1 ~ Noah

O-Zone Chat Room

Who doesn’t have something to hide? Answer me that.

I know I do. I’m there right now, in the kind of online chat room that could destroy my career. I’m Dr. O, and it’s my chat room. My creation. My groupies. My big secret. Welcome to O-Zone. The place where we talk about orgasms the way others talk about dog breeds. With enthusiasm, celebration, and great detail.

969: All-time record, Dr. O *fist bump*. Book 5 is best in series yet. Love me a gang bang. Jealous as hell of that lucky patient. How long was that story? 30 pages? Came three times.

Dr. O: Happy to be of service. Glad I made your…day.

Vibalicious: @969 what was your weapon tonight, a jack-hammer?

969: LOLs. My trusty Hitachi Wand. Maximum revs. Legs still shaking an hour later.

HotCandy: Agree. My basement flooded by the end of the first chapter. Total puddle pussy.

HerePussy: I got one in while hubs was taking a shower. He was disappointed cos he wanted to watch.

The chat room thread continues in this vein with people dropping in and out. It’s always pretty wild in O-Zone when I release a new book. Members race each other to be first to finish in every way. The ’gasm girls—their choice of name, not mine—bring a whole new meaning to the term “story climax”.

I hang around, moderate, answer questions, flirt a little. It’s fantastic for book sales, and it’s a safe place for members to discuss anything to do with sex.

I’m Doctor O, writer of medical erotica.

I’m also Doctor Noah Osbourne, emergency physician, and if the Board of Emergency Medicine knew about my side-gig writing doctor porn, I’d be Noah Osbourne, unemployed.

It’s a risk. A fucking big one.

But a risk that’s worth taking because the lovely, smutty royalties I earn from these books meant I was able to finish medical school without a cent of student debt.

I wrote the first series for a laugh after reading an article in the New York Times about people making a killing writing erotica. Quick research showed me the doctor trope was popular, and if anyone was qualified to write that stuff, I was, on two counts. I love being a doctor, and I love sex.

With success comes fans. Within a month I held a seemingly unassailable position at the top of the erotica charts, and found myself spending more time answering fanmail than writing new stories. Or studying. My roommate set me up with his techie brother who created a private chat room for my fans, and O-Zone was born. No photos, no profiles, no hook-ups, just a way to connect and engage with the readers.

In the early days they’d do stuff like send me their fantasies, and I’d take one each week and write it into a story. It was all harmless fun until one night a fan asked that question. Chat was going no different than usual when…

WetAndWild: Are you really a doctor?

I don’t know why I hadn’t considered someone would ask that. My pause was pregnant, and if I could have stretched it for nine months, all the better. Others chatted on…

—Yes, he is.

—No, of course not.

—He’d lose his job.

—He could be a she!

But the question dangled like a noose, awaiting my answer.

If I confessed I was a doctor, it would give unnecessary weight to my advice. That sort of advice was much better coming from an author who could toss in a rider about this being an opinion and they should always seek advice from a medical professional, right?

If I confessed I was a doctor there’s a chance someone would track me down. If the hospital found out, I’d lose my job, and probably my registration.

So I lied.

I’m not proud of it, but there’s a lot at stake.

Dr O: LOLs…if I bring you pleasure then I guess I’m a doctor of orgasms.

And with that little dodge, the chat returned to normal.

Three years later, O-Zone has matured. I should have guessed this type of set-up would encourage people to share their sex problems, and the most common one to surface was the ladies out there who’ve never had an orgasm. That’s something I find tragic, but at least their lack of orgasms hasn’t killed off their sense of humor, and I’m proud of the ’gasm-girls who are really supportive and come up with tricks and techniques I doubt most sex therapists have heard of.

I’m just about to log out when @Zer-O, one of my favorite people on O-Zone logs in. She comes across as funny, and intelligent, and sadly, has never had an orgasm. I hang about for a moment as my heart gives a couple of quick thumps at the sign of the green light popping up by her user name. The happy little burst of dopamine is a conditioned response. I enjoy chatting to her and we’ve developed an online relationship that’s deeper than those I have with any of the other ’gasm-girls.

You’ve got to understand, my hours at the hospital mean I don’t get the time to invest in real life relationships. I’ve made a couple of attempts but they don’t last because there isn’t a woman I’ve met who likes to be second in line to the ER department. Dating a doctor loses its appeal fast, and relationship breakups are an emotional suck that put me off my game. When it comes to women, I keep things casual. No promises beyond awesome sex…unless, of course, I’m called in to work.

The indicator alongside Zer-O’s avatar tells me she’s writing a message.

Zer-O: Is there a new book this week?

Dr. O: I’m traveling, so, we’re skipping this week.

Zer-O: OK. Be safe.

HerePussy: Yeah, Dr. O. Be sure you wrap that beast before you put it somewhere warm.

Zer-O: I meant, have a safe journey @HerePussy.

Dr.O: Thank you, @Zer-O. @All. Behave yourselves for the next few days when I’m not around. I’ll check in when I can.

There’s the usual flurry of overtly sexual messages and well wishes and I sign off, even though I’d prefer to stay online for a while and jump into a private chat with Zer-O. We’ve been doing that a lot lately, and I’d do it more, but having my deepest emotional connection with somebody on the internet is not a healthy way to live. But, fuck, she’s addictive.

Tonight, though, I have to make a final check of my apartment to make sure the moving company has packed everything properly for storage. What the ’gasm-girls don’t know is that I’m moving to the other side of the world to fill in at the medical practice of Arch Paxton, the man who has been a mentor and father figure to me since I was a badass teenager tearing up the small, but lively town where I grew up.

His son, Cam, was my best buddy at high school, and has remained so ever since. Cam’s like a brother to me, and he does stuff with money that makes my eyes water. He handles my investments, and he’s building a massive medical center, a private facility the area needs. Arch and his wife, Felicity, are taking three months off to travel and decide whether Arch is ready to retire, or up his game and join the new facility.

For me it will hopefully be three months at a slower pace that will give me the opportunity to think about where I want to go next. Stick with emergency medicine, become a small-town general practitioner, or specialize in something new.

Goodbye Parkland Emergency Room, Dallas. Hello Queenstown, New Zealand. Adventure capital of the world. Mountains, skiing, lakes, great wine, and an ever-changing parade of tourists. They can keep the bungy jumping, though.

I haven’t been back for seven years. I’m expecting the change of pace to take some adjusting to, but I’m looking forward to filling my lungs with crisp, clean mountain air.