This May Be Uncomfortable

This May Be Uncomfortable


         “Thank you Mr. Monroe. If you have a seat we’ll get you back in just a sec.” That’s what the receptionist had told me an hour and 5 minutes ago. I know it was an hour and 5 minutes because I had looked down at my watch and thought, “Heck, I’m 10 minutes early.” But it’s best not to complain so I sit there quietly exchanging sheepish grins with the other gentlemen gathered in the waiting room. I couldn’t help but notice that the average age of the good folks here exceeded mine by several generations. But all things come to those who wait and finally a young nurse stuck her head thru the door and screamed, “MISTER MONROE, WE CAN SEE YOU NOW!” I guess she was used to the more seasoned clientele. I said nothing and followed her to a room in the back.
         She had me stand on the scale and sat in a chair in front of me. I couldn’t help but notice that from that angle I could see right down the front of her scrub top to gaze upon one of the nicest set of cans money could buy nestled in a pink lacey bra. My only thought at that point was, “Oh God, please don’t let her do the exam. Please O please O please.”
         (Side bar real quick for the ladies. I know you think that having some hot nurse, so young that it’s probably illegal to even think about her, giving a man a close medical examination is a big fantasy. And it is, in a Penthouse letter. In reality it is a mind numbing horror. The possibility of the most embarrassing faux pas is actually quite remote. The paralyzing terror screaming in our minds pretty much makes any physical reaction an impossibility but still that thought is there. I actually saw a man fake a stroke once to keep from just dropping his shorts in front of a young pretty nurse. Okay, so I saw him in the mirror, but I saw him. Okay, back to the story.)
         “Do you have trouble with your blood pressure? It’s a little high.” I can’t help but think she sees a lot of that. She hands me the little plastic cup and sends me into the bathroom, assuring me she’ll be, “right outside.”
         Okay Johnny boy, you can do this, you’ve been doing it for years. Of course it would probably help if the nurse would stop knocking on the door every 5 minutes to make sure I was okay. But finally the deal was done and I opened the door.
         “Oh, you can just leave that on the sink.” she said, wrinkling her nose. “And if you would put the lid on it.” Hey, when in Rome. I complied and as a reward she led me down the hall to the room where she said the doctor would be in to see me. See, sometimes prayer works.
         And as promised soon the doctor walked in. Cradled in his arms was the paper work on which I had filled out in great detail just what my problem was, so his question of course, “What seems to be the problem?” Oh my God, he’s actually going to make me say it out loud. But he’s a professional, I’m a professional. There’s nothing to be ashamed of here.
         “I’m having scrotal pain.” I squeaked in a pitch so high that dogs started to howl three blocks away.
         Now with that out of the way things couldn’t get any more uncomfortable, right? Right? Oh, but he has follow up questions. What’s the pain like? Which side? How often do I have sex? How often do I masturbate? (Why couldn’t he have asked me that when I was 15, I would have impressed him then). Does it hurt when I pee? No. Am I sure? I think I would have noticed. How many sexual partners have I had in the past 5 years? Just one. Am I sure? I think the wife would have noticed.
         “Okay, might as well get down to it.” he suggest. “Go ahead and stand up and drop your shorts.”
         Now I was expecting a hospital gown, even one of those yellow paper ones would have been nice, but I guess that would have been too formal. Hey, what’s a little full frontal nudity between friends? So there I stand in the middle of the room with my pants around my ankles and my pride somewhere under the icy floor tiles. It was at this time of course that he decides to type the thesis he’s writing on me into the laptop. The silence is, shall we say, awkward, so to break the tension I say, “You lucked out finding that nurse, she’s a hottie.”
         “Wasn’t hard to find her, she’s my niece.”
         Yeah I thought it was awkward before but now I know what awkward really is. I decide silence is best.
         Finally he finishes up the typing part of the program and slides his chair over to me. He starts rooting around like Helen Keller reading Socks on Fox.
         (Okay, another side bar here, this one for the young folks. Helen Keller was a deaf mute who rose to fame after being taught to communicate by Anne Sullivan. Feel free to Google her or watch The Miracle Worker or just look up some Helen Keller jokes. Socks on Fox is probably the most challenging book ever to read. Written by Dr Seuss, apparently after a crack and red bull binge it contains stanzas such as, “When beetles fight these battles in a bottle with their paddles and the bottle's on a poodle and the poodle's eating noodles... ...they call this a muddle puddle tweetle poodle beetle noodle bottle paddle battle. “ So with that knowledge you should get my attempt at a visual.)
         Now suddenly he wants to talk. What do I do for a living? That’s nice. Does this hurt? Where do I live? That feels okay. Do I get much time to fish? He used to fish. What if I pull this way? He even had a boat. Do I have a boat? Has this always been there? Oh yes, apparently he’s quite the Chatty Cathy when he’s got a handful of my junk. And then, like a bolt of lightning, he has a diagnosis.
         “I don’t think it’s your testes at all. I think its an inflammation of the epididymis.” And to test this theory he gives me a quick squeeze.
         If I can give one bit of advice that I’ve learned from this (other than don’t compliment your doctor’s niece’s rack) it is to wear knee pads. I squealed like a pig under a gate and hit the floor, hard.
         “Did that hurt?” I’m guessing that observational skills were not focused on in medical school.
         So I’m getting back to my feet and thinking that the worst is over but oh no, we’re just getting started.
         “You know what causes that sometimes?” Great, now he wants a consultation. I figure that a tight squeeze causes that sometimes but I also figure we’re on different pages at this time. “An inflamed prostrate.” Yeap, wrong page, hell we ain’t even reading the same book.
         So I find myself standing naked, facing the exam table with him right behind me. “I’ll need you to put your elbows on that table.” Now I’ve been a nurse for a decade now and I know exactly what he needs me to do. I just don’t want to appear too eager. Anyhow, soon my elbows are on the table and he’s back there applying enough lube on my backside to slip a truck up in there. I guess that’s better that the alternative. Then, with no warning whatsoever, he’s looking for my tonsils and taking the scenic route.
         “Is this uncomfortable?”
         “Excuse me, you have your finger up my ass. At least you better have your finger up my ass.”
         “But is it more uncomfortable than it should be?”
         I’ve given this a lot of thought and I’m still not sure how to answer that question. I have no experience to compare it to. I’m sure it could be worse. He could have used a pineapple. He could have turned down the lights, put on some Barry White and kissed me on the neck. So I guess it wasn’t really that bad.
         “Well, it feels normal.” he declares. Sure from his end it feels normal. From my end, well let’s just say I’m not as curious as I used to be.
         “I think I’m going to give you some antibiotics,” he says as he washes his hands. “Just in case.”
         Just in case what? Just in case I forgot having sex with that transgendered hooker in the Asian message parlor? At this point I don’t care, I just want an escape. I take the paper towel he gives me. I need a beach towel, but whatever.
         And that’s how I ended up contorted in my Kia with a handful of McDonalds napkins trying to wipe my bum and not show off to the poor fella who just pulled into the lot on his way to his appointment. So how was your day?