The Harmless Thoughts of a London Gynecologist

(She name drops. Veidt, Dagover, Fritz Lang, Eric Pommer—“Still just like this, leibchen,” she says, removing her cigar and crossing her fingers. Her breathing is raspy.  They are sitting  very near the stage here in the Golden Cock, this cabaret of klieg lights and provocation, while above them a transvestite contorts himself with anthropoidal relish, and while Delk waits for the topic to return to ampules of cocaine and the meager life of a medical student, thinking to himself that he has never seen a man dressed in women’s clothing before,  knowing the rattle within her suggests a darkest pleasure, that Frau Strauss is a whore and a Jew, and telling himself that the anticipation, the need which has spread through his thighs, has nothing to do with the derisive pelvic thrusts of the fairy above him but rather that she will submit to anything—“For the ampules you provide, anything your heart desires”—and that no one will miss her.)

“Is everything all right, Doctor?”

“Have you noticed any discharge, Mrs. Mangrum, anything out of the usual?” says Delk, removing his gloves–the ApP and the OPE of rubber peeled quick from the skin, it’s as if it says “Fallopian”—“A bloody or watery discharge, perhaps?”

He is with her now, running the tip of his finger ever-so-slowly from prepuce to clitoral harbor, then down along the labium minus.

“No, Doctor, not a thing.”

“You’re sure?”  His finger moves upward now from the Labium majus to the meatus to the vestibule, feeling for polyps, for lacerations.  “Have you noticed any inflammation? An ulcer, a swelling of some sort?”

“Is something wrong, Doctor?”



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