Before reading, catch up on the first half of the story here: The Russian Doctor: First Assessment.
The Russian doctor was home in Boston, but on my mind. We were messaging daily, and all seemed right on track. He sent multiple snaps of his family (who looked adorable) and his garden (complete with hot tub… hubba hubba).
I was impatient to see him again, and wanted to put our un-romantic, cold-sore accompanied, rain-ruined, Bronx outing behind us. I was convinced that when the cold sore pissed off, and we could finally kiss, our months of pent-up passion would ignite, and it would be hot as hell.
By complete chance, work sent me to Boston for an event. It was scheduled to last all night, so I hadn’t expected free time. A few drinks into happy hour, I realized it was dying down, and no one would notice if I slipped out.
I dropped my Russian a hopeful text. In 20 minutes flat, he’d borrowed his dad’s car, and was outside. It seemed he was as eager as I was. He’d brought water, in case I was thirsty, and a coat, in case I was chilly – cute. I was tipsy, giddy, and happy to see him. However, I was extremely unhappy to see the dreaded, unwelcome cold sore still hanging around.
There began my whirlwind tour of Boston. We watched sunset over the bay from a deserted pier. We drove through the charismatic Italian district, and he showed me where to find the best cannolis. In Boston Common, swans were actually gliding across a moonlit lake. Dreamy.
Keen to let our hair down further, I suggested a cocktail. He took me to the Top of the Hub, an indoor rooftop bar with 360-views; touristy but fun. We sat at the bar, and discussed career ambitions. Mild flirting ensued, but the temperature wasn’t rising as fast as I’d hoped.
We pulled up outside my hotel. After months of build-up, dirty-talk, and zero nookie, I was craving physical contact. I asked if he’d like to come up.
Before exiting the car, and thanks to my last cocktail, I broached the elephant in the room. I explained that obviously I would have wanted to kiss him by now, had it not been for the cold sore.
He agreed, and in full, un-flustered, doctor-mode, explained why it was no longer contagious, but that he understood if I didn’t want to take the risk (I didn’t). It was soooo relieving to have the ‘c’ word out in the open. And doctor-mode was sexy AF.
Once upstairs, we both stripped off to our underwear, and slipped into bed like teenagers. We slowly explored each other’s warm bodies beneath the crisp, white, hotel sheets. He had a ‘Chai’ Hebrew necklace nestled in his hairy chest (which translates as ‘Alive’ or ‘Living’), which I loved. Finally… some heat.
Not being able to kiss felt a little impersonal and hooker-like, so we didn’t take it far. Underwear stayed firmly in place. I took the opportunity to survey his equipment though: great size, and fully functional. He also performed some gentle manipulations between my legs. I didn’t orgasm, but it was nice.
It would have been lovely to wake up cuddling, but I couldn’t risk my colleagues seeing him, so he left in the night. I was feeling increasingly positive about the health of our romance, but further testing was required.
The following week, he was back in NY. Our text chat since Boston had been as strong as ever. I suggested Ferris Bueller’s Day Out at the Bryant Park film festival. He arrived straight from his hospital induction, looking hot in grey pants and a purple shirt.
I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that the remnant of you know what was still bloody there. It was officially the world’s most stubborn cold sore, and it was ruining my love life. Despite his previous assurance that it wasn’t contagious, the germophobe inside me couldn’t help but be put off.
We arrived 2 hours pre-movie. I’d pictured an ambient, starlit picnic, but I forgot that this was New York. People crammed in like sardines. It was near impossible to squeeze our blanket down. I instantly regretted my choice of date. Practically on top of our neighbors, it was hard to talk comfortably and openly.
Even the extensive snack selection I’d picked up from Organic Avenue was average. My inner food fanatic said I may as well have packed up and called it a night then and there. But I didn’t.
It was nice to be close to him, but I had to sit upright to see the screen, so romantic reclining was not an option. He caressed my back and neck though, which felt amazing. Post movie, we said bye outside a crowded subway station. Again – no kiss.
He started his residency the next day, and was soon overwhelmed with hospital life and night shifts. We continued to message, but it was clear that the urgency had subsided.
Less-than-explosive chemistry aside, in the time we’d shared it was clear how different we were. I was a loud, sociable hedonist enjoying a single, wild, New York life. He was a calm and introverted homebody, about to embark on a career that would be his life. I collected restaurant recommendations; he collected pens (he showed me one of them on the subway, which I accidentally dropped).
A few weeks on, I awoke from a night out feeling intensely, incessantly horny. My morning drive was only sky-high like this once in a blue moon, and I needed to make the most of it.
The Russian’s cold sore had to be gone, but our unfinished business remained. I shot him a text, outlining the horniness problem that required his urgent medical attention. He wasn’t free to meet, and gave little explanation. I was surprised and disappointed (but mainly just sexually frustrated).
Our texts a few months later confirmed what I’d suspected: he didn’t like being treated as a ‘horn dog’ (his words) and found the approach a bit much. I’d been attempting a last-ditch intervention, but had inadvertently made him feel like a dick on a stick.
I still wonder what could have been, without the cold sore getting in the way. Would locking lips have brought us closer, in more ways than the obvious, and awoken a deeper, heart connection?
We still message occasionally, but whatever was between us has faded. We recently planned to catch up over cake, and I’m looking forward to hearing his news.
The Russian Doctor and I might end up being friends after all, but needless to say, we won’t be Russian down the aisle any time soon. My final diagnosis? No love emergency here.