When I was ten, he punched my brother Liam and knocked him unconscious. Nearly put my other brother, Padraig, in the hospital. I’ve never understood why my mother stayed and kept us in danger. She has her reasons, I guess. At least he’s been sober for a while now and our family seems to have healed, for the most part.
Once I started pre-med, I buried myself in research to understand TBI and alcohol’s effect on cognitive function. I presented my findings at the UWSOM Fall Poster Symposium, thinking I’d dedicate my life to this research if I was lucky enough to be a neurosurgical candidate.
When my nephews, Torin and Tristan, were born—holding them. Helping my brother, Connor and his wife, Ronni watch them. Something clicked.
I didn’t want to study the brain. I wanted to fix it.
To save kids.
It seemed so noble. With overachieving brothers, I wanted to matter.
Now, after Miranda, I don’t know if I do.
Or, if I ever will.
She’s still in the hospital bed.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her hooked up to the tubes keeping her body alive even though her brain will never function again.
It kills me. I need to do something to get the fuck out of my head. I need to find a woman. Make her come. Get myself off too. It’s been too long. Nearly two years.
No wonder I’m so wound up.
I manage to make it through the rest of my shift by going through the motions and letting the numbers blur into meaningless distractions, all while plotting out my next move. By the time I step out of the lab I know exactly what to do.
My foolproof way of handling my, um, needs without getting roped into something permanent.
Hospital staff.
They work the same hours, understand the stress of life and death and generally—if I’m crystal clear with my boundaries—are down for a quick, uncomplicated mutually beneficial situation with no attachments and no expectations.
I don’t have time for relationships. Dating. Feelings.
There’s a reason I’ve earned the nicknames I pretend I don’t know about.
I’ve learned the art of the female orgasm.
It started during anatomy lab in medical school.
At the time, I didn’t have much—any—sexual experience outside of hearing about my brothers’ endless conquests. I was too quiet and focused on my professional goals and the notion of fucking random women without any emotional connection turned me off.
Until one day when I overheard two of my female classmates while we were reviewing the clitoral structure. They joked about the men in our class and it stuck with me.
Tara Milan muttered, “You know half these guys are going to ace this exam and still treat the clit like it’s a rumor.” Priya Desai snorted. “Doesn’t matter how many diagrams they memorize. None of them care if a woman actually comes.”
It was a holy shit moment. I decided then and there, if I was going to learn about the female anatomy, I wasn’t going to treat it like trivia. I read everything I could get my hands on—nerve maps, clinical studies, arousal theory.
I wanted to understand it fully. Not just the parts, but the whole system.
Not long after, Priya caught me in the library. I was sitting in a remote area at a table piled high with my “research.” Once I explained myself, she convinced me to practice on her. Then told Tara about it and we started our own practice sessions.
So, my first real sexual experiences were in the library stairwells, learning exactly how to implement my book knowledge into action. Getting blowjobs in return.
Of course, word got out and things snowballed from there. I could barely get through the day without being propositioned.
By R2, the library stairwells became the hospital stairwells and it all became too much. Things were uncomplicated when orgasms were essentially transactional. Now, women seemed to be in competition for my attention, which was weird. Eventually, one woman became a little too obsessed.
It was a wakeup call. The last thing I needed was some sort of sexual harassment lawsuit when I’d put my personal life on a backburner to focus on my career.
