The Dentist’s Chair
Recently I have spent quite a bit of time and quite a lot of money at the dentist. This was due to my half-yearly check-up with the dentist and the hygenist (that’s two visits for the price of, well, two visits), and, to have a chipped tooth (pronounced “tuff” by Brummies and “two + f” by less civilised beings) fixed.
Now don’t get me wrong, my dentist is fantastic. She is very careful and considerate. She knows it hurts and tries to actually minimise the pain. And she has done an amazing job to repair my tooth. It looks better than it ever did.
My hygenist also does an excellent job at scraping, polishing and buffing my pearly whites to remove six month’s worth of damage caused by red wine, tea, coffee and Jelly Belly jelly beans (I particularly like the sours), and, if you can get past the lecture on making sure you reach right to the back and the importance of flossing (which I can), she is rather easy on the eye.
But, don’t you find the whole experience rather bizarre and totally excruciating? I do.
Now they don’t exactly strap you to the chair but they may as well do so. Once you have been reclined, had those unflattering goggles fitted, your “bib” put on, and had that searchlight aimed at your head, you are going nowhere. You just have to lie there while they insert things into your mouth that have only ever previously seen the inside of a torture cell at Guantanamo. Your head fills with the drilling, and whirring of industrial scale surgical equipment, while you slowly drown in your own spit and saliva. It makes my eyes water.
And, I never know what to do with my hands. If the chair had arms I would gladly rest my hands upon them. But, the chair does not. I don’t want to cross my hands across my chest like some ancient Egyptian in his sarcophagus, or Count Dracula in his coffin. And, so. I am often aware of the fact that I tend to rest my hands in the area of, well, my groin.
This sudden realisation makes me very self-conscious. Here I am helpless, lying on my back with either Verity, the easy-on-the-eye hygenist, pressing her bosom against the top of my head, or, very aware of the attractive dental nurse in her sexy nurse’s uniform at my side. And, I am cupping my genitalia. I wonder what they must think? I try to stop wondering what they might think. I try not to think about Verity, her bosom, or, the dental nurse.
It is even worse when there is some pain, as there often is. When there is pain I cannot help but arch my back a little. I find that I curl my toes upwards, and, I realise that I tend to cup my front trouser area a little more tightly. Then I catch myself and again I think what must this look like to Verity, oh Verity, and the sexy young nurse in her uniform. And then, I catch myself thinking “don’t think about that”, aware of the risk of involuntary erection and the untold embarrassment that might cause, or, the huge amount of pain I might receive from the medieval torture implement currently in my mouth should Verity be offended.
I try to distract myself by staring fixedly at a point immediately above the light, but, my narrow field of vision and attention are constantly invaded by glimpses of Verity, oh Verity, or the pretty dental nurse in her uniform, or, Verity’s breasts cushioning the top of my head, or, the pain causing me to grab my crotch, or the uniform……….
Did I just say any of that out loud?
Related post – Girls in Uniform