I hate doctors...always have. My wife insists that I visit every damn year, just for a check-up, even if I feel fine. Maryanne is sort of paranoid about that—for her, every headache means a brain tumor, every age spot cancer. And then, when I turned thirty-five, she dropped the P bomb on me. A proctologist; oh boy, talk about the one doctor every guy would break his right arm to avoid. We had some kinda words about that, but as usual, what Maryanne wanted, Maryanne got.
"This Dr. Stone is supposed to be really good, honey," she informed me in that don't-make-me-tie-you-down-and-make-you-go voice she has. "He's really young, and all his patients say he's the best. I made you an appointment for tomorrow."
And that was how I found myself in a small beige room sitting across from two over-fifty gentlemen, skimming through a hunting magazine. I hate hunting, personally, but anything to make me feel macho was a welcome respite from the horror I knew was coming. The only other patients were leafing idly through similar things—one man clutched an old copy of Sports Illustrated, the other the latest edition of Time, and neither looked half as nervous as I felt. A pretty blonde woman in a professional, loose-fitting nurse's uniform was moving busily beyond a frosted glass window near the door; she had had me fill out all my medical information when I came in, giving me an empty, glittering smile as I did. The other two men had come in after me, and since I'd been there for a while, I knew I wouldn't be waiting much longer. I tossed the hunting mag aside in disgust and hunched moodily in the chair.
As if on cue, a door shut somewhere. Then another one—the wrong one—opened into the waiting room.
"Mr. Lamb?" the nurse called, looking around as though I hadn't walked in twenty minutes ago and given her my name.
"It's pronounced Lomb," I told her as I got to my feet. She smiled again, and I was reminded of a crocodile's grin; toothy and treacherous.
"Right this way, sir," she told me, holding the door open. She recorded my height and weight, then led me to a sterile, white room where she listened to my heart and lungs and took my blood pressure. It turned out to be high.
"The doctor will be right with you," she said. I tried to say thanks, but all I managed to get out was a croak. Her crocodile smile didn't waver an inch, but as she slid the door shut behind her, I was certain I heard her giggle. I was alone, waiting for some strange man to go prospecting up my ass.
Maybe it won't be that bad, I thought, squirming a little on the sanitary bed covering that always reminded me so strongly of toilet seat covers. It's not like he's going to jump you or anything...he'll probably be perfectly professional about it. Somehow that wasn't very comforting. A man's professional hand up my ass was still a man's hand up my ass, and it didn't make me feel any better. But the idea was sort of funny; I was struck by the image of a suited arm jammed halfway to the elbow, and I chuckled.
"What's so funny?" said a jovial voice from the door, and I choked on my laughter and turned it into a cough.
"That's more like it," Dr. Stone laughed as he walked into the room. "I don't get too many first time patients that have a sense of humor." Dr. Stone was good looking in a teeny bopper sort of way, and like Maryanne had said, he was young.; he looked like he'd walked out of med school maybe last week. He had a mouthful of gleaming, arrow straight teeth that were almost blinding in the overhead fluorescents, and a head of thick brown hair. He wasn't unnaturally tan, which made me feel better about his youth—I mean, real doctors don't spend hours baking themselves in UV coffins, even young ones, and you can take that to the bank. He had probably played football in high school, judging by the breadth of his shoulders and chest, but otherwise, he just looked like...a doctor. Nothing terribly scary...just an ordinarily scary doctor.
"So we're just doing a routine exam today?" Dr. Stone asked, consulting the clipboard that seemed to be part of every doctor's uniform. I nodded.
"Yeah, my wife wants me to get checked early...she has a history of cancer in her family."
"Mmhmm." I wanted him to say that it was too early, that I could go home and tell Maryanne to wait fifteen years or so, but I was disappointed.
"She's right," he said seriously as he flipped up the top sheet on the clipboard. "You may not have a history of cancer, but your wife probably wants to be safe. Most treated forms of prostate cancer were caught early, some before forty...never hurts to be on the cautionary side." He tossed the clipboard onto the counter and resumed his relaxed pose: butt leaning on the countertop, arms folded, eyes piercing me with steady calm.
"Mr. Lamb, let me be honest with you. Stacey told me you seemed nervous, and I just want you to know that that's perfectly normal. This is a very invasive, though necessary, procedure that many first-timers are uncomfortable with. Hell, most people are uncomfortable with it after fifty times, and I can understand that. But you can rest assured that you can feel totally comfortable with me. If at any point you think I'm being out of line, feel free to tell me and we'll call it a day—and I won't even charge you." Maybe it was his bald-faced honesty, or his sharing secrets demeanor, but I suddenly felt more at ease. Smiling slightly, I offered my hand and said,
"Call me Jim." Dr. Stone took it and shook firmly. His hands were shapely and long-fingered (a small part of me gulped), but appeared well cared for and clean.
"And I'm Ralph." His smile turned sardonic. "I suppose we'd better get started." Sighing inwardly, I unbuckled my belt and dropped my pants to the floor. Ralph cocked a sarcastic eyebrow at my red boxer briefs as I was slowly reaching for the band.
"Wife give you those?" he asked. I laughed and nodded. "Yeah, Maryanne decided I was getting too old for boxers last year. I normally don't wear them, but..." Suddenly I didn't want to say that I wanted all my private bits covered more firmly than by boxers or briefs, and I found myself blushing. Ralph just shrugged, as though in understanding.
"Lots of people do that," he said. "It all comes off anyway." As if to drive the point home, I stepped out of the shorts and folded them atop my pants. Then, as I stood bare-assed in front of the young Dr. Ralph Stone, it occurred to me that I had never felt more naked and exposed. It was sort of...thrilling.
"Ok then," Ralph said as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves. "First we'll check for any testicular cancer...for some reason, I find that lots of patients are relaxed by the familiarity of this."
Just as he had promised, he was absolutely professional. He moved my cock out of the way as he gently squeezed each testicle. At one point he knelt and peered underneath them; his breath on my balls made my cock jump guiltily, and shivers erupted all down my back. I blushed all the way to my collar, but it was under control by the time he got to his feet. Strangely, Dr. Stone was the one who seemed flustered; he looked all around distractedly before finally settling his gaze on me, though it seemed like he had to fight to keep it there. My cock quivered again, this time for no reason that I could see, and my balls were starting to tingle in a way that I associated with my wife. I felt a flush starting to creep up my neck—what the hell was wrong with me?
"All right, this will be over soon. If you could just bend over this table for me..." I swallowed with an audible click and did as he bade me. There was squirting sound as he squeezed the lube onto his fingers, and once again my penis jerked. I realized with dim horror that I was now sporting a semi; oh God, what if he saw? And why did I have one? Could I—no, I couldn't possibly be turned on by this...could I?
