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There is something about him. I can't really explain, but I will attempt to do so. See, I have lived nearly 12 years in and out of physical therapy, for injuries, surgeries, and whatever abuses my extracurricular activities would heap upon my young body. Most of my adolescence years, all of my teens, and even into my 20's have found me under the care of doctors, surgeons, trainers, and therapists. Always a guy working with, be it by trade, or by fate. I have never given any of them a second glance, only because most of them were gaunt and geeky. I didn't even give this latest one a 2nd glance when I first met him. Handsome, and charming. But, truthfully, I thought he was gay, with his shorts and sock less legs, perfectly muscled and tanned. He was always manicured, clean-shaven, with a crisp polo on everyday I saw him. With a slightly dorky grin about him, and salt and pepper grey lining his temples, I never gave much thought to his prowess sexually. No way could a straight man have such meticulous care for his physique and appearance. As months and months have gone by, and this man works with me in a private room, always the door open a crack, to erase the hint of impropriety, our conversations have led me to the conclusion that he is very straight, very professional, and more delicious than I could have ever imagined. My therapist, we'll call him "Ben" for the purpose of this tale of part truth and part fantasy, has me face don on a table 3 times a week, in a medical gown, and always I have to remove my bra. As time has passed, my bra resting on the chair has always been a source of the embarrassed cough or what not from Ben simply because I own nothing other than satin, lace, or silk, and it's resting there on ...

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