A few days ago I had a real small penis humiliation experience, right out of the blue, a thorough public shaming. I'm still processing it, trying to get my head around the moment, to understand myself better. This is what went down:
Because I constantly sit on my ass during my job, I have chronic piles, which I treated before covid-19 by getting them banded. It was not entirely successful, so a few weeks ago, I made an appointment and yesterday headed to see Dr. Breeze, my gastroenterologist who works at an infusion center. She is in her early 50s, younger than me, but she has also done some work on her breasts, face, and neck, and is pretty hot, imho.
Full disclosure: Yes, I've fapped thinking about her, but that's not really special. I fap about most of the women I know. That's what it's like for me having a penis. I fap and fap and fap. Sometimes I've been caught, but that risk is part of my fapping fun.
The medical assistant who worked with her before the pandemic was now on maternity leave. The new fellow who performed my intake procedure was Isaac, a med student in his 20s. I explained my current state--I was actually fine at that moment--but I did not want the problem to return. After Isaac left, I waited alone a few minutes for Dr. Breeze, who arrived with another assistant, a plain-looking studious girl with curly auburn hair whose mask could not completely contain her constellation of freckles. She was energetic but, I decided dismissively, unremarkable. In a moment, she produced a small Windows notebook, taking the position at the foot of the examination table, which I avoided by taking a chair across the small room.
The doctor asked me questions, while the assistant took notes. Most dealt with my diet, work habits, and bathroom habits. It was awful and embarrassing. A moment later when there came another knock on the door, I was honestly relieved.
A young Latina woman entered, and I guessed she was Colombian, but later I learned she was actually Brazilian. At least thirty years younger than me, there was nothing unremarkable about her. Even in those bland medical office scrubs, I got a sense that everything was just exactly perfect. She took a seat beside the other attendant, and Dr. Breeze addressed me.
"This is Leila, a medical student who has just been accepted in our training program. This is valuable experience for her, but we care about your privacy, Mr. Hopper. If you prefer, we can ask Leila to wait outside."
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Leila," I said. "You do not have to leave."
"Thank you," she said, and her accent reminded me of macaws. I caught my breath, and my little fellow twitched.
Incidentally, I was not wearing much: a thin stay-dry shirt and clingy cotton shorts where my little guy could bounce around, commando-style. I wished it were as daring as it sounds, but honestly, aside from the tiny bump the ridge of my glans made against the cloth, I doubt anything could be perceived except the obvious: There was not much to hide when I was flaccid, which is nearly all the time, but that accent... something about the tone of her voice enticed me. Who knows? Those large eyes, her dark lashes, and now my treasonous dick was moving that cloth a little, which I still suspect nobody saw, while the doctor went on about treatment options, all of them unsavory.
"I can't navigate blind," Dr. Breeze said at last. "Time to see what we're dealing with this time." She gave a weary sigh. "So there are two ways we can do this. Either you can lean over, drop your shorts, and hold the examination table or you can lie on the examination table, drop your shorts, and turn away. It doesn't matter to me."
"I'll stand," I said and crossed towards the examination table, not three feet from where the two women were working, and I dropped my shorts. Out flopped my balls and flaccid dick, which in the best circumstances is never imposing (I am a grower and my erect, pressed against the bone, pencil-dick is only 5 inches long so you can imagine when it's soft, right?)
Their reactions were contrary. The studious one made brief eye contact with me, looked down at the screen, and the edges of her lips turned down, but she dutifully ignored me. The Brazilian, on the other hand, was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Eyes brimming with mischief, she opened a space of about three inches between her index finger and thumb and raising her eyes, she shrank the distance to two and awarded me a lecherous wink.
By now the doctor's cold lubricated finger had slid into my butt to perform the examination. She probed along the wall, getting a sense of how bad my situation was (not great), and made incidental contact against my prostate which was enough, when coupled with the attention and (probably) my efforts to avoid an erection to of course produce a pretty strong erection. It bounced in response to the doctor's energetic finger in my anus. At this point I almost felt like laughing at my situation, but I noticed a bead of pre-cum dangling from the meatus, and, I kid you not, both women were also eyes wide focused on that pale oval dribbling from my middling weenie.
Let me be clear: I was not afraid of ejaculating. I had been doing kegels for a while, and my days of premature ejaculation were long gone, but I was brimming with situational excitement, and my head churned in a maelstrom of flailing suppression and the prospect of release. All I could do was close my eyes while I sorted it out, but a moment later, her finger exited my rectum, and I exhaled for the first time in a while.
"These nodules on your anus are not actually hemorrhoids," the doctor continued. "This problem is common with anal skin tags. The nodules are raw. That's why you were in so much pain. Unfortunately, there is not much you can do."
"May I please see?" Leila said, rising.
"Yes, of course," Dr. Breeze said, guiding Leila to my rear. "Glove up, and I will demonstrate how to perform the examination."
There was a moment of organization behind me. My eyes sought out the helpful assistant, but her eyes were focused on my glans where, to my horror, a bead of my effusion hung by a tentacle of fluid. Mesmerized by the ordinary, she waited for gravity. Meanwhile, my doctor spread my butt cheeks and traced a finger between my taint and my anus, so Leila could see better.
"These are the nodules I was indicating," she said. "Now slide your finger into the rectum."
Her finger felt different, definitely thicker, and her gloved nail was very long. She pressed against the side of my colon.
"What am I looking for exactly?" Leila asked.
"Swollen tissue," the doctor said. "Follow the contour of the wall, and you should see."
She slid along the surface until she found my prostate, and I almost gasped, but repressed the sensation. If I had not done so many kegels, I would have spewed everything, but instead I caught my breath and persevered.
"It's very swollen," she said. "I feel a curious sensation, a pulse."
She pressed harder, and the bead of brimming ejaculate plopped off my glans, replaced by another. My eyes followed the drop to the floor, and I looked up in panic and catch the eyes of the studious assistant, fingers poised over the keyboard but not typing, just watching, and I can tell what she was thinking: She has guessed I am about to pop and was mildly entertained with my predicament.
"Oh, that's probably not a pulse," my doctor said. "That's the prostate. If you keep your finger pressed and use your other hand behind the scrotum, you can squeeze fluid from the cowper's gland. They are analogous to our Bartholin's glands that provide fluid for vaginal lubrication."
"And female ejaculation?" Beatriz interjected.
"Negative. Most female ejaculate sources from the Skene's glands. They are paraurethral," Dr. Breeze replied.
"I feel it changing," Leila said, excited now. She had slid a second finger inside to better experience the sensation.
"You should press harder," Dr. Breeze instructed and guided Leila's hand. "Here. Now squeeze it."
Suddenly my vision went red, blood seemingly filled my brain, and I gasped, feeling a rush of orgasm, but my knees buckled, and so instead of coming my brains out, I just managed to catch myself before falling. Once I recovered, Leila's other hand drifted down my testicles, finding my nuts, feeling their shape. It hurt as you might expect.
"I've never seen a scrotum longer than the actual penis," Leila said.
"Neither have I," the other assistant said, her voice careless.
"That usually only happens with short penises," my doctor said. "When Jack's manhood becomes erect, however, no doubt it grows much larger."
"I don't think so," the studious one countered. "Mr Hopper's weenie has been tumescent during almost the entire examination and remains fully erect. It is never going to get any bigger."
"You should not call an adult man's penis a 'weenie,' Beatriz." My doctor gave a little laugh. "Even if it is small."
"It's not that small," I said, but nobody paid attention. "Average really. 35th percentile."
Leila adjusted her clumsy fingers, pressing hard against my prostate, and I had to pound the examination table to repress the will to ejaculate.
"My boyfriend has a bigger one," Beatriz said. "Thicker. This one has a little mushroom head, but the edges don't go far past the shaft, and that's a thin shaft."
"In Brazil, we call them canetas," Leila said easing her fingers out and back inside again. "Pens."
"Pencil dicks," Beatriz said. "Unfulfilled promises."
