It suddenly occurs to me the more embarrassed I get, the steamier Nurse McSexy appears—a phenomenon I've dubbed Mortification Goggles. As my humiliation increases, McSexy's attractiveness is elevated to unhuman levels of hotness. I think my subconscious mind knows it's seeing a different image through Mortification Goggles than what the handsome nurse is actually reflecting. However, my conscious mind obviously disagrees. It views the medical hunk as a glimpse into the Sex God of the Universe's mirror.

The Sex God of the Universe would like to see my giant, hives-infested ass now.

McSexy appears accustomed to repeating his words in my presence. "Can I see what the hives look like?"

I slowly nod and hop off the table-bed. Standing is by far my best option in this predicament. The rolls on my belly look too much like a bunch of marshmallows squished together on a roasting stick when in a seated position. Nobody needs to see S'more of that.

Oh dear God! My thoughts are suddenly suffocating in a plastic bag of terror. Did I shave?

Of course I haven't! I only pull out the razor for special occasions, and coming to Urgent Care is definitely not on that short list. Right now my stubbly legs are damn near a hazard zone. Rub them the wrong way, and one might think he's stroking a metal cheese grater. And don't even get me started on the Lady Love Hedge! Clearly I'll need to be extremely strategic when giving McSexy a tour of my skin-poppy fields, making sure to avoid the unkempt gardens.

Despite barely being able to breathe due to terror suffocation, I add to my restriction of air flow by sucking in my gut like I've never sucked it in before. I'm hoping the drop in oxygen levels will create some sort of biological reaction inside my body causing fat cells to instantly turn into toned muscle. I'm not a biologist or anything, but it's worth a try.

I pull down the arm hole of the hospital gown to reveal a few of the red bumps on my armpits. The good news is my pits have undergone several sessions of laser hair reduction, so it doesn't look like a small animal crawled up under them and died. The bad news is the hives on my pits don't paint a very good picture of what's happening on the rest of my body, so peeling away more of the hospital gown is inevitable.

I slowly turn my foot inward to reveal the irritation behind one of my knees. McSexy examines the redness closer then asks, "And the worst of the rash symptoms is on your backside?"

I gaze through Nurse McSexy, avoiding his eyes in fear his hottness will do something worse than total body paralyzation. Then, hesitantly, I nod to verify the stethoscope stud's question—my gluteus maximus is in fact the most scratch'imus.

"Can you show me those?"

Like Ralphie modeling his ridiculous pink bunny suit in The Christmas Story, I sluggishly rotate my frame till my granny panty'ed ass is in Nurse McSexy's line of vision. I can feel my life force draining out of my toes. Head spinning. Body numb. Stomach turning. My eyes lock on to a speck on the wall so intently, I half expect my stare to burn a hole in the sheetrock. All my conscious attention is focused on that little dot on the wall. Before I know it—with the help of lowered oxygen levels—I'm partaking in an out of body experience.

I can see every angle of the examination room in my mind's eye—every horrible and gorgeous detail. A woman with an abundant set of trouser cheeks. A man with a deliciously tight ass. A woman fearing the future before it unfolds. A man energized by the possibility of healing the unforeseen. A woman so mentally scarred, she wishes to be someone else. A man so healthfully confident, there's no one else he'd rather be. The contrast is painfully blinding—not even humor and jokes can soften the piercing reality I see before me. How long have I been living inside a delusion and claiming it as my reality?

Have I just described myself as a woman who's freaking out because she's ten pounds overweight wishing her size 8 jeans were a size 2? Bitch, please! This isn't a case of narcissism where I'm crying on my pillow at night because my selfies on Instagram didn't get enough likes or because the extremely attractive nurse isn't going to pick me—choose me—love me. This is the sudden realization I've failed to pick, choose and love myself—dying at an accelerated rate due to my fear of trust. Fear of trusting myself. Fear of trusting love. Fear of simply trusting the idea of trust. I may have come to Urgent Care for hives, but an emotional disease happening far below the surface of my skin is being diagnosed instead.

My fingers grip the seam of the hospital gown, and I slowly pull the fabric to the side so my massive granny panties are in full view. Worn out. Elastically challenged. A drab gray color. The top band stretched to the max trying to contain an overflowing midsection. This particular pair of underwear has gone beyond its retirement years and probably deserves a medal of honor for its extended commitment to crack comfort. Butt—butt—but right now I find myself wishing these old fart filters were in a witness protection program. Instead, I wish I was wearing undergarments that painted an image of someone who was comfortable in her own skin—not just her underwear.

My assumption of Nurse McSexy's reaction towards my 'I've given up on life' fashion repeats itself over and over on the big screen in my mind:

But I know it's not my decaying panties he wants to see, McSexy needs to observe my skin. I need to either pull my underwear down towards my knees or let a butt cheek escape through a leg hole. Given the state of the Lady Love Hedge in my Garden of Eden, I opt for the latter.

I slip a finger into the stretched out leg hole of my panties and slide it over a butt cheek splattered in red hives—the strained elastic making its new home in the deep depths of my ass crack. There you go, McSexy, I think to myself. Hippopotamus butt. I have the hippo disease. Just give me the address to the nearest veterinarian and I'll be on my way.

A mere second or two passes. "Okay. That's fine. You can sit back down," McSexy says.

I glance over my shoulder. McSexy motions for me to return to the table-bed and have a seat. As I climb on the examination table with as much grace as I can muster, I notice they're brown. Nurse McSexy has eyes as soft and warm as Italian leather, with a smoky quartz sparkle. Strong. Gentle. And obviously—sexy.

He grabs the stethoscope hanging around his neck and flings it over his head. While putting the eartips in his ears he says, "Let me check your breathing to see how it sounds."

Immediately my gaze drops from my handsome nurse's eyes to his hands. Like everything else—they're sexy. Not rough and scratchy like construction workers. Not soft and unused like computer programmers. As Goldilocks would say, "They're just right." Too right, in fact. Nurse McSexy's hands are the perfect size. Perfect shape. Perfect texture. And those perfectly McSexy hands are about to slip down my hospital gown.

I look up towards the heavens and scold, I haven't dated in a decade—then out of the blue—you throw a Sex God down my shirt? He'll want me to breathe deeply. What if I start panting? I hate you!

Nurse McSexy positions himself next to my side—close enough where I can feel his breath on my left shoulder. I'm not going to lie—I'm as nervous as I would be on a first date. Although, on a real first date it's a mystery as to whether or not the guy is going to get to second base. There is no mystery here. Nurse McSexy WILL be in the second base region. He will also be the hottest MVP to ever get in my second base region. My palms begin to sweat. Heartbeat races. Temperature rises. It's all suddenly very confusing. Am I supposed to play hard to get?

McSexy places his free hand on my right shoulder. Then with his left hand he gently slides the stethoscope's chestpiece down my front. My back stiffens. I'm praying my nipples haven't hardened.

"Deep breath," he instructs. I do whatever he says, like an easy and mindless first date.

He moves the stethoscope's drum to another spot near my breasts, his fingertips barely caressing my skin. "Deep breath." 

I hope he can't tell through the stethoscope that he's taking my breath away, I think. Oh my Gawd! I'd die. I'd die! I'D DIE!

McSexy does this on a couple more locations on my chest and back, then drapes the stethoscope back around his neck before returning to the end of the table-bed. "I think we might need to run a few more tests," he explains. "Possibly a chest X-ray. Respiratory specialist."

Wait. What? Can't you just give me some itch cream and call it a day? X-rays. Specialists. Suddenly shit was starting to sound a bit too real.

"Am I having an allergic reaction of some sort?"

"That's what it appears, but we'll want to run a few tests to be sure."

"But I'm not allergic to anything—except maybe bug bites. Could a spider bite have caused this?"

"I'd say—no. If you've never reacted this way to bug bites in the past, it would be unlikely."

Suddenly the image of Fiddy Cent sailing over the hill on a stick makes me feel a little bit guilty. The little bastard was probably innocent. Who's the asshole now?

"So what could've caused it?"

McSexy shrugs his shoulders. "Hard to say, especially if this is the only time it's happened." He taps his clipboard a few times with his pen and adds, "Let me find our surgeon on staff tonight and see what he says. Get his opinion."

I nod. McSexy smiles, then rushes off through the doorway.

Why a surgeon? I ponder.

Surgeon. The word scares me. My mind fills itself full of frightening images of scalpels and blood squirting everywhere. Oh my God! I have the hippo disease. They're going to need to cut it out of my body!

It takes McSexy a really long time to round up the doctor. In the meantime, I'm left all alone to suffer at the hands of my wild imagination. In fact, I don't even need the help of Google to convince myself I'm probably dying of something awful—some unknown disease which will require a surgeon's sharp blade to cut it out.

But all the horror I manage to create in my mind while McSexy is away vanishes the moment I hear a knock, followed by the opening of the door. Well—my horrors of dying from a herbivorous mammal disease are erased—only to be replaced by a brand new fear.

Jesus. H. Christ, I whisper silently in my mind as I stare at what's standing in the doorway. You've got to be fucking kidding me. 

*****McSEXY BREAK*****

If there's a lesson to learn from this story so far, it's THROW AWAY THE UGDIES (ugly undies)! They define you--and you never know when someone might see the definition you have for yourself! Hahaha!

MUSIC: Berlin. This isn't exactly a chapter about lovers, but every time I read the title--I sing this song in my head.

Your vote is truly McAppreciated! Muah!

MarilynHepburn.com