December 18th, 1987
My second year in West Hollywood. I was planning to fly home for Christmas the next day, but I woke up sick: feverish, dizzy, headache, sore throat.
"Why do I always get sick at Christmastime?" I asked myself savagely. The answer came: Too busy, too much stress, too much fat and sugar, not enough exercise.
I cancelled my flight, and waited to get better.
December 22nd
I could hardly eat anything due to the sore throat. It was time to see the doctor.
I called my regular doctor, but he was out of town, so they offered to get me an appointment with a substitute.
I blanched. Overall, health care professionals are more homophobic than any other professional group, and in the 1980s, at the height of the AIDS crisis, even more so. You didn't go to a doctor, ever, who didn't advertise in the Gayellow Pages or who wasn't recommended by friends.
But any port in a storm. I figured I could just be very closeted, maybe invent a girlfriend.
My appointment was that afternoon. I was too dizzy to drive myself. Alan was in Thailand, and my roommate Derek and off-on boyfriend Raul were both out of town for the holidays, so I called my friend Mitch to drive me to the UCLA Medical Plaza.
The nurse called me into the little room, took my temperature and blood pressure, and had me sit on the little table covered with paper to wait for the doctor.
He arrived a few minutes later: in his 30s, tall, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, very handsome, with a round face, dark eyebrows, dark eyes, and curly black hair. I noticed big, square hands and no wedding ring. Very hot.
His name tag read "Dr. Mohammed al-Khouri."
Uh-oh. In the 1980s, Muslims were stereotyped as very homophobic. I hope my regular doctor didn't write anything about being gay in my files.
But I was especially attracted to guys from the Middle East -- my first sexual experience was with a Lebanese boy -- and you didn't meet many in West Hollywood. I wished that I was well enough to cruise him.
Dr. al-Khouri was cheerful, almost jovial, as he examined my chest and abdomen. "You're in great shape," he said casually. "Are you a pro athlete?"
"No, I just go to the gym for fun," I said in my brackish cough-voice. "But I do work for Muscle and Fitness."
"That must be exciting. Can you get any work done, with all of the bodybuilders coming through all the time? Turn your head to the left."
He was trying to feel me out, to see if I was gay! "No, I'm a professional," I said noncommittally. "I'm not distracted easily."
"OK, let's have a look at that throat." He peered down. "OK, Boomer, you've got strep throat. Better lay off the guys for a few days"
I was so worried about the strep throat that I didn't notice "lay off the guys."
He painted my throat with something, ordered a penicillin injection, and gave me a prescription for medicine. "You'll need to take it easy for about three days. Stay home, no bars, no parties Do you have anyone to take care of you?"
"My roommate Derek. But he's going out of town for Christmas. My friend Raul, too..."
"Tell you what," Dr. al-Khouri said. "I'll drop by in a couple of days to see how you're doing."
"I didn't know doctors made house calls anymore."
"Some do. How about Thursday night, around 7:00 pm."
"But that's Christmas Eve. Don't you have..." Suddenly I remembered that he was Muslim. "Oh, sorry."
"No, I'm free as a bird. And you'll be free, too. Doctor's orders."
December 23rd
I spent the next day alone in my house, except for brief visits from friends.
December 24th.
My sore throat was gone, I felt better except for a little tiredness, and I was still stuck in the house. At noon I walked down to the Different Light and had lunch at the Greenery, luxuriating in being able to eat crunchy things again.
Then I went home. I kept thinking of the gym, of the French Quarter, and of all the things I was missing back in Rock Island: Christmas caroling, light displays, our traditional Christmas Eve pizza and present-opening. I kept hearing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," my most detested song in all the world, playing from somewhere far away.
I ordered a pizza for dinner, and watched a Christmas special on TV.
At 7:00 pm sharp, Dr. al-Khouri knocked on the door.
I didn't expect him to really show up! I was in my bathrobe!
He was carrying one of those medical bags like in the movies, but dressed in a regular short-sleeve shirt and jeans, not in a doctor's uniform. Now that I was feeling better, I definitely noticed his broad chest and muscular arms, not to mention his impressive basket.
I rushed into the bathroom, splashed water on my face, gargled some mouth wash, and returned to sit next to him on the couch. There was definitely some heat between us.
He took my temperature and blood pressure, looked down my throat, and said. "I pronounce you cured. You're not even contagious anymore."
"Um...does that mean I can go out tonight?"
"I wouldn't suggest that. You still need some rest. But if you want to invite a boyfriend over for some tlc, that's perfectly fine."
"How did you...know?" I asked in surprise.
"Please, you live in West Hollywood, you have a man listed as your emergency contact, and you keep trying to sneak a peak at my basket."
I looked at it openly. Very impressive. "Well that just means I'm feeling better, right, doctor? So what about kissing? Um...I mean, can I do that?"
He draped his arm across the couch behind me, and touched my shoulder. "Go ahead and kiss...um...anybody you want. Tell you what. As of this moment, I'm not your doctor anymore. I'm a friend visiting to help you celebrate the holiday. Got any eggnog?"
"I think there's some in the refrigerator. Um...and there's some mistletoe around here somewhere, too."
We didn't need the mistletoe. A moment later, I was kissing anybody I wanted.
In case you were wondering: Mortadella.
December 25th
What do Muslims do on Christmas Day?
They spend the day in bed.
No comments:
Post a Comment