The Bum’s Rush (Speed the Plow)

December 11, 2009 at 11:32 am (Cussed Dumbers, The Easy Chair)

I had a doctor’s appointment the other day. A while back I had a funny-looking dark spot on my toe. Fearing gangrene or some other horrific condition, I hurried to the clinic. The spot turned out to be a callous that darkened when I showered. While I was there, it was suggested I get a full annual physical. A believer in preventive medicine, I agreed. The upside? I will get to see my doctor one more time before she graduates from medical school and moves on to her million dollar practice somewhere.

I’ve been going to Providence PACE Clinic for a long time now. I’ve lost count of how many times they’ve pulled my ass out of the proverbial medical fire. Grad students get to practice on me, and I get a sliding-fee-scale bill. Win/win. Most physicals involve a barrage of questions and a blood test or two. I figured this would be no different.

Being digitally sodomized by a pretty girl was the furthest thing from my mind…

I stare at the oncology posters every time I go to the clinic. It shows the three main tests: The ‘Privacy of your own home’ test, the moderately invasive test, (lower colon every five years) and the full on up-your-ass-so-far-you-can-see-tonsils colonoscopy. (Every ten years, or until you die from embarrassment.) I still have a couple of years until the moderate one, thankfully. This check-up should be a breeze.

The first stop on the way in is the weigh-in. Having lost 38 pounds last time, I couldn’t wait to show off. WTF???

I’d gained ten pounds. When was the last time their scale had been calibrated? That can’t be right.

A growing habit of overlooking the calorie/carb count on those Costco muffins and Little Debbie’s snacks has come back to haunt me. I immediately imposed a one-year moratorium on both.

Vitals were fine. My heart rate has been around 70 since I started losing weight and eating breakfast. I scored a 68. Woohoo! Blood pressure was up just a little. Probably from my internal ass-kicking over gaining ten pounds.

My doctor arrived. “Oh hi there! Long time no see.” She’d been with me for almost three years. She’d supervised the removal of a gnarly skin tag from my back, and helped in the cure of a major infection. The last time I saw her, she checked a spot on my inner thigh, which required lots of indecent exposure. I was comfortable with her.

She ran through the battery of questions. Check. Check. Still taking ibuprofen? Not drinking alcohol? Have you considered taking a baby aspirin every day?

“Are you sexually active?” she asked.

“Well…” Feel the blush rising.

“With a partner?”

“Not at this time, but I’m working on it!”

“Are you using condoms?”

“I will when the time comes. I’ve pretty much been with one woman the last five years, so it hasn’t been a concern, but I do have a stash.”

“Good. How do you feel about having your prostate checked?”

I looked at her, and a feeling I hadn’t felt much since the days of grade school overcame me. We’re playing doctor, this time for real!

“Who will do this exam? You?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, sure.” I saw the box of extra-large latex gloves hanging from the wall, with one hanging loose. I wasn’t going to agree to a cavity search by someone with hands like Michael Clarke Duncan.

“Do you have a problem maintaining a urine stream?” she asked.

“Um, what kind of prostate test is this? Oh wait, is this a separate question?”

She smiled. “You don’t need to have a steady stream during the test. Definitely separate question.”

“Good, because I’m not sure I can concentrate if you’re going to be digging around back there.”

I was feeling a sense of excitement and trepidation. I’d been checked once before, by a male with small, stubby fingers. It was awkward, uncomfortable, but not painful. I was curious to experience it with a woman’s touch. Would she be more sympathetic than her male counterpart, or would it be time for revenge?

She snapped on a blue glove, and held an economy-sized tube of Kentucky Jelly. “I can give you a gown if you want, or you can just drop your trousers.”

“That’ll work. Let’s do it.” I feel like Gary Gilmore facing the firing squad when I use that line.

I stood, let pants fall to floor, and leaned over the examining table, applauding myself for meticulous showering habits that are done for moments like these. “Anything I can do to help?” I asked.

“Nope.” I felt her hand on one of my buttcheeks, so I reached around and pulled back the other. Might as well make it an easy target. Here we go.

There’s a lot to be said for technique. I don’t know if she’s been doing a lot of these, or if it’s empathy from her being a woman used to penetration, but I may have a new fetish.

She lubed up her fingertips, and began working the hole, like foreplay. Then came the moment that (cue the Faith Hill song) made “me feel just like a woman.” An ex-lover’s favorite moment during sex (other than the finish, of course) was the first moment of penetration. I’d never been able to comprehend that rush intil that moment. After the initial push, she slid right in and hit the spot she was looking for.

Much like getting stitches, a shot or a lancing, I try to “take it like a man.” Having that phrase flashing through my mind as I was being fingered almost made me laugh, but I was having trouble catching my breath, and I think I was moaning a little. I could feel her long fingernail inside, stroking something. I’d noticed those long, clean manicured fingernails, and had wondered how that would play…

About the time I really started enjoying it, she stopped. (Another lesson in how a woman feels, I’m guessing.) Much like waving around my letter of 100% financial aid from this Catholic charity and calling it “dispensation from the Pope”, asking her to finish me off would probably be in bad form.

She tossed the glove into the garbage and washed her hands. “It’s slightly enlarged, so let me know if you have any weirdness when urinating.”

I resisted the urge to tell her my theories as to why it was enlarged.

As we finished up and made future appointments, I felt weird in other ways. My butt was squishy from the lube, and even after detouring to a restroom to make sure, I still felt kinda dirty back there. I almost felt guilty; my boss put in a twelve hour day so I could get my anal probe. I should hurry up and get to work.

Dr T greeted me with a grin. Was my face giving away details? He couldn’t know; *I* didn’t even know until she strapped the glove on.

“Well, your buddies on the security detail with be by to bug you. I told them all you were getting a colonoscopy, so they’ll be all up in your ass about it.”

He was grinning at his play on words, but I topped it. “They won’t be the first…” I wiggled a finger at him.

Insert Innuendo Here

I hurried through my opening procedures and we switched tills. There were things waiting on the counter, even though no customers were in the store.

“Ha ha,” I said, putting the lube and King Size Butterfinger back on the shelf. Dr T was obviously enjoying this moment. I’m rarely the butt of jokes at work, (at least when I’m present) and I have to be willing to receive as well as I give.

As I was showering this morning, washing ‘our special place’, I had an epiphany/giggle fit. My lovely doctor’s first name is Margaret.

I wonder if they call her Peggy for short…

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