Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: Chapter Thirty-Five (Role Play Edition)

 

The moment you step in, you’re engulfed in a stream of House music and an even brighter confetti of colorful lights.

 

All at once, images of the most glamorous things you’ve ever laid eyes on hit you; large crystal chandeliers, tall antique mirrors, ridiculously high ceilings, even more statues, expensive oil paintings, and the most unique pieces of furniture you’ve ever seen.

 

The interior infrastructure and decor is absolutely sick.

 

Jeez, how the hell in the world can one person have so much damn money?!

 

You continue to make your way through, trickling in past the other guests. There are swarms of impeccably-dressed people; men in fancy suits and tuxedos, and women adorned in lace, silk, fur, diamonds, and other expensive—and quite revealing—attire.

 

You spot a statue holding a really large champagne bottle…and you realize it’s not a statue. It’s a woman, completely covered in green and white spray-on paint. She’s so still, it’s unreal.

 

You look ahead and see more like her scattered about the premises; completely motionless men and women stark naked with champagne bottles in their hands and nothing but thin layers of spray-on paint to conceal them.

 

You continue to make your way through, your eyes roaming over everything as you do.

 

There are a few barricaded sections of marble floors and mahogany floors over to your left, and in the center of each of them are…stripper poles?

 

You can’t help but shake your head internally. Of course, there would be stripper poles.

 

You look over to the other side and you spot illuminated dancer cages in the distance, each with two dancers in skimpy bikinis and large, feathery masquerade masks over their faces. They shimmer exuberantly under the neon lights of their cages, almost as if they’re covered in glitter.

 

About twenty feet behind them is a large DJ booth where the blaring House music is coming from.

 

Over in the corners are several large flat screen TVs, hoisted on the walls adjacent to each other the way they would be in a sports bar.

 

Speaking of bars, you can count at least five of them from where you stand, all the bartenders are wearing the same uniform—if you can call it that—short ‘schoolgirl’ flare skirts and bare-back, halter-neck waist coats.

 

Glass and marble sculptures are scattered here and there, and you see a parakeet fly by and land on one of them. A second later, another one joins it, and their tiny heads dart left and right, their eyes scanning the room full of party-ready humans as if they’re spectators.

 

You approach some sort of massive, open-ended table. You’ve never seen anything like it in your life. There are countless champagne flutes on it, as well as cocktail snacks, finger-foods, hor d’oeuvres, and right in the center of it, there’s a chocolate fountain surrounded by fruit-embellished women who are otherwise completely naked. You’re unable to take your eyes off the sight for several moments.

 

Holy crap, this party is extravagant, to say the least.

 

There’s a sushi bar in the distance, and there is a similar display of naked women covered only by decorative rolls of sushi. There’s a guy who decides to help himself to a roll or two, picking the food items off a redhead’s lower tummy with just his mouth as his friends cheer him on.

 

Oh, my God. This place is insane. These people are insane. You guess that makes you equally insane for being here—perhaps even more insane than they are.

 

You quickly avert your eyes from the disturbing sight, wishing you could bleach your brain to erase the memory of what you just saw.

 

Nicole takes your arm, ushering you in her direction. “Come on, don’t get lost so soon. We just got here,” she teases.

 

You approach a Grand staircase covered by the same plush ox-blood carpeting as the rest of the house, and you wince as you regard the humongous staircase of seemingly never-ending steps.

 

You have to pause for a minute.

 

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” you grumble as you behold the tower of steps in front of us. For crying out loud, your feet are already on the verge of exploding as it is. A million and one stairs to climb is the last thing you need right now.

 

Nicole pays your groans no mind and keeps walking ahead gracefully. You eventually follow suit, albeit a lot less enthusiastically.

 

You make your way up, and you clutch onto the sturdy wood railing with a death grip as you ascend one painful step at a time. All you can keep thinking the entire time is not to miss a step and to keep your balance so that you don’t end up falling and breaking your neck and every other part of your body in front of all these people.

 

God, you can’t even begin to imagine how humiliating that would be. Forget broken bones, you’d probably die from just the embarrassment alone.

 

Somehow, you manage to get to the very top without your ankles snapping, although you’re pretty sure they’d come close quite a few times.

 

But as soon as you arrive, it doesn’t take long for a group of about five men to flock toward us, almost like hungry bees to a flower. To be honest, you think they’re actually flocking toward Nicole, and you’re just collateral.

 

Nicole, with her friendly and bubbly attitude, immediately engages them. It’s pretty astonishing how easily and confidently she flirts and socializes with each of them. Before you know it, you’re surrounded by hordes of men.

 

You look around, quickly scanning each man, and you can clearly see the lusty looks in their eyes, and the lecherous smiles playing up on their lips.

 

You think you’re going to throw up. 

 

Your heart is beating hard in your throat, but you can’t let your nerves get the best of you. You have to suck it up and put your game face on.

 

Thank heavens Nicole does most of the talking for the first few minutes so you don’t have to.

 

But unfortunately, that doesn’t last very long. Soon enough, she’s being whisked away by two of the gentlemen. She gives you a playful wink right before their trio departs to the nearest bar.

 

Oh man, you didn’t think you’d be left alone so soon. You feel so frickin’ awkward.

 

Almost immediately after Nicole is gone, a man comes up from behind you.

 

“Name’s Mitch,” he says with a cocky grin. “Mitch McGraw.”

 

You forge the best smile that you can as you let him take your hand in his. “It’s nice to meet you, Mitch,” you say, shaking his hand. “I’m Raven.”

 

His expression falls slightly and the cocky grin disappears. His forehead creases as his brows furrow.

 

Oh, boy. You know that look. He’d obviously expected you to recognize his name.

 

“You don’t know who I am?” he asks, his tone drenched in obvious disbelief.

 

Great. He just had to go and confirm your speculation. How predictable. Of course you’d be the one to get stuck with an arrogant douche named Mitch McGraw.

 

More like, Bitch McGraw, if they ask you.

 

You somehow still manage to keep the phony smile on your face even though you have to grit your teeth to do so. All you really want to do now is punch the fucker right in his arrogant mouth, but you resist the temptation.

 

Instead, you grab another champagne flute from the tray of a passing server and help yourself to a few generous gulps.

 

You listen to him talk and brag about himself and his accomplishments for eons—okay, it’s only really twenty minutes or so—but fuck if you can help yourself right now. This guy is seriously off-the-charts narcissistic!

 

Suddenly, you feel his hand graze your elbow, and the unexpected—and very unwelcome—contact catches you off guard. He slips his hand further down, finally bringing it to rest on your hip.

 

You feel your body immediately go rigid at his touch, and you feel yourself starting to panic inside. You’re beyond tense.

 

You struggle to swallow the latest sip of champagne that’s now threatening to go down the wrong pipe.

 

You don’t think you’ve ever felt so uncomfortable in your entire life, and you’re pretty sure the expression on your face perfectly reflects that.

 

Between your relentless anxiety, impossibly achy feet, the annoying wedgie this stupid thong is giving you, and the way this douchey creep is trying to come on to you, you need a major timeout. Like, now.

 

You maintain the best forced smile that you can muster even though your cheeks are crying out for you to stop. “I need to use the little girl’s room. I’ll be right back,” you say, grabbing your clutch and emptying your glass.

 

You quickly excuse yourself to the nearest restroom before he can reply or say anything else, walking as quickly as you can in these monstrous things called shoes without falling flat on your face.

 

What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

 

***

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