Tag, You’re It!December 15, 2005 at 8:25 PM | Posted in Journal | 3 Comments
I have had this problem, this medical thing going on, for most of my adult life. Which, to be fair, even though I am forty, has only been going on for about five years. Males mature later in life than females. I stand by that.
Anyway, this thing I have is skin tags. Barely noticeable and easily forgettable at first, over time they have grown in both size and number to become a real nuisance, albeit a non-life-threatening one. Right now I am torn between writing this and not, because how do you make something like this interesting, never mind funny?
But let’s go back. Shortly after I broke up with my old girlfriend (and she is old, too! Ba-dum, ting!) and started going out with my (new? newer? Less old?) current girlfriend, she wanted me to go to the doctor because I had these things growing on my inner thigh. She thought they were genital warts, and blamed my old girlfriend, the skank. Nice. I wanted to tell her that it was probably the girlfriend before that one, because she was a real ho, but realized just in time (before my mouth opened) that women don’t want to hear this. Oh, they think they do. But they really don’t.
I had no insurance at the time, so we went to the county hospital outpatient service. The free clinic.
Typically, you have to wait a long time in a place like that, but it wasn’t so bad. I got in there about nine am, and they got to me by three in the afternoon the same day. I was pretty happy. I was even happier when I saw my doctor. Hot, blonde, female. No lie. Urologist. In other words, a dick doctor.
(And here I have to insert (ha-ha, “insert”) one of my favorite jokes: A gynecologist comes home from work after a long day doing God knows what, to be greeted by his wife, wearing sleek, sheer lingerie, candles lit, champagne on ice, soft music playing. He says to her, “I swear, honey, if I have to look at one more—“)
Imagine a woman doctor in that position, and how hard (tee-hee, “hard”) it might be to impress her. . .
So I take off my pants, as instructed, trying not to think about it too much. I was at this time in my early twenties, when I could do push-ups with no hands at the slightest provocation. She takes the little freezey tool thing, after examining the marks, and says they are skin tags, not warts. Sigh of relief, and a slight stinging sensation as she freezes these things, and we’re done.
I thought we were done. As I stand and then begin to pull up my pants, she says to me, with her back turned to me to hide her smirk, “I need you to take down your shorts now because we check everyone for venereal disease.” So I pull my underwear down as she moves into position, kneeling in front of me. This is known as the honey spot. As I straighten back up and before I have a chance to look at what she is doing and react, she takes a long, thin, q-tip looking thing and grabs my wa-hoo like it’s our fourth date and shoves the thing into MY thing.
I try to argue my point in the most reasonable fashion about the extreme discomfort this is causing, as well as embarrassment for me, not to mention destroying all of my fantasies about this occasion, as well as causing a lasting psychosis about women in this position in front of me, but all that would come out of my mouth amid the screams and the drool was, “Hey! He-Hey! HEY! What the–? HEY!
And then it was over. I sullenly pulled up my pants, realizing I’m not going to get the obligatory what-have-you, and ask, “What the hell was that all about?” She explained that it is best to catch them before they have any idea what is going on, otherwise they won’t hold still for it. She looked me in the eyes, haunting and penetrating, the eyes of a woman who has seen what I have to offer, and is completely unimpressed, and perhaps a little sympathetic. Which I did NOT want. “Am I right?” She asks.
And let’s just leave it at that, shall we? Moving on. . ..