I serviced over one hundred strangers in a matter of two days. Half-naked in that windowless room, cut off from family and friends, trapped and alone. Unable to leave or even piss when I wanted. It was the closest thing I’d experienced to prison. And when it was all over, I sped home, drank a bottle of wine and showered like a Chernobyl survivor.
My clients were chiropractic students seeking their national license. Essentially the bar exam for chiropractors. I was there as an actor, assigned some fake condition which students had to correctly diagnose to pass the test. Mine was middle-back pain from an imaginary football injury, the symptoms of which I had to recite verbatim to each student and they kneaded and twisted my limbs.
There were fifty fellow “patients” sharing the experience at our local chiropractic college. All of us sequestered like jurors, surrendering our cell phones and freedom for two days, lest anyone cheat and tweet their condition. There were no cigarettes, no booze, no communication with the outside world. Even our bathroom breaks were monitored. We were fed non-descript meats and soggy vegetables seemingly leftover from the last semester. Each of us was dressed in a little blue gown and our underwear, and relegated to individual rooms the size of a fat man’s coffin. No windows, one air vent, and a retired chiropractor sitting in the corner with pen and scoring sheet in hand.
Every five minutes a new student would appear in the room, smiling nervously, and ready to perform the examination. For me, it included three basic tests: Determine my range of motion, check the reflexes of my foot, and measure my chest expansion.
At first, I was as nervous as they were. Afraid that a misplaced word, accidental cough or involuntary twitch might send them down the wrong path and ruin their future forever. But after the first hour, I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted to go home. To escape the strange hands poking and prodding me. These fit men and fat women, bending me forward and backward and rubbing my spine. Making me dress and undress, and twist my body in impossible positions.
I was ready to walk out. Jump on my bicycle and ride until my legs quit. I didn’t need the money. I didn’t need these egocentric wanna-be doctors treating me like a piece of origami.
And just when I decided to leave, she walked in. That beautiful Muslim girl. Her head framed in a blue silk hijab. Brown inviting eyes. Blouse buttoned to the top. Gift wrapped just for me.
She introduced herself and I instantly forgot her name. Forgot my lines. Every detail of my character. All I wanted to do was tell her my real name. Give her my number and let her convert me.
She smiled at my silence and untied my gown.
I was thankful it opened in the back. She moved her cool fingers down each vertebrae, asking me if it hurt. No. No. No. She paused in the middle when I finally answered yes. She kept her hand on my skin as explained the test to the examiner.
“I’m looking for humping.”
I grinned.
“If there is a curve or humping that means scoliosis…”
She kept talking, but all I could think about was her hand on my back. How her fingers could move down my side and creep to the front. Those smooth arms covered in black hair. A pubic preview. It was the first woman in fifteen years to touch my body this long.
Finally she moved her hand and I let out a stuttered, nervous breath.
I caught it again when she grabbed me by the hips.
“Bend forward please. It is hurting still?”
I gave a fake wince and nodded.
She wrote something on her clipboard and retied my gown. Then she walked in front of me and told me. I obeyed. I’d always obey. She could strap a bomb to my chest if she wanted.
She knelt down and took one foot in her hands. Using her fingernail, she slowly traced a line from toe to heel. I flinched in my foot and my loins.
Her bright-eyes and brown face between my knees. That blue scarf begging to be tied around her wrists. I wondered how some men in the Middle-East could cover such beauty in a burka. How they could segregate themselves at parties, schools and weddings. No wonder they had extremists. So violent and frustrated and engaging in shit like Bacha Bazi. Overlooking the gorgeous, intelligent women all around them…
Suddenly the alarm went off. Time was up. The shortest five minutes of my life.
She grabbed her clipboard and disappeared before I could even say a word. I felt like a dog at the pound. Abandoned by a cute little girl who ruffled my ears and scratched my belly, then slammed the cage and went on to the next dog.
The rest of the day was a blur. A series of mix-ups, misunderstandings and fantasy…the euphemisms spawned by my own frustrations and confinement.
“Does it feel stiff?”
“I’m going to stroke you.”
“Let me reach around you now.”
“Bend over please.”
“Hold this on your nipples.”
“Does that feel soft or hard?”
Student after student, blending into one another. Another face. Another stranger. Fatties, uglies, beauties and brains…
I felt sorry for some. Contempt for others. Based solely on their appearance. I became judge and jury for each student. With the cocky white guys, I’d clam up and hide my symptoms. With the fat girls, I’d practically tell them my condition. And with the beauties, I’d simply stare at their hips and tits, knowing they’d never see me again after five minutes.
I was tired of the uncertainty. Tired of the relentless handling. Not knowing who would be the next person to walk through that door. How they would touch me or handle me. Just knowing that I’d have five minutes with them, and I MUST do anything they say.
Mine was a taste. A safe, secure and simple taste of what some people, some children, experience for years…The carnal cravings that transcend our basic sense of humanity.
The only silver lining was that the students weren’t trying to pass their proctology exam. Then they would have had to pay a lot more than $400 for the weekend.