the good dentist

At this point in the week, hopefully your brain has been good and fooled into thinking you have abandoned the writing ship in favor of loftier pursuits, which means it's time to get serious. If you've been stuck on a piece of writing you started a month ago or last year or in a previous decade, it probably means a.) You are married to some portion of it you fell in love with the moment the words left your fingertips, but now you can't stand to look at it. You want to make it work, but in the words of Janis Joplin, "Honey, deep down in your heart you know it ain't right." b.) You are writing about something that isn't true enough yet. You are avoiding the thing that will make it true, and up until now, you haven't been able to talk about it, let alone write about it. c.) The story you are telling is not fully in your possession; research is needed to add credibility to the subject.

Open the file of an old, unfinished draft, and come at it from a new angle. Consider a different point of view. Be liberal with the delete key. Don't hesitate to dive into the deep end or to make a phone call to confirm expert details. Writers know that the real magic happens in revision, and you are a writer. You are a writer. Say it with me...



“It’s 99 degrees, but feels like 106 out there!” My dentist starts things casual.



“Can you turn toward me? That’s perfect.” In his chair, everything I do is perfect. I don’t know what he looks like under the blue face mask, but his young eyes are kind and his gloved hands are gentle. I want to have sex with my dentist.



I point to my aching molar. “Yeah, you’re riding it pretty hard.” He warns me before he inserts the needle. He explains everything as he does it, thoroughly, carefully. “Let me know if this is painful, and we’ll stop.” My dentist would never hurt me.



Every minute or so, he eases up to let me rest my jaw. I’ve never known a man who offered that. Most move harder. But my dentist says, “We can go as slow as you need to.”



He offers me a foam cushion, meant to help me stay in position longer. “Some people like it; some people don’t.” He sees my hesitation. “Okay, let’s try without it.” We try without it, and stop each time I need a break. My dentist is infinitely patient.



Later, he brings it up again, shows it to me–a soft tan block. I don't love the look of it, but why not try? I can be kinky. Once it’s in position, I instantly hate it. I don’t have to speak, just shake my head. He apologizes and it's gone for good. Unlike former partners, he won't ask me to contort around his desire. My dentist is sensitive to my needs.



I wait for the familiar pressure of the drill. “Is this okay?” My dentist will fill my every cavity and I will become whole again.