In October 2006, I was hospitalized in a Grade-A tertiary hospital in Qingdao because of illness and was preparing for an open-abdominal surgery.
On Tuesday afternoon, the doctor informed me that I would have the first surgery the next morning, and today I needed to do preoperative preparations: shaving and an enema. I was in my thirties at the time, experiencing these for the first time, feeling both nervous and a bit curious.
The hospital room was a three-bed ward; there were no single rooms. My wife originally wanted to stay with me, but I persuaded her to go back. I thought it was just shaving some hair and an enema, nothing major.
At a little past six in the evening, the nurse came to call me to the treatment room for preoperative preparation.
Two nurses entered the treatment room, one tall and one short. The shorter one looked about twenty-five or twenty-six and was a regular nurse; the taller one was an intern, and her badge said she had not yet graduated, about eighteen or nineteen. Both were wearing masks, showing only their eyes.
“Lie on the bed.” The short nurse said.
I lay down on the treatment bed covered with a disposable sheet. She told me to lift my shirt to my chest and pull my pants down to my knees.
For the first time, I was completely exposed below the waist in front of two young girls. My face felt a bit hot. I tried hard to stare at the ceiling, telling myself this was a normal medical procedure.
The short nurse first applied lubricant to my lower abdomen and began shaving. Her movements were very skilled. After finishing my lower abdomen, she said to the intern, 'You take over next.'
The intern's hand was trembling slightly. She scraped carefully, occasionally pressing down on the skin with her fingers. When she moved further down, I clearly felt myself reacting. Her hand paused for a moment, and she exchanged a few quiet words with the shorter nurse.
"The hair down below needs to be shaved clean too, all the way to the crease of the thigh," the short nurse explained.
The intern continued the procedure. Her fingers inevitably touched me, her movements light yet earnest. I tried to relax as much as possible, cooperating by spreading my legs. The whole process took about ten minutes. Afterwards, she used a tissue to wipe away the remaining hair and lubricant.
The short nurse was then called away by a bell, leaving only me and the intern in the treatment room.
The air was a bit quiet. She blushed while organizing the equipment, and I took the initiative to break the silence, asking if she had just started her internship. She nodded, saying it was her second day.
Later the short nurse came back and used my body to give the intern a brief explanation of the anatomical location of the lower abdomen. By the time the explanation ended, I was already completely hard. They ended the procedure very professionally and let me put my clothes back on.
Next is an enema.
I took off my pants again and lay on my side. The shorter nurse adjusted the water temperature, added lubricant, and gently inserted the thin tube. At first, it felt a bit bloated; she told me to relax and take deep breaths. As the water slowly flowed in, a strong urge to defecate surged up, and I could only grit my teeth and endure it.
After one round of enema, the short nurse let the intern handle the next few times. The intern's movements were gentler than the teacher's and she would ask if I was uncomfortable. After several rounds back and forth, I was already somewhat exhausted.
The last time, only the two of us were left in the treatment room. She locked the door, blushing, saying she hadn't fully remembered some parts earlier and wanted to confirm again.
I lay still. Her fingers touched those just-treated areas again, more carefully and for longer than before. The room was quiet, only our soft breathing audible.
That pre-operative preparation was longer and more impressive than I had anticipated.
The next day the surgery went smoothly. In the days after the operation, that intern still came to change my IV drip and bedsheets. We didn't speak alone again, but the sensation and warmth from that night in the treatment room became a private memory I would occasionally recall later.
Years later, looking back, it had only been a routine preoperative procedure in the hospital, yet because of their age, the setting, and the shyness of their first time, it left behind an unusually vivid sensory imprint.
On the third day after the surgery, I was already able to get out of bed and walk around on my own.
The wound still throbbed faintly, the catheter hadn’t been removed yet, and movement was somewhat inconvenient. In the afternoon when the nurse came to change the dressing, I saw that intern. She pushed the treatment cart in, and when she saw it was me, her eyes flickered for a moment before returning to professional calm.
"Mr. Zhang, we're changing the dressing today. It may hurt a little." Her voice was very soft.
I nodded and obediently lay down. She put on gloves, her movements more skilled than on the day of skin preparation. When she removed the dressing, I couldn't help but gasp. She immediately slowed down, gently wiping around the wound with an iodine cotton ball.
"Still hurting?" she asked.
“Much better than yesterday.”
She didn't speak again, focusing on the task. After changing the dressing, she helped me straighten my hospital gown, but her eyes avoided mine. Before leaving, she suddenly said in a low voice:
“That day... I’m sorry.”
I was taken aback, and before I could react, she had already pushed the cart out.
A little after 9 p.m., the other two patients in the ward were asleep. I was leaning against the headboard looking at my phone when the door was gently pushed open. The intern peeked in, confirmed everyone else was asleep, and walked to my bedside.
"Not asleep yet?" she asked.
“Can’t sleep. The wound is a little itchy.”
She hesitated for two seconds, pulled over a chair and sat down. The night shift lights were dim, only the floor lights in the corridor were on. She wasn't wearing a mask today, and her face was clearly visible. Her skin was fair and clean, her eyes looked a bit tired, and her hair was neatly tied back.
“When I was shaving that day... my hands were shaking badly, right?” she suddenly asked.
"A little." I smiled. "It’s normal to be nervous the first time doing it for someone."
She lowered her head and looked at her own hands, her voice even softer: “Actually... I went back and thought about it for a long time. There were some places that day that weren’t done professionally.”
“In what way?”
She was silent for a few seconds, her cheeks slightly reddening: 'It's just... when I touched you, I lingered too long. And the last enema, after the door was locked...'
The air suddenly fell silent.
I didn't respond, just looked at her. She raised her eyes, met my gaze, then quickly looked away.
"I didn't mean it," she added. "It's just... seeing a living one for the first time is different from the books. My heart was pounding, and my hands wouldn't obey me."
“I know.” I said. “I wasn’t exactly calm that day either.”
She chuckled lightly, the laughter brief but easing the atmosphere.
“Your wound is healing well.” She changed the subject. “The doctor said the catheter can be removed tomorrow.”
“Then that’s good. This thing is really inconvenient.”
She nodded, stood up to leave. At the door, she paused again.
“Oh, by the way,” she turned back, her voice almost a whisper, “if... if you don’t mind, I’ll do the dressing change tomorrow too.”
“Good.”
The door closed gently.
The next morning, after the urinary catheter was removed, it was much more comfortable. At noon, she indeed came again to change the dressing. This time her movements were much quicker, but still lingered half a second longer in certain places. After changing, she helped prop up my pillow and asked if I was uncomfortable anywhere.
"It's just a bit boring," I said. "My phone is almost out of battery."
She thought for a moment, then pulled a piece of chocolate from her pocket and handed it over: "Snagged this while dispensing medicine just now. Don't tell the teacher."
I took it, unwrapped it, ate half, and handed the other half to her. She hesitated, but then took it and ate it.
From that day on, she would stay a little longer every day. Sometimes it was to change medicine, sometimes to deliver medicine, sometimes just to stop by and take a look. The topics of conversation slowly shifted from wound recovery to life at the nursing school, the hardships of internship, and her plans for the future.
Her name was Lin Xiao, a third-year nursing school student, and she would graduate in another half year. Her family was from Linyi, and after coming out to study she rarely went back. Her internship pay was not high, and she lived in a dormitory near the hospital with six people to a room.
"Sometimes I work the night shift, and when I get back to the dorm in the morning I just crash and sleep until afternoon." she said, "My dreams are all about changing dressings and taking blood pressure."
I listened, occasionally replying with a word or two. The wound improved day by day, and the day for suture removal drew closer.
The day the stitches were removed was her shift.
She cut and pulled out the stitches one by one, her movements so light they were almost imperceptible. When the last one was removed, she gently blew on the wound and said, 'All done, don't get it wet before it scabs over.'
“Thank you.”
While packing her things, she suddenly asked, "After you're discharged... will you still come for follow-up checks?"
"Yes. The doctor said to come back in a week for another look."
“Then……if I'm there by then, I'll help you change the dressing.”
“Good.”
She wasn’t on duty that day when I was discharged. I left the fruit I had brought at the nurses’ station and asked someone to pass it on to her.
At the follow-up visit a week later, I specifically chose the time period when she might be on duty. When I pushed open the door to the dressing-change room, she was lowering her head to write nursing records. When she saw me, her eyes lit up for a moment, then quickly returned to calm.
"The wound is healing well." After examining it, she said, "There's no need to keep bandaging it."
The examination ended, but she didn't let me leave immediately. There were only the two of us in the treatment room. She closed the door, leaned against it, and looked at me.
“Actually, after the shaving that day, I went back and washed my hands for a long time,” she suddenly said. “It wasn’t because I thought they were dirty, but because... my hands just kept shaking; I couldn’t stop them no matter what.”
I took a step closer.
“Later, every time I changed your dressing, my heart would beat a little faster.” She continued, her voice very soft. “I knew that wasn’t right. You were the patient, and I was the nurse.”
"I'm no longer a patient." I said.
She looked up at me. The light tube in the treatment room emitted a faint buzzing sound. She didn't dodge, just stood there, her breathing slightly quickening.
I reached out and gently touched her fingers. She didn't pull away.
That afternoon, the door to the treatment room was closed for a long time.
People came and went in the corridor outside, and the sounds of carts and conversations drifted in faintly. Inside, there was silence except for each other's breathing. Two buttons of her nurse uniform were undone, and my palm rested against the small of her back, feeling her slight trembling.
We didn't go all the way.
Just kissing, the very deep kind. Her lips were a little dry, but very soft. When my hand traced up along her waistline, she gently held it down and shook her head.
“Not here.” she said breathlessly, “The surveillance is broken, but someone could knock on the door at any time.”
I stopped, my forehead pressed against hers.
“Then what about after you get off work?”
She was silent for a few seconds, then gave an address.
It was her shared rental apartment; the other five roommates were all on night shift that night. The tiny single room had a single bed, with a nursing school schedule and countdown calendar posted on the wall.
As soon as the door closed, she pressed me against the door and kissed me. This time without restraint. The nurse uniform was pulled aside, white underwear making her skin appear even whiter. I carried her to the bed, she actively spread her legs, but her eyes slightly squinted due to nervousness.
“Gently...” she said, “I’ve never done this before.”
I am very slow.
As he entered, she bit the back of her hand, tears welling in the corners of her eyes, but she didn't ask him to stop. After he was fully inside, we both fell silent for a few seconds. Her insides were hot and tight, contracting slightly with each breath.
“You can move now.” She finally spoke, her voice hoarse beyond belief.
I started thrusting slowly. Her fingers gripped the bedsheet tightly, later wrapping around my back. The pain gradually gave way to other sensations, and her moans changed from suppressed to fragmented nasal sounds. I lowered my head to kiss her neck and collarbone, and she pressed her body even closer to mine.
When climax arrived, her whole body tensed, her inner walls contracting violently, squeezing me into a low roar as I released.
Afterward she lay on my chest, gently tracing circles on my collarbone with her fingers.
“Just now... it was much more complicated than what the book says.” she said softly.
I smiled and kissed her hair.
From that day on, whenever she had a day off or finished a night shift, I would go to that small room. Sometimes it was just a simple hug and kiss; sometimes we would do it twice. She gradually learned to relax, and would also take the initiative to straddle on top and control the pace herself.
A month later, her internship ended and she officially stayed on at the hospital to work. We kept in touch, yet tacitly never defined the relationship.
Once she came directly to my place after finishing her night shift in the morning. After entering, she kicked off her nurse shoes and leaned against me, so tired she could barely stand.
“I got scolded today.” She said gloomily, “An old patient thought I was too slow.”
I didn't speak, just carried her to take a bath. The hot water washed away the disinfectant smell on her body. She closed her eyes and leaned against me. Later, she actively turned around, stood on tiptoe, and kissed me. This time she was more proactive than ever, placing my hand on her chest herself, then guiding it downward.
After finishing in the shower, she leaned against the tiles, panting, water droplets sliding down her collarbone.
"Sometimes I think I’m kind of strange." she suddenly said. "Even though I know this won’t lead anywhere, I still want to see you."
I dried her hair and didn't answer.
Some things don't need answers.
Later on, she was admitted to the hospital’s regular staff establishment, and her work became busier and busier. My illness was completely cured too, and I returned to my original life track. Our contact gradually changed from every day to every week, and then to occasionally.
The last meeting was at the hospital entrance. She had just finished the night shift, her eyes full of bloodshot veins. We bought two hot drinks at the convenience store and stood drinking them in the early winter wind.
"I may have to prepare to get married." she suddenly said, her tone very flat, "A match arranged by my family; the conditions are pretty good."
I nodded.
“About the shaving that day,” she looked down at the paper cup, “I actually remember everything. Including what came after... thank you for not treating me like I was just some random person.”
“You were never one.”
She smiled and tossed the empty paper cup into the trash.
“Then I’m leaving.”
“Mm.”
She turned and walked into the hospital entrance, her white figure quickly disappearing down the corridor.
I stood in place for a long time, until the hot drink in my hand had completely cooled.
Many years later, when I think back to that time, what I remember most clearly isn't the painful wound, nor the embarrassment of the enema, but the light on the ceiling of the treatment room, and the slightly reddened tips of her ears the first time she seriously looked at my body.
It was just a routine pre-operative procedure in the hospital, yet due to age, environment, and the shyness of the first time, it left an unusual sensory imprint.
And beyond the mark, there was also a body temperature that had no outcome but was real enough.
During the first month after being discharged from the hospital, I almost never contacted her on my own.
The wound scabbed over and fell off, the body recovered day by day, and life returned to its original track. Work, social obligations, occasional dinners—the time was packed full. Only sometimes, waking up in the middle of the night, would I suddenly remember the faintly yellow light in the treatment room, and the slightly reddened tips of her ears as she lowered her head to shave.
Until the day before the follow-up examination, the phone vibrated.
It was a message from her:
"Are you coming again tomorrow?"
I replied: 'Come.'
"What time?"
"Ten-thirty in the morning."
"Okay."
The next day I arrived at the hospital early. Registration, payment, queuing—everything followed procedure. When it was my turn, the door to the dressing room was open. She was looking down writing nursing notes. Seeing me, she looked up, a momentary brightness in her eyes, then it returned to calm.
"What about the wound?" she asked.
I lifted my shirt. She put on gloves and examined carefully. When her gloved fingers touched my skin, we both paused for a moment.
“You look very good. You don’t need to come again.” she said softly.
“Then... it’s over?”
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she turned to wash her hands. The sound of running water was particularly clear in the quiet room. After washing, she leaned against the sink and looked at me.
"I'm off tonight," she suddenly said. "If you have time..."
"Yes."
She gave an address, the same as last time.
At 7 p.m., I rang the doorbell. The door opened quickly; she was wearing loungewear, her hair down, and no makeup on her face. Only a floor lamp was on in the room, the light very soft.
After entering, she didn't say a word and immediately leaned in to kiss me. This kiss was deeper and more urgent than the last one. Her hand slipped under my clothes, her palm pressed against my back, radiating intense heat.
We stumbled to the bedside. She actively pulled her clothes over her head, wearing nothing underneath. I lowered my head and took her nipple into my mouth; she let out a soft nasal sound, her fingers threading through my hair.
This time she didn't cry out in pain again.
As he entered, she lifted her hips to meet him, her inner walls already wet and soft. I moved slowly in and out, her legs wrapping around my waist, her heels gently rubbing against my back. The room was filled only with the faint sounds of bodies colliding and increasingly hurried breaths.
When climax arrived, she bit my shoulder, her body trembling violently. I was also squeezed into a low roar as I released.
Afterward she lay on my chest, tracing circles on my collarbone with her fingers.
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about what happened when you shaved me that day.” She suddenly spoke up. “Did you do it on purpose then?”
"Which aspect?"
“It’s just that... later, when the enema was being done, after the door was locked, you seemed to know what I would do.”
I smiled: "I was just going along with it."
She raised her head to look at me, her eyes bright in the dim light. 'And what about you now? Are you still cooperating?'
"It isn’t now."
She didn't ask again, just buried her face back into my chest.
That night, we did it again. In the early hours, she took the initiative to straddle me, controlling the rhythm herself. Each descent was deep and solid, and as she rose, I could feel her inner walls clinging. Her hair hung down, brushing my face, her breathing ragged, but she kept looking into my eyes.
After it was completely over, the sky was already slightly bright. She curled up in my arms and quickly fell asleep. I listened to her even breathing, my fingers gently sliding over her smooth back.
From that day on, we started meeting regularly.
On her nights off, or mornings after night shifts, I would go to her small room. Sometimes we simply ate and chatted; sometimes we went at it until dawn. She gradually became more proactive, whispering in my ear how she wanted it, and during climax, she would hold me tightly, burying her face in the crook of my neck.
Once, she came straight over after her night shift, so tired she could barely stand after entering. I helped her shower, the hot water washing away the smell of disinfectant on her body. Midway through, she suddenly turned around, stood on tiptoe, and kissed me. This time, she was more proactive than ever, placing my hand on her chest herself, then guiding it lower.
After finishing in the shower, she leaned against the tiles, panting, water droplets sliding down her collarbone.
"Sometimes I feel I'm kind of strange." She suddenly said, "Even though I know there won't be any result if this goes on, I still want to see you."
I dried her hair and didn't answer.
Some things don't need answers.
Three months later, she officially became a regular employee. Her shifts became more and more fixed, and she got busier and busier. Their meetings went from two or three times a week to once a week, then to once every half month.
The last meeting was in early winter.
She worked the night shift, and her eyes were full of bloodshot veins. We bought two hot drinks at a convenience store near the hospital and stood in the wind drinking them up. She suddenly said that her family had introduced her to a man, and the conditions were pretty good; maybe they would meet.
I nodded.
“About the skin prep that day,” she said, looking down at the paper cup, “I’ve actually remembered it all along. Including what happened after that... Thank you for not treating me like I was a casual woman.”
“You were never one to begin with.”
She smiled and tossed the empty paper cup into the trash.
"Then I’m going."
"Mm."
She turned and walked into the hospital entrance, her white figure quickly disappearing down the corridor.
I stood in place for a long time, until the hot drink in my hand had completely cooled.
Many years later, when I think back to that time, what I remember most clearly isn't the painful wound, nor the embarrassment of the enema, but the light on the ceiling of the treatment room, and the slightly reddened tips of her ears the first time she seriously looked at my body.
It was just a routine pre-operative procedure in the hospital, yet due to age, environment, and the shyness of the first time, it left an unusual sensory imprint.
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