“Two of you, take this woman. Go do a breast examination on her.” You would think this is God blessing me finally for being a good son to my parents and limiting my lying and covetousness to the barest minimum. Or you would think this is the beginning of an indie porn movie. Or the beginning of a wet dream which I will wake up from and find the woman I'm dreaming of right next to me, a perfectly natural prelude to an indie porn movie. You would be wrong. This is a hospital. And Dr Bond is a plastic surgeon. When he says examine, he really means examine and come back to report my findings to him. As it stands my life is in his hands right now. He decides whether I graduate from med school or not. If I am being honest, this breast exam began five minutes ago. Actually, it began thirty minutes ago. Every examination begins with observation, and what should my observant eyes fall on the moment I walk through the clinic doors this morning – a pair of water melons bouncing and bobbing joyfully within the confines of a push-up bra like the heads of two bubbly, conjoined twins. You would think you'd never be able to tear your eyes away from such a wonder of the world, but eventually I did. There is such a thing as better judgement after all. However, the beauty of seeing – or staring open mouthed really – is the mental picture you get to keep and savour later on. Just when the mental picture was blurring out, the young lady came into the consulting room. Aha, a model! Of course. Decent 5,7 frame, dark skin, pretty face with enough layers of makeup to plaster a wall, hourglass figure, and what do you know, an amply endowed backside as well! Just around the point at which I've firmly made up my mind that I am going to become a plastic surgeon or die trying, the consultant rudely awakens me from the dark, lecherous recesses of my imagination. A breast exam, you say? Now I am thinking if ever there was proof that there is a God in heaven, this has to be it. Until the realities of my situation hit me. The other part of ‘two of you' is a grumpy, straight-jacketed, female colleague. The kind that leads prayers in school fellowship and makes warfare everywhere immorality tries to raise its ugly head. She's the type I've never thought of looking at her breasts probably because I grew up in Sunday school and I still remember what holy ghost fire can do. Then there's the official chaperone: a hawk eyed senior nurse who seems not to like people in general but has a particularly short fuse for medical students. Model lady has undressed from the waist up and now, standing before the million-naira investments in all their glory, under the watchful eyes of these two, I am beginning to realize that this gift is a punishment. I can't even remember how the breast examination sequence goes anymore. She smiles at me and says it's okay to touch. This is my first encounter with breast implants. The round, rubbery smoothness of the silicon feels unnatural. I'm afraid to apply pressure for fear I might burst something. When my shaky fingers approach the nipple, she gives me that semi-coy, mask-like grin again. I can't fathom what she means by it. I only know it makes me squirm under my ward coat. Worst indie porn ever.