My desk is layered with paper. Unopened mail forms a mountain in one corner. Rejected insurance claims form a smaller mountain— more like a hill— in the opposite corner. Between is a low valley of checks and billing statements. For the last two hours, I’ve been trying to finish entering the week’s payments into the computer, but I keep getting interrupted by nurses, patients, and phone calls. It looks like it is going to be one of those late nights again. I figure I have about three hours’ worth of work to finish up. It’s an hour before my supposed quitting time.

I glance out through a small window to see a near-empty waiting room. Only two patients remain. One of them, I already know, will be quick. She is an 18-year-old girl who bashfully asked upon her arrival if the doctor was female. This tells me that she wants a boob job. She will go in, whine about her life being miserable because she’s got a flat chest, and then Doctor Polichvich will give it to her politely but straight.

The second patient will be quick too. She’s back for a follow-up. The woman received breast reduction surgery two weeks ago, and she is back for the standard two-week follow-up appointment. Follow-ups take only a few minutes— assuming the doctor does not discover an infection or other complication.

I work as a receptionist in a doctor’s office. Most people think a receptionist just calls out your name when your turn comes up to see the doctor. Actually, it carries a lot more responsibility than that, especially when you work in a small, private practice like I do. I also carry the responsibility for the medical files, billings, schedule, and answering the phone— plus I call out the name of the occasional patient when their turn comes up to see the doctor.

I work for Doctor Susan Polichvich. Her specialty is reduction mammoplasty - which means she’s essentially a boob doctor to you and me. She specializes in breast reduction and enlargement surgery, and that is how I first met her. Not for a boob job like the 18-year-old in the waiting room, but just the opposite. I walked into her office about two months ago to ask about breast reduction surgery.

I am cursed - or blessed, depending on who you ask - with a set of double-D tits. I loved them when I was younger. I found a big set of tits were terrific when I wanted to get noticed or have a conversation with the most gorgeous stud in the room. They still work wonders, but as I got older, my priorities matured. Often, I found my tits caught me the wrong kind of man. And then there is all that weight on my chest, plus the way the bra straps chaff my shoulders. So, on a whim one afternoon as I was driving home from my last day of work, I stopped to ask about getting them pared down to size.

She gave it to me politely but straight, just like she will do for the 18-year-old. First, there are medical dangers. Breast surgery is a relatively simple operation, but putting someone under the knife always involves risk. Second, there is cost. Doctor Polichvich is cheap, and she charges $2,000 a pair. Third, virtually no insurance covers the expense. Unless a medical need exists - like breast cancer, for example - insurance companies don’t pay for cosmetic procedures. That was the real clincher for me, the cost, especially just after I was laid off my job as a receptionist in a dentist’s office.

I was ready to leave dejected, but not quite. “In every cloud,” as my Grandmother always used to say, “there’s a silver lining.” Sometime during my conversation in Doctor Polichvich’s office, I mentioned that my now-former employer had retired and I had just lost my job. He let me go home early on my last day, and that is why I had time to stop by and do a little “boob shopping.” Lucky for me, Doctor Polichvich just happened to be looking for a replacement receptionist for her own practice. Her receptionist had given a two-week notice just one week before. Polichvich needed a replacement, but she had been too busy to advertise or to interview. She asked if I wanted the job on the spot.

“Next patient, Martha,” one of the nurses pokes her head in through the doorway.

“Lucy!” I stand to call the 18-year-old. “The doctor will see you now. If you still want to go in?”

She takes a deep breath and nods to me.

I take the clipboard with her chart— which isn’t much of a chart because it’s her first and probably only visit— and show her the exam room.

“I’m going to see the female doctor, right?” she questions nervously.

“We have only one doctor here,” I explain. “And yes, she is still female. Just try to relax. She’s really nice.”

“Do I need to undress or anything?”

“Not yet,” I tell her. “A nurse will be with you shortly. She’ll ask some basic medical questions, and then she’ll let you know if you need to get undressed or not.”

The young girl gives me a nervous nod.

I hang her chart on a hook beside the door and do a quick change of the sign to say, “occupied.”

One down; one to go. Maybe I can get out earlier than I think. I take a quick glance into the waiting room to see the follow-up patient still waiting. I had hoped she maybe got tired of waiting and decided to leave, but no such luck. At least nobody else joined her. We sometimes get surprise patients at the end of the day. I hate it when patients think they can stroll in right at 5:00 p.m. and expect to see the doctor. The sign on the door says we close at 5:00 p.m. That means everyone in the office is supposed to leave at five, not that the last appointment is at five.

I sit back down to try to finish entering the checks into the computer. Most offices would hire a consultant to do this, but Doctor Polichvich can’t afford one. She refuses to “use my talent as a plastic surgeon to cater exclusively to the rich,” as she puts it. That’s part of the reason she located her office in what I call the underprivileged side of town. We sit in a strip mall with a liquor store on one side and a donut shop on the other. I don’t know how many square feet we occupy, but I can say the waiting room sits just 6 patients and we have only 2 exam rooms. The dentist I used to work for had more space than this.

As for my own office, it isn’t much either. I long ago concluded the builders must have added it as an afterthought. The walls form a triangle with my desk parked tight up against one wall, the door to the exam rooms occupies the second, and a small window looking out into the waiting room sits in the third. I have to always keep an eye out into the waiting room to make sure no inebriated liquor store customer walks in by mistake.

“Excuse me,” a deep, masculine voice interrupts my progress. “I hope you can help me.”

I glance at the clock on the computer. “4:45 PM” “Another last minute customer,” I think silently to myself, but then realize the voice comes from a man.

And what a man! I look over to see a set of deep blue eyes glare down at me from the open window. He looks gorgeous, a beautiful smile centered on a handsome face. On his head sits a mop of long, blond hair. His chin supports a cute dimple in the center. And those blue eyes! I can’t get over those deep, blue eyes!

“I sure hope I can,” I answer more assertively than I should. “I mean, yes, are you here to pick someone up?”

The words sound strange coming out of my lips. I hope he is here to pick me up, but then I think of the 18-year-old I just showed inside. If this is her boyfriend, a boob job might very well be worth the expense.

“No, actually, I’m here to see the doctor,” he corrects me.

“Oh! Then you must be an acquaintance,” I conclude. I wonder if he is her new boyfriend. Susan - I mean, Doctor Polichvich - never told me about this one!

“No, no acquaintance,” he corrects my assumption. “I’ve never met her before. I’m here as a patient.”

This confuses me. A male patient to see a boob doctor? It doesn’t make sense. There actually is such a thing as breast reduction surgery for a man. The medical term is gynecomastia, but this man is obviously in no need of gynecomastia. He already has the perfect body. I’ve been working for Susan for six weeks now, and this is her first male patient.

“Excuse me,” I lower my voice to speak more discretely. “I don’t think you understand. You see, Doctor Polichvich is a plastic surgeon who specializes in the female breast. You know, like breast enlargement, reduction, or plastic surgery after a mastectomy. This is her outpatient office.”

He smiles back at me. It is a beautiful smile. I only wished it belonged to a brighter guy. But then I suppose he doesn’t need to be bright, not with his good looks and all. I hear men talk about dizzy blonds. I think this must be the equivalent in the male variety.

“I’m well aware of the Doctor’s specialty,” He lowers his voice to match my own. He has a sexy, quiet voice, one of those voices that sounds like a whisper but remains perfectly clear. “Actually, that’s exactly why I am here. I work at a club two blocks down the street,” He motions in the general direction. “I drive by her sign all the time on my way to work. I always found it tempting, so today I left early to stop by.”

He leaves me thoroughly confused. He wants an appointment with a doctor that works on boobs, but he is most obviously a man. He sounds intelligent, yet he makes ridiculous requests. I start to wonder if the guy might not be all there - I mean, in the head.

“Please,” He almost pleads. “I just want a word with her. Don’t worry, it’s got nothing to do with my breasts or the breasts of anyone else. I am just hoping she might point me in the right direction.”

“Um, I don’t know,” I stumble, not knowing what to say. “We close at five, you know, and the Doctor normally refuses appointments after four-forty unless it’s important.”

“I can return next week,” He offers. “How about next Friday? I prefer as late in the day as possible. I start work at seven.”

The last thing I want is for this nutcase to return - well, let me put that in a different way. Actually, I want this hunk of a man to return again and again, but it’s just that nothing he says makes sense. What kind of job only starts at seven at night? And he says he works two blocks up the street. The only businesses two blocks up the street are an adult video store and a strip joint. I wonder if he might be one of those sleaze bags who hangs out at X-rated attractions. He certainly doesn’t look like your typical sleaze bag, but then I start to think maybe he is a pimp.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “None of this makes sense! Doctor Polichvich is busy with real patients. If you want to see a doctor, you really need to go to your own physician or you can always stop by County Hospital.”

A look of disappointment comes over his face. I worry I might have upset him. Even worse, I worry he might be a little crazy and maybe I just pushed him over the edge.

“I really am sorry,” I try to console him.

“I understand,” he accepts. “But let me first explain. This is a bit embarrassing, but once I explain my situation I think you will understand. Could I at least ask you to carry a message back to the doctor to ask her if she is willing to see me?”

I remain confused, but nod my head anyway. “I guess so,” I accept it.

“Good! Then please tell her I only request she point me in the right direction. I don’t expect her to do the surgery herself. It’s not her specialty, but I figure her specialty is closely related. I’m hoping she might at least be able to provide me enough information to show me where to go. Maybe she even knows a name?”

I shrug my shoulders. “She might,” I don’t know what else to say. He hasn’t told me anything yet.

“It’s like this,” he speaks more quietly and his head almost comes through the window. I smell him, and he smells good. There’s something about strong, handsome men that makes them smell good.

“I just logically figured a Doctor Who does plastic surgery to reduce breast sizes in women,” he speaks shyly. “Well, she might know something about reducing penis size in a man.”

I think my eyes pop out of my sockets. My jaw most definitely drops to the floor. I can’t believe what I have just heard! I wonder if I really heard what I thought I heard! I think again that he might be a nut case. And then I wonder if he might be part of some practical joke. April Fool’s Day was over three months ago. My 28th birthday is approaching, but this is a bit early for a gag gift.

“Excuse me?” I almost choke on my own words.

He repeats himself, and I hear it again. “I’m here to hopefully get some information on penis reduction surgery,” he says.

The gears in my head turn quickly. He said he worked at the club two blocks down the street. The strip joint club! And Friday night is Ladies’ night - or so I’ve heard. I never went myself, but I could not help but overhear a few patients in the waiting room occasionally joke about the male strippers on Friday nights. Women can be such sluts when no men are around.

And what he asks actually carries a strong thread of logic. A doctor trained in breast reduction surgery might logically know something about penis reduction surgery too - if there even is such a thing. I never heard of it myself, but then I’m no doctor. Who knows?

“I understand!” My face must look like it has been blessed with some cosmic revelation. It takes me a few seconds to come back down to reality. “Now I understand, but I’m not sure if the doctor would be willing to see you or not,” I admit truthfully. “I’ve only just been on this job for six weeks, and you’re the first patient to ask such a thing. I used to be a receptionist in a dentist’s office, and we never had to worry about things like this.”

I realize I am rambling. It is what I do when I get stressed. For some strange reason, I talk when I get stressed out. Rambling relaxes me, and right now I need a lot of relaxing. My pulse races. I think my hands shake. It is a good thing I am already sitting; else I probably would have fallen over.

“Anyway,” I force myself to shut up. “I’ll go ask her.”

He looks pleased. He gives me his great big smile again. His teeth are so white they sparkle. And those eyes!

“That’s all I ask.” He turns back into the waiting room, giving me a view of his entire body and of his behind. This is the first time I get a view of his entire body. He is a big man - in more ways than he just pointed out. A muscle shirt shows off his bulging biceps. Tight shorts display a tight ass. I figure he must weigh in at about 250 pounds, and I bet there isn’t an ounce of fat on him.

I have trouble getting up from my desk. My legs feel numb. My heart continues to race. I need time, time to think. I feel as if I just saw a ghost.

“Did I really hear what I thought I heard?” I ask myself. “Did a fabulously handsome man just ask me about reducing the size of his penis?”

I know what this means, of course. A male stripper wanting his dick pared down to size can only mean one thing! It is obvious! He must really be hung! I naturally want to know how hung, and then I remember the strip joint. I make a promise to myself to visit next week. I will sneak my way into a seat in the back corner so he won’t notice, and then I will check out his size.

Doctor Polichvich and the young girl come out of the exam room just as I step out of my office.

“What about those pills they show on those commercials?” The young girl cries.

“Bogus, I’m afraid,” Susan wraps a consoling arm around her. “They’re just specialty-formulated vitamins. You can try them if you want. They won’t do any harm. But it’s cheaper if you just eat healthy and take standard vitamin supplements.”

I silently point to my office, not wanting to interrupt but needing to get her attention.

Polichvich nods.

“There’s no charge because I really didn’t do anything,” she continues to console the young girl. “Come back if you need to talk.”

I duck back into my office as Doctor Polichvich bids the young girl goodbye and gives her a few pointers. She hands over a pamphlet hanging on the wall that has the numbers for various support groups and the suicide prevention hotline - just in case.

“You need me?” She pokes her head in a minute later.

“Close the door,” I tell her. “I need to talk to you about a request for a walk-in.”

“Do you mean Mrs. Alvery?” She looks out to the reception area. “Do you think she’s having complications?”

I shake my head. “Not her, the other one.”

Susan looks. “Wow! What a hunk!” She takes in a breath. “I didn’t even notice him! I must be getting old.”

Susan isn’t that old, maybe in her mid-40s. I can tell she still has good tastes in men. We don’t often talk to each other about our private lives, but I know from the two nurses that she’s twice divorced and currently lives with a guy.

“He’s an even bigger hunk than you think,” I urge her to sit on the folding chair that suddenly appears from behind the door as it closes. I don’t want him to see us talking.

“You have me interested!” She laughs. “But what on Earth are you talking about?”

I suddenly find myself at a loss for words. How should I say it? How should I phrase his question? My naturally gabby personality goes away and leaves me embarrassed.

“Well?” Susan prods. “I have one patient in back and another in front!”

“Actually,” I correct her. “You have two patients waiting in front, provided you care to talk to him.”

“What about?” She questions. “Is he growing boobs or something?” She laughs, but I fail to see the humor.

“I told him I would pass on his question,” I begin shyly. “But it’s kind of embarrassing just to ask it.”

Susan seems to understand my reluctance. She sits back in the chair and waits. I suppose this is the same way she has to treat a lot of her young patients when they are too embarrassed to ask about breast reduction or enhancement surgery. She must simply wait until they are ready.

“The guy might be a little crazy,” I first give my personal opinion. “Or maybe this is all part of some elaborate joke. I don’t know! I just know that he asked me to pass on a question and ask if you would be willing to see him.”

Susan nods without talking.

“It’s like this,” I give it to her straight. “The guy is interested in a reduction, but not to his boobs.”

She returns a look of confusion. I hoped my hint would be sufficient for her to understand, but apparently not.

“What I’m talking about,” I lean over and almost whisper into her ear. “He asked about reducing the length of his penis.”

I do not see her reaction. I am leaned over too close to her face to see it, but I hear it. I think she stopped breathing. Maybe her heart started racing like mine.

“Interesting!” She quickly recovers. “Very interesting!”

“He knows it’s not your specialty,” I revert into my rambling mode. “But he logically figures you can maybe send him where to go. He asked if he could like maybe talk to you a few minutes. Maybe you could give him some suggestions or the names of some doctors. Maybe you know some fellow plastic surgeon who might be able to help.”

Susan nods while I ramble on. She leans back in the chair, looks up to the ceiling, and seems to think. I don’t know if she hears me.

“It appears as though I would be a fool not to see him,” She concludes after I finish. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

She smiles, and I know what she means.

“Yes,” I agree. “I wouldn’t mind seeing him too!”

She laughs at this remark. “Then tell him he can come in, but he will have to wait until my other patients are through. Treat him just like any other patient. Start setting up a chart on him. Get all his personal information. Ask for his name, address, allergies, medications, phone number...”

She needs not go on.

“And one more thing,” Susan pauses at the door. “Ask him his length and how much he wants it shortened.”

She says this professionally, with no emotion. I do not even realize the impact of her words until she turns the corner and disappears.

“And set up Mrs. Alvery in Exam One,” she yells from down the hall.

My mind reverts back to my job. I open the window, call for Mrs. Alvery, and lead her back to Exam Room Number One. One of the nurses takes over, and the other prepares to leave. I go back to my desk and start a new chart.

“Excuse me,” I call out the window to the weightlifter sitting in the undersized chair. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

“Jonathan,” he stands up to join me at the window. “Jonathan Demetres.”

He looks just as good from the front as he does from behind. Broad shoulders show off a hard chest. His blond hair makes him look German or maybe Swiss, but his last name sounds Russian. I can’t help but fantasize him as a soldier of fortune sneaking across a border with a machine gun slug across one arm and a grenade launcher on the other. I only wished I was dressed better to meet him, like perhaps in a low-cut blouse to draw his attention to my ample cleavage. Instead, I must talk to him while wearing a standard-issue white uniform the same as what the doctor and the two nurses must wear.

“The doctor agreed to talk to you,” I inform him as soon as he is near enough. “I spoke with her, and she says she will see you as soon as she is done with her scheduled patients.”

“Great!” He gives me that wonderful smile again. “It will be about a fifteen-minute wait. She’s already got two other patients in back.”

“No problem,” he is very accommodating. “Actually, I figured I would have to wait a lot longer.”

“And while you wait, I have a couple of standard questions that I have to ask all first-time patients,” I chime in. “I know you just want to talk to her, but I still have to ask you a bunch of stuff about allergies, allergic reactions, current medications, etcetera. It’s the rule.”

He nods.

I sit down at my computer and go down the list. I get his name, address, telephone number, occupation...”

“Construction manager and part-time male stripper,” I think I hit the delete key a dozen times to type in his 7 words. I already knew the answer, but actually hearing a guy admit that he’s a male stripper is kind of erotic.

“Allergies?”

“None.”

“Allergic reactions?”

“None.”

“Any prescriptions or any other medications you are currently taking?”

“Just vitamins.”

“Any diseases or conditions you want the doctor to know about?”

“Nothing.”

All in all, he looks to be in perfect medical health, but then I could have determined that by just looking at him.

Finally, I get to the bottom of the form where it asks for “Other pertinent information?” I think about Susan’s last instruction and wonder if she was serious.

“There’s one other thing Doctor Polichvich wanted me to ask you,” I turn to face him, which I immediately regret. As soon as I see his face, I get embarrassed. I think my face turns bright red.

“It’s kind of an embarrassing thing to ask,” I take a deep breath and start up again, this time without looking. I keep my eyes on the computer screen. “The thing is, if you were a woman, Doctor Polichvich would want to know your cup size and what you want to change it to.”

“Flaccid and full?” He replies without hesitation. He immediately understands, and unlike me, is embarrassed at all - but then I suppose that’s from working in a male strip joint. I mean, if I stripped off my top to a room of strangers every night, I suppose I wouldn’t be embarrassed at telling a man my cup size either.

As for his question, I’m not sure of the answer. Susan wasn’t specific, but I know the question I want him to answer.

“Full,” I take a gulp and look at him. “Twelve inches.”

My legs go numb again. I can’t move. This incredible hunk of a man just told me that he has a 12-inch cock. My God! What a whopper! I never knew they could grow so big. I type something into the computer, but it is nonsense. A lucky thing he can’t read the screen from where he stands - I hope.

“And I’m interested in paring it down to nine.”

Nine inches! Even a 9-inch long cock is huge. The biggest I ever experienced was seven, and that was a plastic dildo. I can’t imagine what it would be like to take a real live 9-inch cock deep inside me, much less twelve.

“Is there anything else, Nurse?”

I realize he talks to me. I remain frozen in place, unable to move. I type more nonsense into the computer.

“No!” I answer almost in a shrill voice. “I mean, no, nothing else. We’re done. You can go back and take a seat for now.”

He backs away and leaves me to my own thoughts. I need to be left alone. I need to think. I need to calm down. My heart races and my hands shake, and they do so even more than before. I find myself unable to remember the location of the letters on the keyboard.

And then I wonder if he noticed. “Did he notice my amazement?” I ask myself. “Did he hear my gasp when he said his length?” I figure I must have turned red with embarrassment. My body nearly drips with sweat.

I stand up to get a drink of water. I go to the small bathroom, splash my whole face with water. I try to calm down, but the only thing I can think about is the 12 inches. At that length, he would extend upward beyond his stomach. I look in the mirror at my own tummy, and I try to picture how far his 12 inches would extend inside me. I try to measure it out with my hand and nearly come up to my chest. “My God!” I think to myself. “His dick would practically go up my throat.”

It takes a few minutes before I am able to return to my desk and finish the last line on the form. “Current length,” I type. “12 inches. Desired Length: 9 inches.”

It looks strange, but I type it out anyway. I print out the results and attach them to a clipboard.

He still sits in the waiting room. I glance over to check, but try not to look. I want to make sure he didn’t leave my life, but he still sits waiting.

I try to go back to the billing statements but have a hard time concentrating. All I can think about is him. I can’t believe such a good-looking guy and such a big dick sits so close to me. I feel this tremendous desire to call all my girlfriends and tell them to come over quickly. I will tell them later, of course, but they won’t believe me. I also feel a desire to call Bob, my boyfriend. Well, he’s not my boyfriend anymore. We broke up a few months ago, but I sure would like to use his dick tonight. I feel a tremendous desire to call him over to my apartment and ask him to screw my brains out. I’m in need of a good fuck. I have a long session planned with my dildo this evening. I wish I had it with me right now.

“Goodnight, Dawn,” I hear from behind me. “See you bright and early Monday morning.”

“Have a good weekend,” I tell Betty, one of the two nurses. She leaves right at 5:00. The higher-paid nurses get to leave on time, and the poor receptionist has to stay until the work is done, but on this night I do not mind.

I turn back to my work but only think about his cock. I type $112.12 into the spreadsheet by mistake. I can’t get the number 12 out of my mind.

I pause to think about how long it must be when flaccid. A 12-inch hard-on must translate into something like a 6 or 9-inch softy. I mean, the thing must extend a third way down to his knees!

I pause again to think about its girth. I wonder how wide it must be. A long cock logically requires a wide support, or so I would think. I suppose it could be long and skinny, but probably not. I figure longer cocks must also be wider cocks.

“She says how long?”

I jump at the words.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Jonathan apologizes. He stands at the open window. “I’m not in any hurry or anything, but it just looks like you’re closing up.”

“We close at five, but don’t worry,” I assure him. “The Doctor will still see you. The nurses are always in a rush to get out of here on Friday nights.”

“Except you,” he looks at my desk. “You look like a dedicated nurse who stays all hours.”

I’m tempted to tell him that I am no nurse; just a receptionist, but I figure it doesn’t matter.

“Somebody’s got to get the work done,” I tell him. “Besides, I don’t have any real plans for tonight anyway.” I contemplate the plans I have for my dildo right after I say this.

“Alone on a Friday night,” he consoles me. “I figure a cute little thing like you would have a date every night of the week.”

I think I blush with embarrassment at the compliment, especially considering the source. I can’t believe I’m doing this, having a conversation with a handsome stud with a 12-inch dick - or at least that’s according to him. I have a disturbing thought: How do I know he isn’t exaggerating? I mean, every guy likes to exaggerate about his size. I don’t think many would take the time and trouble to go to a doctor and risk embarrassment just to exaggerate his size, but you never know. In Jonathan’s case, I think he tells the truth. Besides, even if he exaggerates by only 1 or 2 inches like most guys do, he’s still plenty long.”

“You can always come over to the club later,” he suggests.

I think I blush even more. “Sorry, but I’m not into that sort of thing.”