Dating a surgeon

After coming to terms with the fact that I wouldn’t be sleeping with him the night, he calmed his roll and we continued our walk.In an effort to make small talk, I randomly inquired about Parisian real estate market.I’m not referring to the basic dentists and dermatologists, or the more profit-driven plastic surgeons, which are a dime a dozen.No, I’m talking about the bona fide miracle-workers, the surgeons, the guys with higher brain capacity and willpower and stamina than the rest of us mere mortals.

I didn’t really get a chance to deliberate as he suddenly gave it a nice strong yank and began passionately kissing me in a manner normally reserved for latin telenovelas.

After dinner, he offered to show me around his native 5th Arrondissement, completely unfamiliar territory for me.

As we walked through the winding historical streets, the Doctor pointed out the different famous universities while occasionally reaching over to rub my back and lightly pull on my hair.

I could feel the rare warm glow of approval spreading from my friends’ critical minds towards the doc and the doc’s glow of approval spreading warmly on me, and I started to get all excited in the way a girl does when she feels like she might have actually met a decent guy.

At the end of the night, the doc took my number and handed me his business card with the words “Chef de Clinique” inscribed on it, texting me an hour later to tell me he wanted to see me soon.

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