I should have known this day was coming. Well, actually, I did know this day was coming . . . or, I should say, coming again. And yet, I feel so violated . . .
There comes a day in every man’s life where a visit to the doctor’s office suddenly and dramatically changes, and nothing is ever the same again. You leave the office feeling somehow cheap and dirty, desperate to appear as if everything is normal, but given away by the furtive, worried glances and the snickering emanating from the nurse’s station.
The conversation, of course, starts off harmlessly enough. You wait in the little room for a while, and finally the doctor comes in and she asks you how you’re feeling. Why, just fine, you reply, lulled into a false sense of security by the complete normalcy of the conversation. No complaints?, she asks. Nope, you say, just here for my physical . . . and then it hits you, as you realize what she is doing as she is speaking. Uh, say, doc, what’s with the gloves? . . .
R’uh r’oh.
Time to drop the pants and bend over the table, the Flying Fickle Finger of Fate wants to introduce itself. It wouldn’t be so bad, I suppose, if she didn’t take a full wind-up first, like a major league pitcher getting ready to smoke one over the plate. Except, of course, someone is sticking their finger what feels like halfway up into your intestinal tract from the wrong end. Talk about an awkward situation, and you just have to stand there while it feels like someone is tapping out a rag-time beat in your anus. And you just can’t help but notice that the conversation flows along the lines of something like, "Does this hurt? Aside from my finger being up there, I mean." Well, I suppose that, as long as someone is going to be poking around down there in such an intimate fashion, the least they can do is be polite about it . . .
Now, I have been told that there is a certain etiquette to this whole procedure. Wiggling around is frowned upon, but a few moans here and there for the performance are apparently appreciated. "Ooo, yeah, doc, right there. Oh, you’re the best doctor I’ve ever had . . ." You know, that sort of examination talk. Of course, the one thing you don’t want to do is inadvertantly moan and then murmur your old doctor’s name. That tends to break the mood and can really make things awkward. Talk about embarrassing . . .
Of course, the humiliations don’t end there; no that would be too easy. After the finger is removed, with the same kind of popping noise a champagne bottle makes when the cork is removed, you’re handed a wad of paper towels to clean up all the lube - and, trust me on this one, there’s no such thing as too much lube in this case - and, well, other things, that may currently be working their various ways out of your ass and down your leg. Yeah, nothing like wiping with company present to make your day. But the bigger problem is that you notice the gloves are coming off, only to be replaced by another pair. So, just when you thought it was finally safe to put your pants back on, you find out it’s time for . . . a testicular exam. Oh, joy.
First of all, I want to make it very clear that it was cold in that exam room. In such circumstances, shrinkage is inevitable. Even more so considering a digit was just inserted and took a short tour in a place where no self-respecting digit has any place going. Such things will make any gentleman’s, er, appendages seek refuge, let’s all just be real clear on that. Back to the point at hand, however, you’re now in a position where all you can do is stand there, stare at the ceiling, and wonder which is worse: the finger up your ass, or having someone playing ping-pong with your balls. My vote is for the finger up your butt . . .
In any other situation, having someone basically play with your nuts is a rather enjoyable situation. Unfortunately, I rarely seem to be in those situations. Call it another fantasy shattered, although I somehow feel much closer to my doctor than I did before . . . Hey, it’s not like having my fantasies destroyed hasn’t happened before. I mean, I used to have one where I was lying naked on a table surrounded by three really hot nurses. What I failed to anticipate that time was that they would be shaving me in preparation for an angioplast. So, no, no happy ending there, either, just a reminder to be careful what you wish for.
Still, I can’t help feeling cheap and dirty and, well, used. Like I just want to take a shower and put the whole sordid affair behind me, so to speak. I mean, after all that, the least my doctor could have done was buy me breakfast . . .
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