I rested on a gurney as Genevieve drew on my groin with a Sharpie: the straight lines and hash marks and crosshairs that would serve as a radiation target.
She used gauze and athletic tape to pull my personal bits to one side, clearing the range for target acquisition. The region south of my belt buckle looked like a drunk conventioneer’s necktie at closing time.
“A guy usually has to go to a fraternity initiation or a bachelor party to get this kind of treatment," I said.
Genevieve giggled, but nervously, as if she didn’t know whether she should.
