“Won’t you come in?” Penny asked politely as she unlocked her door.
“A good gynecologist,” Dr. Quimbare quipped, "never refuses entry.”
“Make yourself comfortable,” Penny told him, waving toward the couch in the living room. “I’ll just be a minute.” She closed the door to the bedroom behind her.
She took off the mink and when she rejoined Dr. Quimbare her face was scrubbed clean, her hair neatly combed, and she wore a simple black dressing gown from which her dimpled knees peeped demurely as she crossed the room to him. “Now I feel more human,” she remarked with a sigh of relaxation.
“Yes. So do I,” replied Dr. Quimbare, eyeing the way the dressing gown clung to the yummy curves of Penny’s figure.
“Would you like a drink?”
“No.”
“Something to eat?”
“No.”
“Shall I put on some records?”
“No.”
“Well, what would you like to do?”
“What I’d really like to do is resume my examination, Dr. Quimbare admitted.
“Oh, Doctor! Wouldn’t that just be a busman’s holiday for you? Remember, all work and no play makes Doc a dull boy.”
“But this is play,” Dr. Quimbare murmured, edging closer to Penny on the couch. “I want to play ’Doctor’.” He leaned over and kissed the little vein throbbing in Penny’s neck.
“ The sensitive darling couldn’t help responding. Oohh! That makes me tingle all over. That’s just the right spot. How did you know?”
“I learned it in Anatomy One.” Dr. Quimbare toyed with her ear, and Penny took a deep, sharp breath which made her breasts swell against the silk of the robe she wore. Your respiration is quickening,” Dr. Quimbare observed.
“I know.” Penny’s eyes were shut. “And I think my heartbeats becoming abnormally fast. Would you check it, Doctor?”
Quimbare slipped his hand under the robe and cupped her left breast firmly. “There are definite signs of lung dilatation, he told her as her nipple grew rigid and strained against the palm of his hand.
And I think I detect signs of tumescence,” Penny observed, sliding her hand up his thigh.
“A most acute diagnosis.” He swept aside the folds of the gown and stroked her naked thighs. His hand edged higher until it made contact with her sweet little salve decanter.
“Have you license to practice there?” Penny moaned, her body twisting to snap at his fingertips with its avid nether-mouth.
“Oh, I’m way past the practicing stage,” Dr. Quimbare assured her. He bent over to study the effects of his gentle probing. “You clitoral development is remarkable,” he told Penny.
That’s probably because my vaginal development has been so neglected,” she guessed. “But must we be so clinical about things? We’re not in your examining room now.”
“I know. But you’ll have to pardon me. I just can’t control my professional curiosity. You see, I’ve never had the opportunity to examine a virgin at my leisure before.”
“Well, you don’t have time now!” Penny squirmed. “Your examination is having a decided effect on me.” Her little sentinel strained wildly against his pinching fingers and her buttocks were twin foam-rubber pogo-sticks bouncing on the couch. “Please!” she begged. “If you’re going to make love to me. Do it now!”
“Just a minute!” Dr. Quimbare was still making mental notes of the effect his caress was having on Penny, framing the opening of the article he would write for the AMA Journal of ‘Effects of Clitoral Stimulation on the Intact Hymen of the Adult Female’.
“It’s too late!” Penny’s foaming fulcrum rose, seized with spasm after spasm, and little crys of mingled frustration and joy tore from her precious red lips. “Oh, dear!” she said when she finally subsided. “I’ve gone and done it again. And I so much wanted to wait until we were really making love.”
“Never fear. I’m sure you’re quite capable of an encore,” Dr. Quimbare assured her. “As a matter of fact, in my considered professional opinion, you should capable of several encores. You’re a multiple orgasm-er if I ever saw one.”
“Then you really are going to make love to me?”
“I am.”
“At last!” Penny flung her lovely legs wide apart. “Good-bye chastity at last!”
It was at that moment that the telephone rang.
“Damn!” Penny reached behind her and savagely tore the receiver from its cradle on the end table. “Hello.” There was a pause, then — “Yes, he’s here.” She covered the mouthpiece. “It’s the hospital for you,” she told Dr. Quimbare. “How did they know you were here?”
“I told the nurse I was seeing you home. I guess she put two and two together and looked up your number on the admittance card you filled out.” He took the phone. “Yes . . . Yes, I see . . . All right, I’ll be right there.” He hung up. “I have to get right down to the hospital,” he told Penny. “It’s an emergency.”
“But so is this!” Penny wailed.
“I’m sorry. But there simply isn’t time. You’ll just have to remain a virgin a while longer.”
“But I don’t want to wait any more,” Penny sobbed. “That’s all I’ve been doing all night long. Waiting. Expecting. And then being disappointed. It just can’t be that important, your emergency! What kind of emergency anyway?”
“One of my patients impaled herself on a Coke bottle.”
“How did she ever do a thing like that?”
“She and her husband were watching an old Fatty Arbuckle movie on the late-late-late show on TV and they decided to make love. It really isn’t so unusual. Actually, it happens fairly frequently. They really shouldn’t show those pictures.”
“You can say that again,” Penny agreed bitterly.
“They really shouldn’t show those pictures,” Dr. Quimbare repeated agreeably. “Anyway, I really have to run.” He started out the door and paused. “Oh,” he said, “I just remembered. Do you have a bottle opener I could borrow?”
“Yes.” Penny sighed with resignation, went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle opener for him.
“Thanks. They really should change the shape of those Coke bottles. They’re a gynecological hazard.” Dr. Quimbare turned and left.
Alone, Penny paced the floor of the apartment. She was exhausted to the point of being too tired to sleep. Automatically, she turned on the TV set and settled herself in front of it. The local morning news was just coming on, and she stared blankly at the screen, not really watching or listening.
Pictures of three subway riders with their throats cut were followed by shots of six teenage boys being dragged into a police station. There were photos of a Harlem riot which had evidently been triggered by a fire in a bordello run by black supremacists. Hordes of screaming Negroes fled a squadron of mounted policemen hurling tear gas bombs. Then there were pictures of people drowning on West Forty-second Street where a watermain had burst. This was followed by action shots of a Tong war in Chinatown. From there the camera zoomed in on Brooklyn where a local archeological expedition had unearthed a Canarsie burial grounds used by Murder, Inc. Next the camera crossed into Queens for films of Jamaica Avenue where eight storefronts had been blown in by dynamite and the stores thoroughly looted. After that came the Bronx for pictures of the breaking up of a narcotics ring; the police had pinpointed the ring when a local adolescent bagel burglar had confessed that his crimes were prompted by his need for money to support his habit. Finally, the broadcast covered the latest longshoremen’s strike in Staten Island with a series of truly artistic documentary films footage catching the ultra-realism of stomachs being sliced with baling hooks jaws being broken with brass knuckles and scabs’ scabs being re-opened with blackjacks. There was a brief shot of the paparazzi tearing Macello Pastrami’s limbs from his body down on Mulberry Street, and then the soft, friendly face of the announcer filled the screen and the strident, hard-sell sound of his voice blasted forth.