In October 2006, I was admitted to a top-tier hospital in Qingdao because of illness, preparing for an open surgery.
On Tuesday afternoon, the doctor informed me that my surgery was scheduled for the first slot tomorrow morning, and today I needed preoperative preparations: shaving and an enema. I was in my thirties then, experiencing these things for the first time, feeling both nervous and a bit curious.
The ward is a three-bed room, there are no single rooms. My wife originally wanted to stay with me, but I persuaded her to go back. I thought it was just shaving and enemas, nothing major.
A little after six in the evening, the nurse came to call me to the treatment room to prepare for shaving.
Two nurses entered the treatment room, one tall and one short. The short one looked about twenty-five or twenty-six, a registered nurse; the tall one was an intern, her badge indicating she hadn't graduated yet, probably around eighteen or nineteen. Both wore masks, only their eyes visible.
"Lie on the bed." said the short nurse.
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.
It was the first time I was completely exposed below the waist in front of two young girls, and my face felt a bit warm. 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 the lower abdomen, she said to the intern, 'You take over next.'
The intern's hand was trembling a little. She scraped carefully, occasionally pressing her fingers against the skin. When she scraped further down, I clearly felt myself reacting. Her hand paused, and she exchanged a few quiet words with the short nurse.
"The hair below also needs to be shaved clean, 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 but earnest. I tried to relax, cooperating as she spread my legs apart. The whole process took about ten minutes. After finishing, 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. Her face flushed, she organized the instruments, 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 briefly explain the anatomical location of the lower abdomen to the intern. By the time the explanation ended, I was completely hard. They very professionally finished the procedure and told me to straighten out my clothes.
Next is an enema.
I took off my pants again and lay on my side. The short 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 filled me, 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, her face flushed, saying she hadn't completely remembered some parts earlier and wanted to confirm again.
I lay still. Her fingers touched the places that had just been treated again, more carefully and for longer than before. The room was quiet, with only our faint breathing.
The pre-operative preparation that time was longer than I expected and left a deeper impression.
The next day, the surgery went smoothly. In the days following 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.
Looking back many years later, it was just a routine pre-operative procedure in the hospital, but because of age, environment, and the shyness of the first time, it left an unusual 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, and the catheter had not yet been removed, so 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 quickly returning to professional calm.
“Mr. Zhang, today we need to change the dressing. It may hurt a little.” Her voice was very soft.
I nodded and obediently lay down. She put on gloves, her movements a bit more practiced than during the skin prep that day. When she removed the dressing, I couldn't help but gasp. She immediately slowed down, gently wiping around the wound with an iodine swab.
“Still hurting?” she asked.
"Much better than yesterday."
She didn't speak again, focusing on the task. After changing the dressing, she helped straighten my hospital gown, but her eyes avoided mine. Before leaving, she suddenly whispered:
“That day... I’m sorry.”
I was taken aback. Before I could react, she had already pushed the cart out.
After nine in the evening, 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 sound asleep, and walked over to my bedside.
“Still not asleep?” she asked.
"Can't sleep. The wound itches a bit."
She hesitated for two seconds, then pulled over a chair and sat down. The night shift lighting was dim, only the floor lights in the hallway were on. She wasn't wearing a mask today, so 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 preparing the 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 looked down at her own hands, her voice even softer: "Actually... I thought about it a lot afterwards. Some parts that day weren't professional."
“In what way?”
She was silent for a few seconds, her cheeks slightly reddening: 'It's just... when I touched you, I paused for 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 what’s in books. My heart was pounding, and my hands wouldn’t listen to me.”
"I know." I said, "I didn’t look very calm that day either."
She chuckled lightly, the laugh 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 really isn’t convenient.”
She nodded, stood up, and prepared to leave. When she reached the door, she stopped again.
“Oh right,” she turned back, her voice nearly a whisper, “if... if you don’t mind, I’ll be the one to change the dressing tomorrow.”
“Good.”
The door gently closed.
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 more efficient, but still lingered half a second longer in certain places. After changing, she helped prop up my pillow and asked if I felt uncomfortable anywhere.
“I’m just a little bored,” I said. “My phone’s almost dead from looking at it.”
She thought for a moment, then pulled a piece of chocolate from her pocket and handed it over: 'I 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 for a moment but then took it and ate it.
From that day on, she would stay a little longer every day. Sometimes it was to change dressings, sometimes to deliver medicine, sometimes just to pass by and take a look. The conversation topics slowly changed from wound recovery to life in nursing school, the hardships of internships, and her plans for the future.
Her name is Lin Xiao, a third-year nursing student who will graduate in another six months. Her family is from Linyi, and she rarely goes back since coming out to study. Her internship salary isn't high, and she lives in a shared dormitory near the hospital, six people to a room.
“Sometimes I’m on night shift, and when I get back to the dorm in the morning I just collapse into bed and sleep until afternoon.” she said. “My dreams are all about changing dressings and checking blood pressure.”
I listened, occasionally replying with a word or two. The wound improved day by day, and the day for removing the stitches 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, avoid water until it scabs over.'
"Thank you."
While packing her things, she suddenly asked, 'After you're discharged... will you still come for follow-up appointments?'
“Will. The doctor said to come back in a week for another check.”
“Then…… if I'm around by then, I'll help you change the dressing.”
“Good.”
On the day of discharge, she was not on duty. I left the fruit I had brought at the nurses’ station and asked someone to pass it on to her.
A week later, during the follow-up visit, I deliberately chose a time when she might be on duty. When I pushed open the door to the dressing room, she was lowering her head and writing nursing notes. When she saw me, her eyes lit up for a moment, then returned to calm.
“The wound is healing well.” After checking, she said, “You don’t need to bandage it anymore.”
After the examination, 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 prep that day, I went back and washed my hands for a long time.” She said suddenly, “Not because I thought they were dirty, but because... my hands kept shaking. I couldn’t get them to stop.”
I took a step closer.
“Later, every time I changed your bandages, my heart would beat a little faster.” She went on, her voice very soft. “I know that’s not 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 shy away, just stood there, her breathing slightly quickening.
I reached out and gently touched her fingers. She didn't pull back.
That afternoon, the door to the dressing room was closed for a long time.
People came and went in the corridor outside, the sounds of carts and voices faintly drifting in. Inside, however, it was so quiet only each other's breathing remained. Two buttons of her nurse's uniform were undone, my palm pressed against the small of her back, feeling her subtle trembling.
We didn't go all the way.
It’s just kissing, the very deep kind. Her lips were a little dry, but very soft. When my hand moved up along her waistline, she gently held it down and shook her head.
“This won’t do.” she said, gasping, “The surveillance may be 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 apartment, and the other five roommates were all on night shift tonight. The tiny single room had a single bed, with a nursing school schedule and countdown posted on the wall.
As soon as the door closed, she pressed me against it and kissed me. This time, there was no restraint. The nurse uniform was tossed aside, white underwear making her skin appear even fairer. I carried her to the bed. She actively spread her legs, but her eyes squinted slightly from nervousness.
"Gently..." she said. "I've never done this before."
I'm 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 stayed still for a few seconds. Inside her was hot and tight, contracting slightly with each breath.
“You can move now.” She finally spoke, her voice extremely hoarse.
I started thrusting slowly. Her fingers gripped the bedsheet tightly, later wrapping around my back. The pain gradually gave way to other sensations; her moans changed from suppressed to fragmented nasal sounds. I lowered my head to kiss her neck and collarbone; she pressed her body closer against me.
When the climax arrived, her entire body tensed, her inner walls contracting violently, squeezing me into a low roar as I released.
Afterward she lay on my chest, gently drawing circles on my collarbone with her finger.
“Just now... it was a lot more complicated than the book says.” she said softly.
I smiled and kissed her hair.
From that day on, whenever she was off-duty or had finished a night shift, I would go to that small room. Sometimes it was just a simple embrace and kiss, sometimes we would do it twice. She gradually learned to relax, and would also take the initiative to straddle me and control the rhythm herself.
A month later, after her internship ended, she officially stayed on to work at the hospital. We remained in contact, yet tacitly never defined the relationship.
Once after finishing her night shift, she came directly to my place in the morning. After entering, she kicked off her nurse shoes, leaned her whole body against me, so tired she could barely stand.
“I got scolded today.” she said muffledly, “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 smell of disinfectant on her body, and she leaned against me with her eyes closed. Later in the bath, 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 can’t end well, I still want to see you.”
I dried her hair and didn't answer.
Some things don't need an answer.
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 time we met was at the hospital entrance. She was getting off the night shift, her eyes completely bloodshot. We bought two hot drinks at the convenience store and drank them standing in the early winter wind.
“I might be getting married soon.” she said suddenly, her tone flat. “An introduction from my family. The conditions are pretty good.”
I nodded.
“About the shaving prep that day,” she said, looking down at the paper cup, “I actually remembered it all along. Including what came after... thank you for not treating me like someone casual.”
"You were never one."
She smiled and threw the finished paper cup into the trash bin.
“Then I’m leaving.”
“Mm.”
She turned and walked into the hospital entrance, her white figure quickly disappearing down the corridor.
I stood there for a long time, until the hot drink in my hand turned completely cold.
Many years later, when I think back to that time, what I remember most clearly isn't the painful wound, nor the mess of the enema, but the light on the ceiling of the treatment room, and the slight redness of her ear tips when she first seriously looked at my body.
It was just a routine pre-operative procedure at the hospital, but due to age, environment, and the shyness of the first time, it left an unusual sensory imprint.
And beyond the mark, there was a body temperature that had no outcome, yet was real enough.
In the first month after discharge, I hardly took the initiative to contact her.
The wound had scabbed over and fallen off, the body recovering day by day, and life had also returned to its original track. Work, social engagements, occasional gatherings — time was filled up completely. But sometimes in the middle of the night, I would suddenly think of that faintly yellow lamp in the treatment room, and the slightly reddened tips of her ears as she lowered her head to shave her pubic hair.
Until the day before the follow-up checkup, the phone vibrated.
It was a message from her:
"Will you come again tomorrow?"
I replied: 'Come.'
"What time?"
"10:30 a.m."
"Okay."
The next day, I arrived at the hospital early. Registration, payment, queuing—everything followed the 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. For a moment, a light flashed in her eyes, then quickly 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, both of us paused.
“She looks very good. She doesn’t need to come anymore.” She said, her voice very soft.
"Then... it’s over?"
She didn't answer immediately, instead turned to wash her hands. The sound of running water was particularly clear in the quiet room. After washing her hands, she leaned against the sink and looked at me.
"I’m resting tonight," she suddenly said. "If you’re free..."
"Yes."
She gave an address, the same as last time.
At seven in the evening, I rang the doorbell. The door opened quickly; she was wearing casual home clothes, her hair loose, and no makeup on her face. Only a floor lamp was on in the room, casting a soft light.
After entering, she didn't say anything and directly leaned in to kiss me. This kiss was deeper and more urgent than the last time. Her hand slipped into my clothes, her palm against my back, radiating high heat.
We stumbled our way to the bed. She took the initiative to pull her clothes over her head; she was 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 anymore.
As he entered, she actively 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 breathing.
When the 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 finger.
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about that day’s shaving all along.” She suddenly spoke up. “Were you doing it on purpose then?”
"What aspect?"
“It's just that... later, when we were doing the enema and after the door was locked, it seemed like you knew 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?'
“Not now.”
She didn't ask again, just buried her face back into my chest.
That night we did it again. In the latter half of the night, she actively straddled me, controlling the rhythm herself. Each descent was deep and solid, and as she rose, I could feel the inner walls clinging. Her hair hung down, brushing against my face, her breathing was ragged, yet 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 began meeting regularly.
On her nights off or after finishing night shifts in the morning, I would go to her small room. Sometimes we simply ate and chatted; other times we would go at it until dawn. She gradually became more proactive, whispering in my ear about how she wanted it, and during climax, she would hold me tightly, burying her face in the crook of my neck.
Once she came over directly after her night shift, so tired she could barely stand after entering. I helped her shower, the hot water washing away the disinfectant smell on her. Midway, she suddenly turned around, stood on tiptoe, and kissed me. This time she was more proactive than ever, pressing my hand to 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 like I'm kind of strange." She suddenly said, "Even though I know this won't have an ending, I still want to see you."
I dried her hair and didn't answer.
Some things don't need an answer.
Three months later, she officially became a full-time employee. Her shifts became more and more fixed, and she became busier and busier. The number of times they met went from two or three times a week to once a week, then to once every half month.
The last time we met was in early winter.
She had just finished the night shift, her eyes were bloodshot. We bought two hot drinks at a convenience store near the hospital and stood drinking them in the wind. She suddenly said her family had introduced her to a match, good conditions, and she might meet him.
I nodded.
"About the skin preparation 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 someone casual."
"You already weren't."
She smiled and threw the finished paper cup into the trash bin.
“Then I’m leaving.”
"Mm."
She turned and walked into the hospital entrance, her white figure quickly disappearing down the corridor.
I stood there for a long time, until the hot drink in my hand turned completely cold.
Many years later, when I think back to that time, what I remember most clearly isn't the painful wound, nor the mess of the enema, but the light on the ceiling of the treatment room, and the slight redness of her ear tips when she first seriously looked at my body.
It was just a routine pre-operative procedure at the hospital, but due to age, environment, and the shyness of the first time, it left an unusual sensory imprint.
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