Tag Archives: Flirting

The distressed damsel and the dominant doctor

A cold Wednesday morning in the podiatry department of a London hospital. With three others, I sit waiting for my consultant. He emerges. “Simone – let’s see if we can finally sort you out”. In silence I follow him to his small room and sit down.  Always composed and deliberately selective with his words, he radiates control.  I get nervous when receiving medical treatment; the focussed attention makes me self-conscious and uncomfortable. The intensity and quiet command that surrounds my consultant makes these particular appointments worse. It’s not helped by his good-looks and gravitas. This time I’m determined not to let him affect me.

For two minutes we sit in complete silence while he reads my file.  Eventually he looks up “Take your shoe and sock off”.

I do so, and without speaking he indicates for me to put my foot on his lap. He looks at it and moves my toe, applying pressure.

Consultant: Does that hurt?

Me: Yes, very much so.

He rotates the toe for a while and then presses harder, looking at me.

Consultant: Does that hurt?

Me: Yes, it really hurts.

Consultant (pressing yet harder): Does that hurt?

Me: Yes!

Consultant (giving a playful smile): I know. I like seeing your reaction.  There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

My pigeon toe after the first operation

My pigeon toe after the first operation

I roll my eyes and shake my head with a little laugh.

My foot is still on his lap when he looks at the large black ring covered in spikes on my right hand.

Consultant: That’s quite a ring – it looks like a weapon.  Can I have a look at it?

Me: Sure.

He takes my hand in his, resting the other on my leg, and looks at me intently with that twinkle.

Consultant (smiling): Jeez, that’s impressive! You could hurt me with that.

Am I imagining sexual tension? Flustered, I withdraw my hand, look away and start babbling in a light-hearted voice.

Me:  Oh the spikes are actually just rubber, and they’re flexible so it can’t do the kind of damage it might appear to be able to.

Thankfully there’s a knock on the door to break the atmosphere and my prattling.  Nurse Cherry (I’m not joking – I’m beginning to feel like I’m in a poorly scripted X-rated movie) brings in the results of my MRI.   My consultant exchanges some medical jargon with her then looks at me.

My pigeon toe after the second operation

My pigeon toe after the second operation

Me:  Oh sorry, I wasn’t listening.  I didn’t realise you were talking to me?

Consultant:  I wasn’t.  I was talking around you. (He smiles and continues). You’ll know when I’m talking to you.

And he winks at me.

It feels like he’s flirting, but could that really be the case? I say nothing while he silently scrutinizes my MRI results before explaining my options.  In full professional mode he uses very technical terms.  I ask him to explain it to me so I’ll understand.  Essentially, I need him to dumb it down for my distracted squirrel brain.

Consultant: We can cut it off, shave the bone …

Me (shrugging): OkI’ll say yes to whatever you say …

Consultant (cutting me off and grinning broadly): I know you will.

Me (laughing): You didn’t let me finish! I was going to say, I’ll say yes to whatever you say if you think it will fix it. I just need the pain to stop.

He explains the procedure and places his hand on my arm as he says goodbye.  The next time I see him I’ll be in a surgical gown on an operating table.  Unless it’s a really weird X-rated movie for a very niche market, this will be the end of any sexual tension between us.


I realise this may all be in my head.  Please don’t shatter my dream – I have very little in life.

A caffeine hit

I’m sitting in a crowded café with a travel brochure.  By the end of the day I have to make a decision about whether to tour around Vietnam and Cambodia.  The trip deposit is due and I’m assessing if my decreasing bank account can take the hit.  An attractive dark-haired man in his late thirties is with a colleague at an opposite table.  He’d smiled at me when I’d ordered my coffee and now I’m struggling to look like I haven’t noticed him glancing at me; I feel distinctly self-conscious and I’m certain it’s obvious.  He calls out.

Him:  Did you want the paper?

My heart jumps.  Is he talking to me?  I think so.  I look up and see him smiling in my direction with the paper in his hand.

Me:  No, it’s okay.  I’ve got to look at this (gesturing to the brochure).

Him:  No, seriously – take it, I’ve finished with it.

Me:  It’s okay, really.  I’ve got this.

In spite of my refusal, he gets up and brings me the paper.  For the next twenty minutes I feel obliged to pretend to read it as he talks to his colleague – acutely aware that he’s continuing to glance over at me.

I look up at the sound of shuffling chairs.  The two men are leaving.  The dark-haired man smiles at me and speaks to his colleague, “I’m just going to grab another drink, you go on ahead and I’ll catch up with you”.  He hovers uneasily at the counter until his companion is out of sight then he walks to my table.

Him (visibly nervous):  Got the day off work?

Me (smiling, hopefully reassuringly):  Actually, I’ve got a few months off work – it means I get to enjoy sunny days like this.

Him:  Lucky you!  …. um, I know this seems kind of forward, but I was wondering if you’d maybe like to go for a coffee or drink sometime?

[Okay what he actually said was, “Blah, blah … … this seems kind of forward, but you’re really beautiful and I was wondering blah blah …” I didn’t want to write the “beautiful” bit because it seemed arrogant – but it’s been soooo bloody long since someone commented positively on my appearance, so I’m letting you know.  Sod modesty!  Anyway, back to the story].

Me (smiling, I look at my cup and back up at him):  Well I can’t claim I don’t like coffee.

He laughs, allowing him to release some of his nervous tension.  We exchange names and he puts my number into his phone.  Both of us will spend the next few days excited and anxious in anticipation of the phone call, imagining the future conversation and the date that’ll be organised during it.

He’s made my day – I’ll be living off his flattery for some time.  Suddenly decisions seem much easier; I’ll book the trip to Asia.  What’s money in the big scheme of things?  Laughably, one little instance of mutual attraction has made everything brighter and trouble-free.  Nothing can hold me back when I’m in the buzz bubble.  The mild euphoria makes me feel unstoppable, but I’m aware that it’s both ridiculous and temporary.

Like a caffeine hit, sexual attraction provides energy.  Unfortunately this is followed by an inevitable slump and the buzz bubble will burst.  It’s likely this potential new flame won’t last and possible the ending will be awkward.  At least the only thing I have to lose is my local haunt; having been a regular in this café for weeks, I might have to relocate to another coffee-house.  It’s an insignificant price.  In the meantime I’m going to enjoy my fleeting moment of elation.

So the holiday decision is easily settled but replaced with another quandary – what should I wear on the as-yet unmentioned and non-existent date?  I don’t know if it’ll be a coffee or a drink, during the day or at night, on a weekday or weekend.  Each option alters the appropriate level of displayed skin, heel height, and hair style.  Heaven help me if he suggests an active date; jodhpurs or a wetsuit are definitely not making it to my short-list.  Ugh.  And world leaders think they have stressful decisions ….