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Hi, my name is Danny, and I’d like to tell you a story of how my life was changed dramatically by a very special woman.
For many years I worked for a privately-owned mail service, delivering letters and parcels to various businesses in the central part of my city. The job paid reasonably well - enough for me to live modestly but comfortably - and I got to meet many interesting people while doing it. Some were ladies to whom I was attracted; however, I was always rather shy and nervous when it came to trying to start a relationship. My love life was, in a word, underwhelming.
I had ideas as to what would make the ideal woman. For example, I have always been fascinated by females from the Middle East (India, Pakistan, etc). I love their accents, and their manner of speaking, which are music to my ears. The saris and other ethnic clothing they wear are a feast for my eyes. Their faces I find gorgeous, and many of them have long, beautiful hair. This last is another fascination of mine. A woman with lots of hair drives me wild! Lovely locks in combination with Eastern beauty are a major turn-on for me.
There is another fascination - an obsession, if you will - that I will be getting to in time.
One of my delivery locations was the office of a psychologist, located in a hospital, and I always loved having to go there. Dr. Patel, the shrink, was about ten years older than me, and hailed from India. She had the features I adore, and her raiment was especially interesting. All her saris had numerous drapes and folds, effectively concealing the contours of her body. Also, she wore broad sashes that, among other things, covered her posterior very well. There was no way whatsoever to tell what she may have looked like under all those things. Dr. Patel, however, never wore any sort of headdress, leaving her thick, straight black hair visible.
I always smiled at the doctor whenever I saw her. She always nodded back. Frequently, I considered asking her for a date, but the old paralysis would stop me. Besides, she was a successful psychiatrist, and I was a mere delivery man. Our worlds would intersect only in her reception area (and occasionally in other areas of the hospital). I spent a lot of time thinking about Dr. Patel, hoping that through some miracle we could be together, but resigned to the fact that such a thing would be impossible.
I have since learned that nothing is “impossible.”
One day about five years ago, I went to the library after work to return some DVDs. As I walked from the library to the subway, I was greeted by a pleasantly familiar sight: the doctor! She was headed in the direction from which I was coming, on my side of the street, so I thought perhaps she too was going to the library.
As we approached each other I said to her, “Good evening, Dr. Patel.” As we began to pass she greeted back, “Good evening, Danny.” I turned around to wave at her and saw that she had stopped walking.
“Danny?” she said.
“Yes, doctor?”
“Are you still at work?”
“No, ma’am,” I replied. “I was just heading home from the library.”
“I am also going to my home.“ Dr. Patel stood still for a few moments. She seemed to be trying to make up her mind about something. Finally, she spoke.
“Do you have a few minutes of time?”
I told her yes, wondering what the hell was happening.
“Walk with me to my home, Danny.”
I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. All I could say was, “Ma’am?”
The doctor repeated, “Walk with me to my home.” She extended a hand to me. There seemed to be a look of pleading in her eyes. “Please.”
There was no way I could turn down her request.
I took her hand, and we began walking to her house. I began to notice that the doctor had a very pleasant, flowery aroma to her. The nicest perfume I’d ever smelled. At an intersection, as we waited for the light to change, Dr. Patel rested her head briefly on my shoulder, then withdrew. “Would you mind if I do this, Danny?” she asked. “No, Doctor,” I replied. My mind started racing…what did this lady have in mind? At the next corner she again lay her head on my shoulder as we waited. Looking at her face, she seemed to be anxious about something.
“Doctor,” I asked, “are you okay?”
“We will talk when we are inside my home, Danny.” She held my hand a little tighter, pressed her head a little more firmly onto my shoulder. I sensed that even her long, luxurious hair had a lovely scent, most likely from a very expensive shampoo. What had I done to earn this honor?
We were now in an area dominated by old, large, three-story townhouses. Most had been subdivided into apartments which were themselves large (I’d delivered to them many times); it didn’t surprise me that Dr. Patel would live in one of them. She stopped in front of a brownstone with elaborate carvings around the door and windows. “Danny, this is where I live. Please come in and talk with me for a short time.” As I nodded, she let go of my hand and walked up the front steps, me close behind. I became aware of a third odor: the faint scent of ginger. Dr. Patel seemed to be a human catalog of good smells. Also, she seemed to waddle slightly up the steps, discernable even under the concealing fabrics of her sari and sash. I’d seen that waddle before…nah, couldn’t be. Not this beautiful Indian doctor…
Removing a ring of keys from her handbag, the doctor opened the front door and led me into the vestibule, where I was greeted with the next surprise. Where I’d expected to see the typical mailboxes for several apartments, there were none. She unlocked and led me through the inner door into the main hallway of the house. HER home. Evidently, she occupied the entire house. “This lady HAS to be rich!” I thought to myself.
Locking the inner door, she then took both of my hands in hers. “Welcome to my home, Danny. I am hoping this will be only the first of many visits.” WHAT?! It had become obvious that Dr. P. Patel, P.H.D., had some sort of interest in me…but what? However, I kinda sorta had an interest in her, too. Too shy (or perhaps intimidated) to express myself to her, she instead seemed to be approaching me. As an old Motown song went, the hunter was being captured by the game. So I hoped.
Another woman emerged from the rear of the house. “Danny,” said the doctor, “this is Leisha. She is in charge of my kitchen. Leisha, Danny will be a guest for a short time today.” The cook was another Middle Eastern import (Pakistan, I learned later), nice looking with long wavy dark hair, and obviously a wider-hipped figure than her boss. Patel let go of one of my hands so I could shake Leisha‘s. “Danny, is it possible for you to stay and take dinner with me?”
“Dr. Patel, I hadn’t planned on staying out late tonight. I can stay and talk for maybe a half hour, then I’ll have to get going. Perhaps we can plan on dinner another night.” A look of disappointment flashed across her face before she somehow realized that I had every intention of having dinner with her - just not that night.
“Very good,” she said. “Thank you, Leisha; I will have the usual amount.” She was eating dinner alone. Perhaps again. “Danny, please join me in my living room.”
We walked into her parlor, which was huge and lavishly decorated. Patel was a collector of many beautiful, exotic or ancient objects and knick-knacks, which were displayed on several tables, shelves, and etageres. I wasn’t surprised to see the walls covered with great artwork. There were also vases of fresh flowers and containers of potpourri. By now I expected the doctor’s house to smell as nice as she did. A set of closed French doors led to the dining room; opposite, the front windows were adorned with more objects and decals. I realized that I had noticed this house before, but never expected to be the guest of what turned out to be its sole occupant.
Patel led me to a couch and invited me to sit. It was the plushest, most comfortable settee I’d ever plopped my behind onto. The woman definitely wanted only the best for herself, and had the jack to pay for it. She eased herself, slowly, onto the seat next to me. As she settled, I again caught a whiff of ginger - a little stronger than before, perhaps because we were inside. Turning toward me, she took both my hands in hers once more. After a few awkward moments of silence, I spoke.
“Dr. Patel…”
“Danny, we are no longer on duty.” The hands tightened on mine. “Please call me by my first name, Pratima.”
The “P” sounded vaguely like a “B”, the “r” was rolled slightly, and the “t” was almost a “d”. It was the most musical sound I’d ever heard come from somebody’s mouth, and here I was holding hands with the owner of that mouth.
“Pratima,” I repeated. It sounded clumsy coming from my East Coast yap. “Pratima Patel. I like the sound of that.”
“You will become quite accustomed to that sound,” she insisted.
“Doc -- I mean, Pratima.” It would take a while to adjust to the new informality. “There seems to be something troubling your mind. How can I help?”
My hostess took a few deep breaths, perhaps marshalling courage for what she was about to say.
“Danny…I have seen you in my office and hospital many times during the last three years. You always look at me with fondness.” She was right, of course, but had I been that obvious? I thought I was projecting a professional attitude. “Please tell me, are you fond of me?”
I couldn’t get away with being evasive to a shrink. Figured I may as well tell her the truth and get this thing over with. “Yes, Pratima. I like you. Please don’t be offended.”
“Danny Kerr, there is nothing you can say or do now that will offend me. Please remember that. Why do you not tell me of your feelings?”
“Well…” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “For one thing, when I’m on duty, I try not to flirt with the people in the places I deliver to. Also, I usually don’t have time for small talk.”
“When you are here,” said the doctor, “you will have an unlimited amount of time, and freedom to speak. Please continue.”
“Second, I am…concerned…about our differences.”
“’Differences’? Do you mean our ethnic differences?”
“Uh, no, ma’am. I--”
“Pratima.” Old habits die hard.
“No, Pratima. I mean our financial backgrounds. On the one hand, you’re obviously a successful doctor; I can see that even more here in your home. You’re very intelligent, and very well off, and so are your friends, I bet. On the other hand, I’m a delivery guy, living in a two-room apartment. Real meat-and-potatoes. I’m not in your league…what could I possibly offer you?”
“You are offering me your time, your companionship, and your comforting hands.” Another squeeze. “That is a good beginning, and can be more valuable to me than material wealth.”
“Thank you. And the third thing…” My voice trailed off as I struggled for the proper words. Pratima found them for me.
“You are nervous in the company of females.”
The doctor had been analyzing me the whole time. She was good. “You’re right.”
“In my work I have treated many persons like you. You are painfully shy, and afraid of rejection. As a result, you have had few relationships, all of them short-lived. You have never been married. It is likely that you surrendered your virginity at a much more advanced age than usual.”
The lady was on the money with all points - except one.
“Now, Pratima the doctor, it’s your turn. What’s all this leading up to?”
As she spoke I sensed a mild trembling in her hands.
“Danny, I am in many ways the same as you. I, too, am uneasy around males. I, too, have had trouble with intimate relations. I, too, have never become a bride; therefore, I have never surrendered my virginity. But I must confess to you that I have always had a special fondness for you.”
My jaw felt like it had fallen into my lap. “All these years?”
“All these years, you have come into my office, several times each month, bearing your little parcels. All these years, you have smiled at me, and I--” She stopped abruptly, and a small gasp escaped her. There was an expression of dismay on her face.
“Are you okay, Pratima? Are you sick?”
“I am not ill. I will tell you what happened in good time.” As she spoke the atmosphere again became scented with ginger. Stronger now. “To continue: You have smiled at me, and I have gestured in return, wanting to tell you of my feelings, but afraid to do so. This secret I have held inside all this time.
“Two weeks ago, I observed the fiftieth anniversary of my birth. There was a small celebration, with my brother, who you have met, and several of my colleagues. I do not have many friends. Since then, I have had an extended period of depression and loneliness. I have also wanted to see you at my office, but perhaps you have not had any items for me.” Which was true.
“My own analyst - yes, we need counseling as well - told me that the most effective way to end my loneliness was to overcome my shyness and present myself to you. I had planned to do so the next time you came to my office, but instead our paths crossed this afternoon on the street. Perhaps it was better that way.
“Now, we are together in conversation and confession. My ‘moment of truth’ has arrived. Danny, do you have a partner?”
I told her no, and she became silent again. I waited. A grandfather clock in one corner kept cadence. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Beyond the windows, the shadows deepened. Thirty seconds.
“Pratima…?”
“Danny…” The trembling in her hands was more pronounced.
“Danny Kerr, I - I want you to become my companion.”
I didn’t make her wait half a minute for my decision.
“Pratima Patel, it’d be an honor.”
For the first time since I’d met her, three years earlier, I saw a smile upon the face of Dr. Pratima Patel. But her hands still trembled. There was more.
“Before you make your final decision, there is another fact you need to know. This fact is embarrassing for me, and is another reason why I have had limited success in romance.”
“Is this about what happened a few minutes ago?” A wicked thought began to sneak into my head.
“Yes. Once I tell you this, you may change your mind about our relationship. However, for the sake of honesty, you must hear this before we proceed further.”
“Try me.”
More silence. Finally, she gave her confession.
“I…I was born with a medical condition known as spina bifida.”
I began to see where she was leading me. Lowering her head in shame, closing her eyes, she spoke the words.
“I am incontinent of bowel…I soil myself. I must wear protective undergarments.”
My head almost exploded.
Remember that other fascination I mentioned? Well, an example of that fascination was now sitting next to me, her hands in mine. I realized that the source of the ginger smell was NOT some sort of perfume.
When I was 13 years old, I met a social worker in my school, a nice lady named Jane. It so happened that Jane had some sort of delicate stomach; she was prone to bouts of diarrhea, and had to resort to wearing bulky cloth diapers. Jane made no bones about her problem, especially since the thickness of her diapers was sorely obvious under even long skirts. Most kids, naturally, were grossed out by her. But for some reason - to this day I can’t explain why - I was turned on by the concept of a grown woman walking around in a messy diaper.
I began looking for women and girls whose clothes showed the tell-tale bulge of a diaper, or evidence of a messy accident. I found quite a few over the years. But as thick cloth diapers eventually gave way to discreet disposables, sightings became few and far between. Still, I looked. It became one of my great obsessions. I never could, however, combine my poop fetish with my attraction to Eastern women. These females were so beautiful, so entrancing, I could never conceive of any of them being messy in any way. My idea of a panty or diaper pooper had evolved into a white-trashy woman who’d either had too much booze and junk food or was simply unable to hold it. I never told anyone about this, knowing I’d be branded a “freak”. None of my few girlfriends ever knew (and none of them were poopers). So I plied my obsession secretly, eventually able to indulge my fantasies with the help of the Internet.
I still hoped to get lucky and find one or the other of my dream girls: an enchanting Middle Eastern woman, or a lady who messed herself. Doctor Pratima Patel was both, and she was practically begging me to be her boyfriend.
“Danny, this is the point where men will let go of my hands and quickly excuse themselves, and never make contact with me again.” She lifted her face and looked at me. Her eyes were moist. Her voice now trembled as well as her hands. “If you do so, I will understand, but I will be disappointed.”
I knew she would be far, far more than disappointed. I now realized that I literally held this woman’s life in my hands. It was my turn to squeeze her hands more tightly.
“Pratima Patel, there is nothing you can say or do now that will offend me. Please remember that. Your bowel disorder will not detract from my admiration of you.” In time, she would learn why. But not that Thursday evening. Not yet. “I want you to be my lady, and I’ll cherish you, no matter what.”
Finally, my sad, new girlfriend allowed her tears to flow. I gotta admit that I was kind of misty-eyed myself. We’d both hit our respective romantic jackpots. At last we embraced, not speaking, just her crying softly, me rocking her and stroking her hair, surrounded by the scents of flowers, herbal shampoo, potpourri…and ginger.
(To be continued …)
For many years I worked for a privately-owned mail service, delivering letters and parcels to various businesses in the central part of my city. The job paid reasonably well - enough for me to live modestly but comfortably - and I got to meet many interesting people while doing it. Some were ladies to whom I was attracted; however, I was always rather shy and nervous when it came to trying to start a relationship. My love life was, in a word, underwhelming.
I had ideas as to what would make the ideal woman. For example, I have always been fascinated by females from the Middle East (India, Pakistan, etc). I love their accents, and their manner of speaking, which are music to my ears. The saris and other ethnic clothing they wear are a feast for my eyes. Their faces I find gorgeous, and many of them have long, beautiful hair. This last is another fascination of mine. A woman with lots of hair drives me wild! Lovely locks in combination with Eastern beauty are a major turn-on for me.
There is another fascination - an obsession, if you will - that I will be getting to in time.
One of my delivery locations was the office of a psychologist, located in a hospital, and I always loved having to go there. Dr. Patel, the shrink, was about ten years older than me, and hailed from India. She had the features I adore, and her raiment was especially interesting. All her saris had numerous drapes and folds, effectively concealing the contours of her body. Also, she wore broad sashes that, among other things, covered her posterior very well. There was no way whatsoever to tell what she may have looked like under all those things. Dr. Patel, however, never wore any sort of headdress, leaving her thick, straight black hair visible.
I always smiled at the doctor whenever I saw her. She always nodded back. Frequently, I considered asking her for a date, but the old paralysis would stop me. Besides, she was a successful psychiatrist, and I was a mere delivery man. Our worlds would intersect only in her reception area (and occasionally in other areas of the hospital). I spent a lot of time thinking about Dr. Patel, hoping that through some miracle we could be together, but resigned to the fact that such a thing would be impossible.
I have since learned that nothing is “impossible.”
One day about five years ago, I went to the library after work to return some DVDs. As I walked from the library to the subway, I was greeted by a pleasantly familiar sight: the doctor! She was headed in the direction from which I was coming, on my side of the street, so I thought perhaps she too was going to the library.
As we approached each other I said to her, “Good evening, Dr. Patel.” As we began to pass she greeted back, “Good evening, Danny.” I turned around to wave at her and saw that she had stopped walking.
“Danny?” she said.
“Yes, doctor?”
“Are you still at work?”
“No, ma’am,” I replied. “I was just heading home from the library.”
“I am also going to my home.“ Dr. Patel stood still for a few moments. She seemed to be trying to make up her mind about something. Finally, she spoke.
“Do you have a few minutes of time?”
I told her yes, wondering what the hell was happening.
“Walk with me to my home, Danny.”
I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. All I could say was, “Ma’am?”
The doctor repeated, “Walk with me to my home.” She extended a hand to me. There seemed to be a look of pleading in her eyes. “Please.”
There was no way I could turn down her request.
I took her hand, and we began walking to her house. I began to notice that the doctor had a very pleasant, flowery aroma to her. The nicest perfume I’d ever smelled. At an intersection, as we waited for the light to change, Dr. Patel rested her head briefly on my shoulder, then withdrew. “Would you mind if I do this, Danny?” she asked. “No, Doctor,” I replied. My mind started racing…what did this lady have in mind? At the next corner she again lay her head on my shoulder as we waited. Looking at her face, she seemed to be anxious about something.
“Doctor,” I asked, “are you okay?”
“We will talk when we are inside my home, Danny.” She held my hand a little tighter, pressed her head a little more firmly onto my shoulder. I sensed that even her long, luxurious hair had a lovely scent, most likely from a very expensive shampoo. What had I done to earn this honor?
We were now in an area dominated by old, large, three-story townhouses. Most had been subdivided into apartments which were themselves large (I’d delivered to them many times); it didn’t surprise me that Dr. Patel would live in one of them. She stopped in front of a brownstone with elaborate carvings around the door and windows. “Danny, this is where I live. Please come in and talk with me for a short time.” As I nodded, she let go of my hand and walked up the front steps, me close behind. I became aware of a third odor: the faint scent of ginger. Dr. Patel seemed to be a human catalog of good smells. Also, she seemed to waddle slightly up the steps, discernable even under the concealing fabrics of her sari and sash. I’d seen that waddle before…nah, couldn’t be. Not this beautiful Indian doctor…
Removing a ring of keys from her handbag, the doctor opened the front door and led me into the vestibule, where I was greeted with the next surprise. Where I’d expected to see the typical mailboxes for several apartments, there were none. She unlocked and led me through the inner door into the main hallway of the house. HER home. Evidently, she occupied the entire house. “This lady HAS to be rich!” I thought to myself.
Locking the inner door, she then took both of my hands in hers. “Welcome to my home, Danny. I am hoping this will be only the first of many visits.” WHAT?! It had become obvious that Dr. P. Patel, P.H.D., had some sort of interest in me…but what? However, I kinda sorta had an interest in her, too. Too shy (or perhaps intimidated) to express myself to her, she instead seemed to be approaching me. As an old Motown song went, the hunter was being captured by the game. So I hoped.
Another woman emerged from the rear of the house. “Danny,” said the doctor, “this is Leisha. She is in charge of my kitchen. Leisha, Danny will be a guest for a short time today.” The cook was another Middle Eastern import (Pakistan, I learned later), nice looking with long wavy dark hair, and obviously a wider-hipped figure than her boss. Patel let go of one of my hands so I could shake Leisha‘s. “Danny, is it possible for you to stay and take dinner with me?”
“Dr. Patel, I hadn’t planned on staying out late tonight. I can stay and talk for maybe a half hour, then I’ll have to get going. Perhaps we can plan on dinner another night.” A look of disappointment flashed across her face before she somehow realized that I had every intention of having dinner with her - just not that night.
“Very good,” she said. “Thank you, Leisha; I will have the usual amount.” She was eating dinner alone. Perhaps again. “Danny, please join me in my living room.”
We walked into her parlor, which was huge and lavishly decorated. Patel was a collector of many beautiful, exotic or ancient objects and knick-knacks, which were displayed on several tables, shelves, and etageres. I wasn’t surprised to see the walls covered with great artwork. There were also vases of fresh flowers and containers of potpourri. By now I expected the doctor’s house to smell as nice as she did. A set of closed French doors led to the dining room; opposite, the front windows were adorned with more objects and decals. I realized that I had noticed this house before, but never expected to be the guest of what turned out to be its sole occupant.
Patel led me to a couch and invited me to sit. It was the plushest, most comfortable settee I’d ever plopped my behind onto. The woman definitely wanted only the best for herself, and had the jack to pay for it. She eased herself, slowly, onto the seat next to me. As she settled, I again caught a whiff of ginger - a little stronger than before, perhaps because we were inside. Turning toward me, she took both my hands in hers once more. After a few awkward moments of silence, I spoke.
“Dr. Patel…”
“Danny, we are no longer on duty.” The hands tightened on mine. “Please call me by my first name, Pratima.”
The “P” sounded vaguely like a “B”, the “r” was rolled slightly, and the “t” was almost a “d”. It was the most musical sound I’d ever heard come from somebody’s mouth, and here I was holding hands with the owner of that mouth.
“Pratima,” I repeated. It sounded clumsy coming from my East Coast yap. “Pratima Patel. I like the sound of that.”
“You will become quite accustomed to that sound,” she insisted.
“Doc -- I mean, Pratima.” It would take a while to adjust to the new informality. “There seems to be something troubling your mind. How can I help?”
My hostess took a few deep breaths, perhaps marshalling courage for what she was about to say.
“Danny…I have seen you in my office and hospital many times during the last three years. You always look at me with fondness.” She was right, of course, but had I been that obvious? I thought I was projecting a professional attitude. “Please tell me, are you fond of me?”
I couldn’t get away with being evasive to a shrink. Figured I may as well tell her the truth and get this thing over with. “Yes, Pratima. I like you. Please don’t be offended.”
“Danny Kerr, there is nothing you can say or do now that will offend me. Please remember that. Why do you not tell me of your feelings?”
“Well…” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “For one thing, when I’m on duty, I try not to flirt with the people in the places I deliver to. Also, I usually don’t have time for small talk.”
“When you are here,” said the doctor, “you will have an unlimited amount of time, and freedom to speak. Please continue.”
“Second, I am…concerned…about our differences.”
“’Differences’? Do you mean our ethnic differences?”
“Uh, no, ma’am. I--”
“Pratima.” Old habits die hard.
“No, Pratima. I mean our financial backgrounds. On the one hand, you’re obviously a successful doctor; I can see that even more here in your home. You’re very intelligent, and very well off, and so are your friends, I bet. On the other hand, I’m a delivery guy, living in a two-room apartment. Real meat-and-potatoes. I’m not in your league…what could I possibly offer you?”
“You are offering me your time, your companionship, and your comforting hands.” Another squeeze. “That is a good beginning, and can be more valuable to me than material wealth.”
“Thank you. And the third thing…” My voice trailed off as I struggled for the proper words. Pratima found them for me.
“You are nervous in the company of females.”
The doctor had been analyzing me the whole time. She was good. “You’re right.”
“In my work I have treated many persons like you. You are painfully shy, and afraid of rejection. As a result, you have had few relationships, all of them short-lived. You have never been married. It is likely that you surrendered your virginity at a much more advanced age than usual.”
The lady was on the money with all points - except one.
“Now, Pratima the doctor, it’s your turn. What’s all this leading up to?”
As she spoke I sensed a mild trembling in her hands.
“Danny, I am in many ways the same as you. I, too, am uneasy around males. I, too, have had trouble with intimate relations. I, too, have never become a bride; therefore, I have never surrendered my virginity. But I must confess to you that I have always had a special fondness for you.”
My jaw felt like it had fallen into my lap. “All these years?”
“All these years, you have come into my office, several times each month, bearing your little parcels. All these years, you have smiled at me, and I--” She stopped abruptly, and a small gasp escaped her. There was an expression of dismay on her face.
“Are you okay, Pratima? Are you sick?”
“I am not ill. I will tell you what happened in good time.” As she spoke the atmosphere again became scented with ginger. Stronger now. “To continue: You have smiled at me, and I have gestured in return, wanting to tell you of my feelings, but afraid to do so. This secret I have held inside all this time.
“Two weeks ago, I observed the fiftieth anniversary of my birth. There was a small celebration, with my brother, who you have met, and several of my colleagues. I do not have many friends. Since then, I have had an extended period of depression and loneliness. I have also wanted to see you at my office, but perhaps you have not had any items for me.” Which was true.
“My own analyst - yes, we need counseling as well - told me that the most effective way to end my loneliness was to overcome my shyness and present myself to you. I had planned to do so the next time you came to my office, but instead our paths crossed this afternoon on the street. Perhaps it was better that way.
“Now, we are together in conversation and confession. My ‘moment of truth’ has arrived. Danny, do you have a partner?”
I told her no, and she became silent again. I waited. A grandfather clock in one corner kept cadence. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Beyond the windows, the shadows deepened. Thirty seconds.
“Pratima…?”
“Danny…” The trembling in her hands was more pronounced.
“Danny Kerr, I - I want you to become my companion.”
I didn’t make her wait half a minute for my decision.
“Pratima Patel, it’d be an honor.”
For the first time since I’d met her, three years earlier, I saw a smile upon the face of Dr. Pratima Patel. But her hands still trembled. There was more.
“Before you make your final decision, there is another fact you need to know. This fact is embarrassing for me, and is another reason why I have had limited success in romance.”
“Is this about what happened a few minutes ago?” A wicked thought began to sneak into my head.
“Yes. Once I tell you this, you may change your mind about our relationship. However, for the sake of honesty, you must hear this before we proceed further.”
“Try me.”
More silence. Finally, she gave her confession.
“I…I was born with a medical condition known as spina bifida.”
I began to see where she was leading me. Lowering her head in shame, closing her eyes, she spoke the words.
“I am incontinent of bowel…I soil myself. I must wear protective undergarments.”
My head almost exploded.
Remember that other fascination I mentioned? Well, an example of that fascination was now sitting next to me, her hands in mine. I realized that the source of the ginger smell was NOT some sort of perfume.
When I was 13 years old, I met a social worker in my school, a nice lady named Jane. It so happened that Jane had some sort of delicate stomach; she was prone to bouts of diarrhea, and had to resort to wearing bulky cloth diapers. Jane made no bones about her problem, especially since the thickness of her diapers was sorely obvious under even long skirts. Most kids, naturally, were grossed out by her. But for some reason - to this day I can’t explain why - I was turned on by the concept of a grown woman walking around in a messy diaper.
I began looking for women and girls whose clothes showed the tell-tale bulge of a diaper, or evidence of a messy accident. I found quite a few over the years. But as thick cloth diapers eventually gave way to discreet disposables, sightings became few and far between. Still, I looked. It became one of my great obsessions. I never could, however, combine my poop fetish with my attraction to Eastern women. These females were so beautiful, so entrancing, I could never conceive of any of them being messy in any way. My idea of a panty or diaper pooper had evolved into a white-trashy woman who’d either had too much booze and junk food or was simply unable to hold it. I never told anyone about this, knowing I’d be branded a “freak”. None of my few girlfriends ever knew (and none of them were poopers). So I plied my obsession secretly, eventually able to indulge my fantasies with the help of the Internet.
I still hoped to get lucky and find one or the other of my dream girls: an enchanting Middle Eastern woman, or a lady who messed herself. Doctor Pratima Patel was both, and she was practically begging me to be her boyfriend.
“Danny, this is the point where men will let go of my hands and quickly excuse themselves, and never make contact with me again.” She lifted her face and looked at me. Her eyes were moist. Her voice now trembled as well as her hands. “If you do so, I will understand, but I will be disappointed.”
I knew she would be far, far more than disappointed. I now realized that I literally held this woman’s life in my hands. It was my turn to squeeze her hands more tightly.
“Pratima Patel, there is nothing you can say or do now that will offend me. Please remember that. Your bowel disorder will not detract from my admiration of you.” In time, she would learn why. But not that Thursday evening. Not yet. “I want you to be my lady, and I’ll cherish you, no matter what.”
Finally, my sad, new girlfriend allowed her tears to flow. I gotta admit that I was kind of misty-eyed myself. We’d both hit our respective romantic jackpots. At last we embraced, not speaking, just her crying softly, me rocking her and stroking her hair, surrounded by the scents of flowers, herbal shampoo, potpourri…and ginger.
(To be continued …)