Part I: Ian (the patient): A cigarette rests between my fingers as the golden sun sets behind me.
Menthol smoke shoots from my lips, and I freeze.
"I have testicular cancer."
Kym smiles widely, black lipstick contrasting with white teeth. "Ian, shut the fuck up, it's just a lump!"
A smirk spreads, "Yeah, and it could be testicular cancer!"
We are chilling out on her back yard patio with some background tunes.
"Well, how big is it?" She sips her beer, revealing her forearm tattoo of a pizza slice.
I gesture with my fingers, "Kinda like a jelly bean, I guess."
"Aww, you have a little peanut friend. It's probably harmless. My ex had a lil' buddy on one of his balls, and it was nuh-thing."
It probably is harmless. But who can blame a guy for wanting some reassurance? After all, I've put it off quietly to myself for too long. Go get yourself the facts and give yourself some peace of mind, Ian.
I'm not a big fan of going to the doctors, though. Who is? You put it off as long as you can until you can't.
I'm one of those guys that prefers to see female physicians. One fundamental reason is that men suck. Especially straight men. When you grow up fearing boys and fighting off their mean words, you don't grow up feeling especially safe around men. Nor do you really have faith in their ability to be there for you when you need it.
Another fundamental reason I prefer seeing female doctors is because I get erections easily around male doctors. Yeah, yeah, yeah, men are dicks and all that shit. But, they're also what I'm sexually and romantically attracted to. And so I get boners when I have to flash some flesh. Even when the doctor is entirely unattractive.
The moment a male doctor alludes to the imminence of me stripping down, my wiener starts wiggling around in my pants. And how could it not? The only other context when a man is attentive to my genitals is when I'm having sex. So by the time I'm pulling down my briefs, my dick is stretching out and climbing upward. Coming out to say "Hello", "Good morning, world," "Isn't it nice to be alive?"
I logically assume that male doctors are more than likely not into fucking men. And are probably, in fact, a little annoyed that this gay-wad is forcing them to touch a hard cock. They must be thinking I'm a pervert. Some kind of freak who probably faked a reason to come to the clinic.
Nah, I wanna avoid all that. I'll see a woman. And I have for the past decade or two (shout out to Dr. Lisa Sanders). So I can be comfortable. At ease.
And soft!
But, damn, isn't it nice when the Universe throws in a lil' surprise?
It's September now and I just pulled up into the health clinic parking space.
I put the shift in "park" and look at my eyes in the rear-view mirror. My fingers tuck my long, pepsi-brown hair behind my ears. Even though it's just going to be a woman seeing my body, I still want to be fresh and clean. So I got myself all ready today. Took a shower. Scrubbed the spots. Trimmed the hair. Spread the lotion. Did what a good guy's got to do to make this bizarre experience as pleasant as possible for both patient and physician.
The receptionist checks me in and the medical assistant gathers my vitals. She sits me down on the exam table, reviews my medical history and the reason for my visit. After some back and forth, she throws in a plot-twist:
"Oh, I forgot to mention. Dr. Sanders is out today, so Dr. Washington will be here in a few minutes. He'll be sure to get you the care you need, dear."
He?! Oh boy, I thought.
She then disappears and leaves me alone in this tiny room. Before I could even consider commenting on my gender preferences.
Ok, Ian, time to put on the armor of God and flex that self-control muscle. This is an unexpected surprise, but you can get through it. Don't get hard. Don't look like a perv. It will be over soon.
Knock, knock. The door creaks open and in walks Dr. Washington. A tall man with short, black hair combed to the side, and speckled with gray. Strong jawline. Eye glasses. Not a runway model, but not at all unattractive.
He takes a seat on the rolling stool and smiles widely, "G'mornin', Ian. I'm Marc, I'll be helping you out this morning." His voice is deep.
"Mornin'. Hi."
He's got a nice smile and full lips. Kind eyes with crow's feet. I'm getting warm vibes from him. I notice his tie, patterned with a local sports team. And his basic khakis. Yeah, this is probably a straight dude.
But you know what time it is, Ian. Time to keep your penis flaccid. Time to start thinking about that old, scabby, beast-of-a-woman creeping out of the bathtub in the film, The Shining.
That usually does the trick.
Do not think about the bulge between his khaki thighs. Or the hairs on the top of his strong hands. Or the size of his brown, dress shoes. No!
Mercifully, as he starts asking questions I get distracted.
Oh, but he's asking me about my genitals! This man is expressing curiosity about the parts that we hide from the public.
Oh my (slaps face). Scabby women in the bathtub. Scabby woman in the bathtub (slaps face again).
"All right, time to take a look. Go ahead and stand up and drop your pants."
He gets up and turns away from me for a moment to put on some blue, disposable gloves.
My heart is sprinting as I stand up. And my penis twitches in my pants. Come on, Ian, stay on the straight and narrow path.
I lean against the exam table and bravely pull my pants down just above my knees and can see that my soft penis has already started shifting to the left. Slowly waking from its slumber.
He returns to his stool, adjusting the gloves at the fingertips, and rolls up toward me. Says, "All right" and sets his eyes on my crotch for the first time.
His eyes are level with my hairless abdomen.
"Sorry", I say, knowing that he is aware of my slowly rising penis.
"There's nothing to be sorry about."
I get a whiff of his aftershave and suddenly wonder if he smells any odor from my balls.
"You said it's on your left testicle, right?"
My penis is almost at full erection.
"Yeah, my left, your right."
He scoots in closer. "Ok, I'm just gonna start feeling around. Let me know if you feel any pain."
The moment his fingers touch my scrotum, my cock stretches to its peak, and I reflexively cover it up with my hands. Don't say sorry again, Ian. Just cover it up, and shut up. This happens sometimes.
His blue fingers continue lightly squeezing different regions of my testicle. And I can smell the scent of the medical gloves.
And we exist in silence for an extended moment, until he interrupts.
"There's nothing to be ashamed of."
Unsure of whether or not that means he's advising me to remove my hands, I nevertheless instinctively un-shield my dick in experimentation. My hard-on could kiss his lips if he bent in a few more inches. I glance down at his thighs.
"Is this it right here?" His fingers pinch the small lump on my testicle.
'Yeah, that's it."
"Do you feel any pain right now as I gently push on it?"
"No." Just a flood of wildly inappropriate thoughts, sir.
"Any tenderness or sharpness?"
Don't respond with more than you need to, Ian.
"Nope." I should have kept it at that. But that demon in me had to get five more words out.
"Just sensation in my penis". Goddammit. Wrong response, Ian. Totally unnecessary. Don't make him feel any more uncomfortable than he is. He knows you are stimulated. Talking about it is only going to creep him out.
"I can see that," he says. And looks directly at my erection arching upward just inches from his face. He rests his hands on his knees. "It's a sign of good health, that's all."
I grin, appreciating his nonchalance.
"Yeah, but just so you know this is why I typically see female doctors. So this doesn't happen. I don't wanna offend anyone."
"I'm not offended." He glances briefly at my eyes and then back down at my crotch. "It's actually more of a compliment than offensive, to be honest."
I look down at how close his beautiful lips are to my dick. For a brief moment I wonder if he might do the bold and unexpected thing and grab my erection and pop it in his mouth like a lollipop. And give me a good, thorough clinical exam.
But instead, he rolls his chair back and starts pulling the blue gloves off.
"Well, based on the symptoms you're experiencing and my examination, I don't think the lump is cancerous. It's likely a varicose vein, which is benign. But I'm going to refer you to the imaging department to get an ultrasound, just to be sure."
"Ok, yeah, sounds good." I start pulling up my pants, feeling a pang of disappointment and embarrassment.
"You can pick up the referral at check out. And Ian," he looks me in the eyes, "you're totally welcome to see me in the future if you're comfortable. But I respect whatever you decide."
I grab my bag. "Ok, yeah. Thanks," and exit.
Part II: Dr. Washington (the doctor): The autumn skies grew darker and cooler as September bled into a cloudy October. And into a wet November.
I was standing with my dick in one hand and my cell phone in the other. Taking a piss in the patient bathroom because I didn't feel like walking across the clinic to the staff one.
I compulsively scroll to my work email app and check my inbox. 39 emails. Jesus Christ, Marc, put your phone away. You can have three minutes to not think about work.
I put my phone away and continue peeing, searching my pubic hair for signs of any more new gray hairs. And find none. Getting older sucks. But my dick is still looking great. The last few drops of urine sprinkle into the toilet and I shake my penis a few times to finish things up.
Just then, for the first time today, I become aware that I've been feeling pretty irritable. Today has been shitty. And I know why.
I then flashback to the argument I had with my wife last night. Her bitching at me for not being home enough. For not going with her to visit her parents more. For not being a good enough husband. It was one of those nights where I was contemplating sleeping in the guest bedroom and instead chose to sleep next to her wearing a cloak of resentment. Feeling trapped. And hopeless.
I exhale deeply. And wipe my palm down my face in resignation. I forgot to shave this morning, too, I realize. But at least I look kind of handsome with some rugged stubble.
The more I think about it, the more I'm recognizing now that the past couple months have taken quite a toll on me. Long hours, high pressure, poor sleep. The impact of this profession on my personal life has just been feeling much more pronounced recently.
