It's adhesive capusilitis, I heard the osteopath say. I'd have to investigate that on the net when I got home. Meanwhile I just knew I hurt. My shoulder joint was stiff and sore and even though I'd persuaded The Boyfriend to massage me that always led to other things and did far more for his comfort than mine. I can't concentrate on sex when the wrong parts of me send out the loudest messages. Some people like a touch of S&M, but I don't see it myself. It hurts, OK? Leave me alone. And trust me, Buster, this shoulder is no handy-excuse headache. This is for real.
The doc told me to strip off, down to my panties and don some idiotic gown that gave no clues how you should wear it. Totally shapeless, split completely up the front, or maybe the back, and fitted with dangling ribbon ties that made no difference to your dignity, whichever way round you put it. And for some inexplicable reason it had a pocket on the side: a long, narrow pocket that might carry a pair of specs, or maybe half a dozen pens.
I was still wondering what purpose the stupid thing served when the doc came into the cubicle rubbing his hands. He looked like he was about to enjoy himself, even if I wasn't.
Not entirely fiction!