His face is on the other side of some contraption that is currently covering my eyes. He points to his left cheek and says, "Look here at my cheek." I'm thinking, You don't have to tell me to look at you. Then, "Okay, up here at my forehead." Too late; I'm already looking there. I'm looking at every inch of you. Following your every move. Look at those lips.
I imagine for a moment that there is no machine between us, and the proximity of our faces is exquisitely realized -- and magnetically charged -- for me. His lips are so close to mine. His thick, brown, trimmed beard and greenish-gray eyes right before me. He re-adjusts the machine now and pulls his chair up closer. Now my knees are together, and his are spread open and the outside of my knees touch the inside of his. Electric. No detectable awareness on his part.
That feeling comes over me that there is no doubt that being gay is biological. My body is responding chemically. He has no clue that he's having this effect on me, and seems like the type that isn't aware that he most likely has this effect on most women. Which makes him even more magnetic.
Look into my eyes. Yes!
He is asking me how bad I want this sty on my eye to go away. And then says, "For me, apply this ointment..." and I'm thinking, I'd do anything for you. "Give me five minutes with a hot compress on it two to three times a day..." he goes on. You can have five hours, five days, five lifetimes.
I start to feel like Fanny Brice and Rose Morgan. "Nicky Arnstein, Nicky Arnstein, Nicky Arnstein." I want a mirror with two faces in it—his and mine.
Paying my bill, I eye the huge family portrait above the desk on the back wall. Seven kids. He's so virile.
Hey Mr. Arnstein, here I am.