It occurred to me in my mid-forties that I would soon have to make that fateful decision. Who would I allow to give me a prostate examination? For a dude, it’s kind of like a pap smear in reverse. I thought I would ask my friend for help with this dilemma.
“Joe,” I said, “I am trying to figure out if I should have a woman doctor do my prostate exam or a dude.” The homophobic in me worries about a guy exploring my intimate innards, and the pornographer in me worries that fantasy will become a regretful reality.
“If I let a dude do it, I may not be able to look at myself. If I let a lady do it, I will not be able to look at my wife.”
Joe leaned forward, his glasses skirting down his nose, “Earl,” he said “… I’d go with the dude.”
Soon enough I found myself sitting on a table like an overstuffed wiener dog peering at a female nurse practitioner half my age. It was not two weeks prior that Joe addressed my dilemma.
She asked, “So what brings you in today?”
At least she did not say, “Can I help you?’
“Well,” I clear my throat, “I woke up this morning and I cannot pee. I have to go but …”
You see, as a young man and even into my middle age, I always pissed like a race horse or, better yet, a power washer. In fact, I think I could clean my house’s siding, that is if I could live with a house that smells like I. P. Daily’s The Golden River. “it dribbles out,” I said. I sounded like a school boy.
“We will have to examine your prostate. I will be right back.”
As soon as she left, I stripped down to my underwear and sat on the table like a blinking idiot. It slowly occurred to me that she never told me to take my clothes off. Before my face had a chance to get beat red, she came back in with this dildo-looking thing.
“Oh,” she said, obviously startled and looked down at her weaponized dude penetrator especially suited for pissed off nurse practitioners.
Now, I am no stranger to plus-sized vehicles entering tight parking spaces, but this thing was unnecessarily huge. She was fiddling with it as if it were a rubrics cube.
“Okay, stand up and go over to the table.”
I did not know if I should drop my pants, lean over or what. For a guy, mooning a girl before she consents can put us on the sex offender registry. It’s all about context, but sometimes the context is murky.
I was in a silent but controlled panic. Wouldn’t another nurse come in to watch the show for protection and my humiliation? What if she hit the “guy’s G-Spot” and I jetted across the room uncontrollably and took out the blood pressure machine? How could I deny the lascivious evidence when the police interrogated me?
I leaned over the table like a cat in heat and dropped my drawers. I don’t know why but my harry ass always bothered me. I am not into body hair much, but here I was, a younger version of Santa Clause but an older version of Pee Wee Herman sticking my ass out toward this professional woman. I felt like a real ass.
I won’t describe the pressure of the insertion, but soon enough I felt this tapping inside my body.
She said, “What do you feel?”
I repeated, disappointed, “It feels like someone is tapping on my arm. I feel nothing.”
This is the exact line my wife uses to describe what sex feels like when she is not in the mood. She exited, cleared her throat—surely holding down the vomit—and said, “Well it’s larger than normal, but still within the normal range. It may be infection, but I am sending you to get an ultrasound.”
After drinking 32 ounces of water and waiting for an hour, the discomfort was severe. I went from being a man to being a pregnant woman.
Then this girl comes out that looks seventeen and asks me to “come in the back.” I was wondering if this whole thing was some kind of “To Catch a Predator” setup. I have seen how ultrasounds are done, and this had me nervous. She told me to lie on the table and unzip my pants.
She started rubbing what looked like KY Jelly on me below my belly button and told me to lower my pants more.
Then my greatest fear came true. As the late Robbin Williams once said, “God gave man two heads but only blood enough for one.” Let’s say I grew very faint.
As she was moving another phallic contraption near my crotch, I felt her looking right at my coming-to-life moment, but I could not stop it. If she went any lower, the scanner and I would have been sward fighting.
It all ended soon. She pressed down on my bladder, and I suddenly entered erectile dysfunction. That is the only time any guy wants ED.
I had infection, and within a day, I was back power washing my house. That was the last time I saw the nurse practitioner. I knew that my big-ass incident scared her away from the practice. A week later, a 6-foot 5 male urologist had his hand groping around my innards. He was old school. No need for dildo-like explorers. I may have lost my masculinity, but I gained my health.
At least I never had an inflamed testicle, but wouldn’t you know … more to come.
written by Earl Yarington @2019 all rights reserved. I created an earlier version of this story but the neurotic in me destroyed it. I did my best to recreate.