Page 5 of Deeply Examined

Lawyer: What did you do to stop it?

Me: Deliberately stroked her clit because for the past decade I’ve been dying to know what Jessica Jones sounds like when she comes.

Yeah, no thanks. As much as I might like the well-equipped gyms they have in prison, orange isn’t my color.

Right before I leave the room, angling my body so she can’t see the bulge in my pants, a nasty thought occurs to me. What if she’s doing this with other men? Back in the day, she had a constant stream of guys after her. Who wouldn’t want to date someone as pretty as she is?

The flash of possessiveness I experience is so strong that I have a sudden urge to take her home and chain her up. I could turn on the alarm system. Lock all the doors and keep the key so she could never get out. Keep her as my little pet forever.

What a strange thought.

I have many lovers, most of whom enjoy the same proclivities I do, but I have a rule to never see the same woman more than twice. I don’t do relationships. Just the word makes me shudder.

Jessica eyes me warily, probably wondering if I’m going to mention what just happened.

I won’t, though. Too awkward for both her and for me.

Refusing to meet her eyes, I look down and scribble nonsense in her chart to buy myself time to think. It’s a good thing she won’t be back for another year, I decide. By that time, it won’t seem odd that a different doctor has been assigned to her. Not me. As fun as this trip down memory lane has been, it’s better for us both if I never see Jessica Jones again.

I turn back to her with my most bland, most professional smile. “The nurse will call you with your blood work results within two weeks. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Jones. Have a good life.”

Have a good life, really? Way to make things weird.

A single flash of her baffled expression before I close the door behind me, sealing her out.

Forever.

Chapter two

Jessica

The next week passes in a blur. My dreams are full of gray eyes and warm hands. Twice I give in to temptation and masturbate to the thought of him, once in the shower using my hand-held sprayer set on high and once under the sheets with my pink vibrator. Both times, I call out his name when I come. It’s ridiculous. I don’t even know his first name, so I scream, “Dr. West. Yes! Oh, my god, Dr. West,” as I orgasm.

Maybe I am sick, but sick in the mind rather than the body.

When my phone rings on Saturday morning with the name of his office on the screen, I have to check twice to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

Is he calling me?

My knee jiggles with nervous excitement as I accept the call.

It’s not him—of course it’s not.

“Ms. Jones,” his secretary says, her voice rushed and shaky. “We’re so sorry, but we made a mistake when we booked your appointment—Imade a mistake, actually. I should have put you down for an annual exam with pap smear, but I left off the pap. I checked and your last one was three years ago. You’re overdue.”

“Oh, I had no idea.”

“Dr. West has a last-minute cancellation today at noon. I know that doesn’t give you a lot of time. Can you make it?”

Pretty sure I’m the only woman in the world who heard they needed a pap smear and responded with a shiver that’s more excitement than anxiety. The doctor-patient relationship is supposed to be professional, sterile, detached. And yet, here I am not dreading this visit. I’meager.I tell myself it’s for my health, but the sick truth is I’m secretly hoping it’s for more than that.

“Yes,” I agree immediately. “I’ll be there.”

This is it. I’m going to see him again.

By the time my appointment arrives, I’m a bundle of nerves and anticipation. Inside the exam room, I strip quickly and pull on the scratchy paper gown. My movements are so jerky that I rip a small hole in the paper, right over my breast.

Why am I so clumsy?

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