boot, “That I am. But not as off as you were buddy.” I grabbed my purse and jetted out the door. I wasn’t sure if I was leaving a trail of pellets behind me, but I couldn’t look back.

Monday I rolled into work and cautiously sat myself down for morning conference. My partner looks at me with broad concerned eyes.

“Dude, your lip is pretty fucked up. What the hell happen? You get hit with a retractor in the OR again?”

“You think this is bad, you should see my asshole” I replied.