the jewish general (3): dr banon edition

andy pink — satellite t —

the only thing you really need to know about dr banon is her tits. that was basically all there was to her. she didn't say much. she walked quickly, erectly. she always had papers, folders, in her claws. but it was basically the tits; she had managed to somehow eliminate all of the excess — interests, hobbies, traits, hang-ups, dislikes, concerns, worries, fears, jealousies, health problems, socioeconomics, background — and there she was in her breasts. i think i may have thought differently about her, and maybe differently about the entire jewish experience, had i been straight, had i liked her breasts, wanted to see them, look at them, talk about them with other patients, touch them. but gay, i had no interest in her breasts — except maybe academically, or intellectually — and if i cared to think critically about them, at all, i just thought of them as another one of those deviations from the male body — curved, flabby — that i didn't like, or i found repulsive, or i felt sorry for her that she had to walk around with tits all day.

but dr banon was very proud of her tits. and the way she displayed them, with cleavage, even after the delivery of three of her children, was so spectacular, she thrust them forward, and wiggled them, manipulated them from her brain, and must have been aware of them at all times, she would strut the ward, the halls with the patients off to the side, in the little cupboards we stayed in, and the stray patient, wandering about the halls, precisely going nowhere, just bothering to physically pass the time until there was an event, discharge, the stray patient would see her breasts and presumably, if he were straight, would notice them, and think: "a doctor, but at least she was blessed with fabulous tits."

she never really spoke to me; she did come by, every day, to look at me, physically, to see me, in my johnnie, usually in my bed, very quietly staring at the ceiling, breathing quietly, trying to find physical peace by not moving, bored, trying not to wonder or think, and she would present her tits at the door and say, "mr pink." she might bother to ask me how i was — she didn't mean it — but i think she probably felt useless there, in the door, nothing to say, no update of any kind, just waiting, like me, for the event, discharge, and she knew she was useless in the face of me, because i was gay, and her tits were an irritant, at best, and invisible, at worst. she may have thought of her tits as a kind of technique, medicinal, helpful, curative, that they would pique the interests of the male clientele who would love them and want themselves near them, touching them, fondling them, i guess one would say, and she would be present to them, available visually, but the code between doctor and patient is such that the patient would not be able to touch her tits, and she could not rub them in the patient's face, but the straight male patient — of which most were — would be transfixed by these breasts, so big, they seemed to be upstairs, high, i guess hoisted outward and upward by the unbuttoned shirt; it wasn't so much that i didn't bother to see her tits, or to want them, or comment on them, but they were just useless to me, did nothing, they had no effect on me, it was all of her that she could bring, or was willing to present, displayed for all of the patients, her own kind of symptom, stain, there for everyone to see and inspect, but i was more interested in her voice, or what she had to say, or what she would offer me, or how she could help me, but there was none of that — it was just these huge, ungainly, bouncy, clownish breasts, that's all she had. it was sort of sad, in a way, like she was reduced to her tits because there was nothing else, no other distraction, that could supplement them in any way, but i think for the straight male this offering of these breasts could have been quite helpful, or medicinal, maybe have awakened him to what lay outside, beyond the green and the paths, a possibility after the sun had set on his own personal holocaust.

I came to understand dr banon's tits in the abstract.

andy p — one of three