As I said, she was tall, blonde and good-looking,
with soft “Ingrid Bergman” sort-of features, with a
slender but curvy body that shouted “female”
despite the severe, professional plain white dress.
Her lashes were long but couldn’t hide the deep,
inscrutable blue of her eyes. I finally noticed
what was written on a small nameplate pinned over
the mound of her left breast; “Berit Arnesson,
APRN.” I wondered how “Berit” was pronounced and
decided to look it up later.

“Your last exam was a year ago,” she said after a
while. “Any illnesses since?”

“No.”

“Complaints? Allergy reactions?”

“None.”

She made notes in the folder.

“Do you ever experience pain during urination?”

“No”

“Are your bowel movements regular?”

“Yes.”

“No constipation or diarrhea?”

“None.”

“The file says ‘single.’ Have you married this
year?”

“No.”

“Have you been sexually active?”

“Yes.” I didn’t add that my girlfriend and I had
broken up and that it had been a while.

Still writing, she asked, “Do you masturbate?”

Reddening slightly, I answered, “Yes.”

“How often?”

“Three or four times a week.”

“Ever have pain or discomfort in orgasm, or
difficulty ejaculating?”

“No.”

She grabbed the rolling sphygmomanometer and began
to check my BP. At both arms, I noticed. As she
reached over to attach the cuff on my left arm, I
got a sneak-peek down the front of her dress. Nice.

She depressed my tongue, “Say ‘Ahh’”, otoscoped my
ears, then checked my eyes with an ophthalmoscope
and stethoscope my heart and lungs. Then she
examined my fingernails. At each exam, she wrote
notes on a form on a clipboard.

“We need some blood samples for the lab,” she said,
bringing out a small kit. In just seconds she had
my arm in a tourniquet and had a needle in the
crook of my elbow. I hardly felt it. Seconds later,
with three small vials filled with red, she
withdrew the needle and had a band-aid on me.

“Alright,” she smiled, “now please undress
completely and put on this gown.” She handed me a
hospital gown, paper slippers and a plastic tray.
“Hang your things here,” she touched an antique
coat tree as she walked out of the room, closing
the door.

I sat a moment, surprised. Nurse Rossi never had me
undress *completely*. “Different stokes,” I
figured, applied to professional methods as well as
personal idiosyncrasies. Besides, Nurse Arnesson
was really “eye candy.” “Oh, well,” I shrugged and
stripped. The hospital gown was the kind that
opened in back, and I had a little trouble getting
it tied shut, but at last, putting my watch and
silver chain in the tray, I was ready.

“OK, nurse”, I called.

In a moment Nurse Arnesson returned, smiling.
“Let’s check your height and weight.” She gestured
for me to accompany her to the scale.

I forced myself to keep thinking of her as “Nurse
Arnesson” not “Berit” as I watched her round
backside undulate across the room.