“Have you thought about whether you want to stay with your wife?”
The young Indian medical resident looks up from her paper where she’s nimbly taking notes of my confession.
“Yes,” I tell her. “Everything is great right now. I love her very much. I realize that might be difficult for some people to understand…”
One month ago, this doctor put me on Wellbutrin, an antidepressant, because I was sad all the time for no reason. Now I have energy, my marriage has never been better, and I’m happily cheating and fooling around with guys. I’m baffled by my behaviour. Searching for answers, I found this article. If you’re bipolar you can become hypersexual and totally fuck up your life. Later, you look back on it and with horror and regret, seeing a complete stranger.
That’s why I’m here. I’m not a lying cheat. I must be hypomanic! It all fits.
She searches the folders on her computer for a screening check-list, but the Internet is down.
I’m not gay. Am I? Is my whole life a lie? I close my eyes for a moment and shift uneasily. I can feel the paper bunching under my sweaty ass on the medical table.
Wordlessly, she puts on some latex gloves and reaches into the cupboard for something, squirts it on her hands and lathers it in. I lean back on my palms as she wraps her hand around my penis, stroking out an erection.
She locks her beautiful brown eyes onto mine, then reaches under her skirt and dips a finger into her dripping pink pussy, then slowly presses it to my lips. I can taste her scent on the latex, a hint of exotic spices. I moan approvingly.
The doctor gets her knees up on the table, straddling me, carefully lowering her body over my penis. Her long black hair falls against my chest. She winces just a little as I enter her. I feel the slippery softness, her juices oozing out over my balls as we start to fuck. The paper tears away beneath us.
“Oh yes, there it is!” She’s found the check-list she was looking for, and I’m wrenched from my reverie. I was just daydreaming.
Definitely not gay.
The doctor reads from her screen. “Are you spending lots of money lately? Are you taking a lot of risks? Do you ever feel in danger when you meet your… partners?”
“Well, there are obviously some risks with meeting up with strangers,” I tell her, “but I wouldn’t say I feel in any danger.”
She scribbles more notes. “And you mentioned you were having some insomnia.”
“Sometimes I wake up at 3 or 4 and can’t get back to sleep.” People suffering from hypomania have far too much energy to sleep.
“And when do you go to bed?”
“Ten.”
“Six hours then. That’s more than I get,” she chuckles.
Eventually she leaves to talk to my regular doctor.
When the door closes behind her, I want to vomit. My wife and I have visited him almost monthly since we had kids. He’s so wholesome its unreal, like Mr. Roger’s with a stethoscope. The doc helped my kids through every fever for five years now. In this same room, he confidently reassured my wife when we thought our baby girls was dangerously underweight.
I imagine the shocked look on his face as she tells him about my infidelity. They’re probably gonna put me on Prozac or something and I’ll be a fucking zombie. I’M SCREWED. My life is crumbling. What have I done? My throat tightens and I stare at the door. How will I ever face him? I’m afraid I’ll cry.
But when the door finally opens, it’s her again. “The doctor has decided to keep you on the Wellbutrin,” she tells me.
“So I’m not bipolar?!” I ask, in utter disbelief.
“He thinks you’re exploring now because you’re just happier and more confident.”
She offers to let me come in for regular STI screening, but I decline. I’m more comfortable with the anonymous clinic.
There’s more good news. “He’s going to password protect the file, so no-one else can access it,” she tells me, “Not even myself.”
“Thank-you,” I tell her, and dart from the office clutching my prescription.
Happier and more confident.
I like it.
I’m back on Grindr before I’m out the door, to share the good news.