The Wrath of Khan
I've been laid up with an affliction that has left me shivering, nauseous, and miserable for nearly a week. One individual postulated (humorously) that I could be infected with Plague, as one never knows what deadly, ravaging diseases lay dormant within the shores of Brittania. A comforting thought, but since I haven't been in the belly of a rat-infested ship or bitten by fleas lately, that idea may be somewhat far-fetched. Luckily, my doctor revealed that I'm suffering from a gross combination of flu and sinus infection. Then he doped me up and headed out the door. This was two days ago. Today, he returned.
I remember the first time he walked into my bedroom. It's not like I hadn't seen him around before. My doctor knows my family well. He was my uncle's roommate at Eton, a former courter of my aunt, an assistant for his father at my birth, and his father and grandfather had both served as my family's physician. The guy was all over the place. But this was different. He was in MY room... MY Lair of Lovin'... well, that's what my brother called his room, anyway. He frequently lured seemingly normal girls to his room but they always walked out looking delirious and quite dizzy. Sometimes their shirts were on backwards or they'd be missing socks and other non-essential items of dress. I could never understand how they lost all mental faculties in the hour since arriving. I asked
time and again and all he'd say was that he gave them a special milk that made them feel good... he also said, hypocritically, that if I ever came into contact with a boy that wanted to give me milk, I should tell him and he'd kill that boy. It took 4 years and a near violent altercation between my brother and my first boyfriend to unlock that code... Maybe I should have told him that William tried to serve me juice. ... I stared at my doctor, wide-eyed and full of wonder, my palms became sweaty, my mouth turned dry... I was flush. I was not yet aware of the correlation between good-looking men and my full-body lobster skin problems but as far as I could tell, this was the first instance. To make matters worse, I was starting to tingle in places that we just don't talk about and was getting light-headed. The last time I'd felt that way, I'd eaten a pound of rock candy and drank 8 cups of tea while watching my father work on an engine in the garage. I was having trouble relating the two experiences but I digress. I looked down to find my doctor intently listening to my heartbeat. His unruly curls had fallen over his glasses, and as he looked up at me with his deliciously wicked grin and put that icy stethoscope back on my chest, I became enchanted. "Aaahhhnd breathe..." His voice was of the sexy, Scottish, Sean Connery variety that'll melt ya butta. I did as he asked and in those 3 seconds, determined that not only was he was simply the most beautiful man I'd ever seen but that we would eventually marry in a hybrid Jewish-Muslim wedding and would speak out against religious strife. As he took the othoscope to my ear and his cool breath rolled over my neck, my breathing grew more and more ragged. It was not 10 more seconds before I passed out, a victim of his beauty. I awoke to find his lips on mine and my mother frantically running about the room. An inhaler was placed on my lips and soon all was well... the good doctor assured me that it would be so. His smile, now warm and inviting, remained masculine in its confidence and yet rather boyish, as it twinkled with an unabashed verve.
And so began my obsession with Dr. Tariq Khan, III. I was 14.
[skipping 8 years of obsessive moments and fantasies for your convenience]
I spotted him from my window as he slid out of a red Alfa Romeo Spider. Sleek, sexy, and powerful, he moved like a swift wind, black leather bag in tow. As you can imagine, I was feeling pretty giddy. I ran to the bathroom to check myself out but dizziness overcame me and I ended up on the floor. This was my most pathetic moment in years. Defeated, I dragged myself to bed and sat down just as he walked in. "Well if it isn't little Mirjana." [Clue to the uninformed: that's my first name. Pronunciation lessons later]. My heart started to pound and my eyes lost focus... Thermometer, temperature, tonsils, say ahh. His voice was magical. Stethoscope, heartbeat, lungs, and breathe. As he went through the check-up prelims, I gave my original dream lover a good once over. At first glance, all was well. But upon re-examination... what.. a bloody monocle?? The glass, rounded in gold, fit snugly around his eye and was attached to his lapel by a string. I had a quick fantasy about snatching it from his face, throwing it out the window, and doing a dance of joy but I hadn't the energy. That attached string would likely thwart my plan anyway. Why was he wearing a lapel? What happened to his normal clothes? I then realized that Dr. Khan no longer wore normal clothes. He was wearing a black tuxedo with tails. Nervously, my eyes roamed to the left. His doctor bag. I didn't want to focus on it for I knew what I'd find. But I had to buckle down! Had to be strong! ... I spotted a cane. I was being examined by Mr. Peanut. Something clearly wasn't right with the world. [Flash thought: Yet another side effect from the Asian earthquake? The earth had teetered on its axis, a tsunami has wiped out hundreds of thousands, weather systems have suddenly changed course.. perhaps this happening was a minor, undocumented result. Even if that isn't the case, this is certainly proof that I'm living in the Bizzaro World.] This stupid bastard was shattering my dreams, my fantasies! Why not finish pushing the stake through my heart and show me your top hat! Fucking wanker probably left it in the car.
I asked him what he was doing in the get-up but he didn't hear me. It didn't matter. We were over. "Up on the scale, little one." In the last 5 days, I'd lost 15 pounds to hit 122 and my body fat had dropped to 3.8%. I didn't look emaciated or anything, well, not in a Sally Struthers commercial type way. I'd mostly lost water. But I had a 12 pack (4 more cans than normal) and I think I lost a cup size in my bra (the true tragedy). The damage to my formerly ample bosom aside, I kinda felt like Mr. Universe (sans roid rage and shrunken penis). So like any of you would, I struck a hero pose. Peanut took a look at me, patted me on the shoulder, and said "Well, you're filling out quite nicely." Was he hitting on me? I hoped so until I was hit with another nausea wave. "At 1.6 meters, you'll soon be as tall as your sister." She's 5'10, beautiful, and makes me feel inadequate. I hate her. "The x-rays on your growth plates show that you have few centimeters left to go. 1.75 meters, here you come, eh?" I wasn't 5'4 until my sophomore year in college. I wouldn't be 5'10 until 2021. Possibility that I'll grow more? "You're a healthy 16 year old. I don't see why not." Had we gone back in time? Is it 1998? "Oh wait, my mistake, little one." Rubbing it in is so classy. "Your premature birth stunted your growth. I suppose you'll never gain those extra centimeters." Depression in 5... 4... 3... "So how have your A-levels come along?" "I just graduated from college!" "Ah so you have, I tend to get you children mixed up at times." "But I'm the youngest." "Yes.. well.. be glad you look younger than your years." Yeah, there's some bloody consolation. We continued this ridiculous give and take over the next 10 minutes as he looked me over. When he was finished, I got the usual lecture - eat, drink, sleep, medicate. Thanks Tariq, you phony arse.
You know what I'm really pissed about?? I wasted so much time fantasizing about this jerk and I finally grow up into a reasonably attractive girl with some pretty nice intangibles and a great ass and he ends up being a live-action legume with a stethoscope and a prescription tablet. Not only that - he thinks I'm 16. I've been chumped. As he walked out the door, I asked, "What happened to your brain? Did someone crack you and eat it?" "Oh no, it shant rain today. We're going to have lunch at the polo club." Exactly as I suspected. Thumbs down on you Dr. Khan, thumbs down.
And so ends my obsession with Dr. Tariq Khan, III. My fantasy life is starting anew.
I remember the first time he walked into my bedroom. It's not like I hadn't seen him around before. My doctor knows my family well. He was my uncle's roommate at Eton, a former courter of my aunt, an assistant for his father at my birth, and his father and grandfather had both served as my family's physician. The guy was all over the place. But this was different. He was in MY room... MY Lair of Lovin'... well, that's what my brother called his room, anyway. He frequently lured seemingly normal girls to his room but they always walked out looking delirious and quite dizzy. Sometimes their shirts were on backwards or they'd be missing socks and other non-essential items of dress. I could never understand how they lost all mental faculties in the hour since arriving. I asked
time and again and all he'd say was that he gave them a special milk that made them feel good... he also said, hypocritically, that if I ever came into contact with a boy that wanted to give me milk, I should tell him and he'd kill that boy. It took 4 years and a near violent altercation between my brother and my first boyfriend to unlock that code... Maybe I should have told him that William tried to serve me juice. ... I stared at my doctor, wide-eyed and full of wonder, my palms became sweaty, my mouth turned dry... I was flush. I was not yet aware of the correlation between good-looking men and my full-body lobster skin problems but as far as I could tell, this was the first instance. To make matters worse, I was starting to tingle in places that we just don't talk about and was getting light-headed. The last time I'd felt that way, I'd eaten a pound of rock candy and drank 8 cups of tea while watching my father work on an engine in the garage. I was having trouble relating the two experiences but I digress. I looked down to find my doctor intently listening to my heartbeat. His unruly curls had fallen over his glasses, and as he looked up at me with his deliciously wicked grin and put that icy stethoscope back on my chest, I became enchanted. "Aaahhhnd breathe..." His voice was of the sexy, Scottish, Sean Connery variety that'll melt ya butta. I did as he asked and in those 3 seconds, determined that not only was he was simply the most beautiful man I'd ever seen but that we would eventually marry in a hybrid Jewish-Muslim wedding and would speak out against religious strife. As he took the othoscope to my ear and his cool breath rolled over my neck, my breathing grew more and more ragged. It was not 10 more seconds before I passed out, a victim of his beauty. I awoke to find his lips on mine and my mother frantically running about the room. An inhaler was placed on my lips and soon all was well... the good doctor assured me that it would be so. His smile, now warm and inviting, remained masculine in its confidence and yet rather boyish, as it twinkled with an unabashed verve.
And so began my obsession with Dr. Tariq Khan, III. I was 14.
[skipping 8 years of obsessive moments and fantasies for your convenience]
I spotted him from my window as he slid out of a red Alfa Romeo Spider. Sleek, sexy, and powerful, he moved like a swift wind, black leather bag in tow. As you can imagine, I was feeling pretty giddy. I ran to the bathroom to check myself out but dizziness overcame me and I ended up on the floor. This was my most pathetic moment in years. Defeated, I dragged myself to bed and sat down just as he walked in. "Well if it isn't little Mirjana." [Clue to the uninformed: that's my first name. Pronunciation lessons later]. My heart started to pound and my eyes lost focus... Thermometer, temperature, tonsils, say ahh. His voice was magical. Stethoscope, heartbeat, lungs, and breathe. As he went through the check-up prelims, I gave my original dream lover a good once over. At first glance, all was well. But upon re-examination... what.. a bloody monocle?? The glass, rounded in gold, fit snugly around his eye and was attached to his lapel by a string. I had a quick fantasy about snatching it from his face, throwing it out the window, and doing a dance of joy but I hadn't the energy. That attached string would likely thwart my plan anyway. Why was he wearing a lapel? What happened to his normal clothes? I then realized that Dr. Khan no longer wore normal clothes. He was wearing a black tuxedo with tails. Nervously, my eyes roamed to the left. His doctor bag. I didn't want to focus on it for I knew what I'd find. But I had to buckle down! Had to be strong! ... I spotted a cane. I was being examined by Mr. Peanut. Something clearly wasn't right with the world. [Flash thought: Yet another side effect from the Asian earthquake? The earth had teetered on its axis, a tsunami has wiped out hundreds of thousands, weather systems have suddenly changed course.. perhaps this happening was a minor, undocumented result. Even if that isn't the case, this is certainly proof that I'm living in the Bizzaro World.] This stupid bastard was shattering my dreams, my fantasies! Why not finish pushing the stake through my heart and show me your top hat! Fucking wanker probably left it in the car.
I asked him what he was doing in the get-up but he didn't hear me. It didn't matter. We were over. "Up on the scale, little one." In the last 5 days, I'd lost 15 pounds to hit 122 and my body fat had dropped to 3.8%. I didn't look emaciated or anything, well, not in a Sally Struthers commercial type way. I'd mostly lost water. But I had a 12 pack (4 more cans than normal) and I think I lost a cup size in my bra (the true tragedy). The damage to my formerly ample bosom aside, I kinda felt like Mr. Universe (sans roid rage and shrunken penis). So like any of you would, I struck a hero pose. Peanut took a look at me, patted me on the shoulder, and said "Well, you're filling out quite nicely." Was he hitting on me? I hoped so until I was hit with another nausea wave. "At 1.6 meters, you'll soon be as tall as your sister." She's 5'10, beautiful, and makes me feel inadequate. I hate her. "The x-rays on your growth plates show that you have few centimeters left to go. 1.75 meters, here you come, eh?" I wasn't 5'4 until my sophomore year in college. I wouldn't be 5'10 until 2021. Possibility that I'll grow more? "You're a healthy 16 year old. I don't see why not." Had we gone back in time? Is it 1998? "Oh wait, my mistake, little one." Rubbing it in is so classy. "Your premature birth stunted your growth. I suppose you'll never gain those extra centimeters." Depression in 5... 4... 3... "So how have your A-levels come along?" "I just graduated from college!" "Ah so you have, I tend to get you children mixed up at times." "But I'm the youngest." "Yes.. well.. be glad you look younger than your years." Yeah, there's some bloody consolation. We continued this ridiculous give and take over the next 10 minutes as he looked me over. When he was finished, I got the usual lecture - eat, drink, sleep, medicate. Thanks Tariq, you phony arse.
You know what I'm really pissed about?? I wasted so much time fantasizing about this jerk and I finally grow up into a reasonably attractive girl with some pretty nice intangibles and a great ass and he ends up being a live-action legume with a stethoscope and a prescription tablet. Not only that - he thinks I'm 16. I've been chumped. As he walked out the door, I asked, "What happened to your brain? Did someone crack you and eat it?" "Oh no, it shant rain today. We're going to have lunch at the polo club." Exactly as I suspected. Thumbs down on you Dr. Khan, thumbs down.
And so ends my obsession with Dr. Tariq Khan, III. My fantasy life is starting anew.
posted by Flash at 1/07/2005 07:04:00 PM
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