About a year ago, I woke up with a very bad toothache. Because I don’t have health insurance, I went to a free clinic for members of Actors’ Equity. They referred me to a city university dental program, and that is where I met Dr. Raul. AHHHHHHHH! I regretted not showering beforehand. How could I have known my dentist would be hot?
He touched the small of my back as he led me down the hall on the way to my x-rays. He moved my hair off my collar bone while he drilled, and he may or may not have grazed my boob a few times. It turned out that I had a cavity, and when it was time to get down to business, I sprawled seductively. I felt like we were on a date. We talked about our favorite movies and what kind of music we were into. (His answers were clear, mine mumbled.) At one point he told me about his pet shitzu and I worried that he might be married or gay, but he really seemed into me. When I went to pay, he gave me a bright smile and said, “Get out of here, it’s on me.” I was in love. I tried to stalk him online, but all I had was his first name—Dr. Raul.
A whole year passed. Then, just a few weeks ago, the ache returned. I wound up in the emergency dental department at the same university, and there he was. I said hello, and he smiled and led me to my chair (touching the small of my back the entire way). He told me I needed a root canal. So fucking hot.
He did the work—once again—for free, and then he gave me his number. After a series of flirty texts, I told him that I owed him one, making a joke about sexual favors. He wrote back, “I don’t think my wife would like that.” That explains the shitzu.
Lindsey Gentile is an actor, writer, comedienne, and all-around gal-about-town. Every Thursday, she reports from the front lines of single life in NYC. Check out her website HERE. Need more Big City Siren? No problem.
