Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Let's Get [a] Physical

Today I am supposed to get my annual physical exam.

The physical is at 11am. I had planned to work from home so I can get some stuff done before going to my appointment. Instead, I spent the hours before my appointment jacking off. Three times.

I just thought you wanted to know that.


It's been a year since I last saw my doctor, who is gay and has a predominantly gay practice. I stuck with him all these years because much like women prefer female doctors, I prefer a gay doctor because he understands all the medical issues that gay men face like STDs, compulsive sex and acute problems with not calling after a date.


"Strip," my doctor commanded, handing me what I thought was a wad of paper towels. "Put it on," he said.

I realized he meant the wad of paper towels. Apparently, it was a gown. It was basically a long, seamless rectangular paper towel with armholes and a scalloped edge for a collar. I mean, I've always wanted to be brawny, but this is ridiculous.


The doctor made me feel at ease by sharing juicy celebrity gossip while he examined me. Then suddenly, he jabbed his gloved finger into my asshole!

He was checking my prostate. I was so distracted I didn't even notice that he had been slathering his finger with lube.

Normal, he pronounced, raising the finger in front of me. I caught a whiff of the antiseptic smell of latex and the thick, heavy scent of my ass. The smell reminded me of my first love, Harry. That's what I called my 12" rubber dildo.

The doctor thoughtfully gave me a paper towel to wipe myself back there. I felt an overwhelming need to cuddle.


Having your blood drawn has got to be the most unnerving thing. Waiting for the poke is nerve-wracking. Am I the only one who thinks that instead of drawing your blood, the smiling, insane medical technician is going to pump an air bubble into your plumped vein, killing you instantly?


I rattled off a bunch of different symptoms that could be the first signs of any number of serious illnesses. My doctor dutifully listened and then gently reassured me that my mother-in-law was not a serious illness.


My doctor called me a neurotic. I can't wait to tell all my friends that I was just as fucked up as they are. Surely, they'll let me hang out with them now?


I left the doctor's office with a lighter step and an extra swish in my walk. I don't know if this was because of my clean bill of health or because of the lube in my ass.

Less friction, you know.



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