I'd been having this pain in my stomach. In retrospect it was probably just nerves, but mom insisted on sending me to the doctor.
I got there by bus on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. I was the only one in the waiting room but I still sat for over an hour. Finally a nurse took me back to an exam room.
"Get undressed and put on this robe. Dr. Thompson will be in in a few minutes," she said. A half-hour passed before Dr. Thompson knocked, then entered.
"Hello Zachary," he said in a deep voice. He was an older guy, maybe in his mid-fifties, and he was quite tall. He smiled warmly down at me. "Do you go by Zachary?"
"Zach's fine."
"Zach. Pleased to meet you. Everyone calls me Dr. Craig." He held out his hand and I took it. His hands were huge, the size of dinner plates – one of his fingers could've plugged up a bathroom sink. But far from being some hulking giant he was slim and athletic under his white coat. He had thin gray hair and a trimmed gray mustache; his jaw line was strong like granite.
"Let me think here..." he said, looking around the room. "I want to move you to a different exam room, if that's okay."
"Sure."
"Okay then, right this way." As he ushered me out of the room he rested his hand on my lower back. I liked that. We went to a room at the very end of the hall. Dr. Craig turned on the light and had me sit in the chair across from him.
"So what brings you here today?" he said, swiveling around and planting his feet on either side of mine.
"I've been getting stomach pains."
"Mmm-hmm."
"Mostly when I'm nervous, but lately I've been getting them more often, I guess." He asked me if I get nauseous or if I went to the bathroom a lot, and I told him no.
"So tell me, what generally makes you nervous?" he asked.
"School, mostly," I admitted. "Actually mostly gym class."
"I see. Well, why don't you have a seat up on the table, and we'll take a look," he said. He got his stethoscope and put it around his neck. "Lift your robe off of your shoulders and let it rest in your lap, I'm going to listen to your breathing." He held my shoulder as he pressed the cold metal stethoscope to my chest. "Take a deep breath." He moved the stethoscope lower. "Another deep breath." He moved it lower still, until it was pressing into the soft flesh of my lower abdomen. "Once more," he said. "Sounds okay."
Next he checked my ears, then my eyes, bringing his face close to mine as he peered into them, his deep breathing audible.
"Looks fine there, too. If you would, just lay back. I want to examine your stomach." I lay back. The gown was just covering my crotch. "I'm going to put some pressure on your abdomen, just tell me if I'm pressing too hard." He put one hand on my shoulder and with his other he pressed two of his rough fingers into my tummy. He kneaded, lower and lower, until I couldn't take it – I started to get an erection. He kept kneading as he asked me questions about how often I got sick and how severe it was, and my hard-on started tenting up my gown, though he didn't seem to notice. Finally his fingers got so low that they brushed the tip of my boner. He stopped for a second. My face went hot and must have been bright red. He took his hand away.
"Well, physically you seem quite healthy," he said. "A lot of times stress can lead to these kinds of problems." He smiled down at me. "Gym class, huh?" I nodded and laughed nervously.
"Don't be embarrassed," he said nodding toward my crotch. "Happens to the best of us. Mind if I take a look?" Without waiting for word from me he lifted the bottom half of my robe and looked right at hard-on. "No problems there." I was shocked, but his professional, doctor-ly manner never flagged, so I wondered if this was just part of the examination.
He lifted my cock with his thumb and two fingers.
"Your penis has a nice heft to it – it's well developed, like most of your body." He started stroking it in his large fist. "Do you reach orgasm easily?" he asked.
