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I feel compelled to post on weekly basis. But its been quite some time since I felt like I was obligated. What momentous event has broken me? Forced me to write. Well, it all goes back to about four hours ago when an elderly man ventured where no man has gone before. That’s right, today I was violated.
See, for the last couple days I have felt like I had to pee. Like every minute of every day, including the second after I shake off and re-tuck Lil’ Chuck Norris. I pushed fluids and tried to be patient. But after about 48 hours of worrying that my junk’s ability to function could be hinging on this, I called the clinic and got me an appointment.
Now, I am a pretty recognizeable figure in my community. And I don’t have to tell anyone what they automatically assume when you are a 20-something dude with peeing issues. So everyone looked down on me for the first 15 minutes of my visit until they could run my piss through the mystical whizzinator that tells them I haven’t caught anything from the high school volleyball team.
That’s when he started to flirt with me. “You’re the sports editor, right?” “Where are you from originally?” “And what does your wife do.”
Mixed in with this flurry of small talk are the staple questions. Yes, Chuck can still salute. No, Chuck hasn’t been wandering without his leash. And when I’m not busy staring directly at the guy’s fingers imagining just how wide they are and which one he’ll use, I am feeling sorry for him. He’s doing his job, uncomfortably dancing around that fact that not only is he about to get the best look at my asshole anyone has had in 26 years, but he’s diving right in that hairy sum’bitch. Then he finally comes out with it: “Well, I’m sorry to say this, but I think I’m going to have to do a rectal.”
“I knew we were heading that direction,” I responded.
I have to say, this is as adult as I have ever been in my life. Sure, I considered running, but this wasn’t about me. This was about Lil’ Chuck. Am I willing to sacrifice his well being to avoid a few short seconds of unpleasantness? Well, maybe. But seriously, what about the wife? She can’t be denied the one thing that makes her truly happy (other than ice cream and being smarter than other people). And what about all the wives that follow? I had to take one for the team.
So he continued to banter with me, even delving into politics. “How much did Hillary win by last night?” he asked. And just before the moment of the truth, he made sure I knew he was a republican. Almost in the same breath as the phrase “lubed up.” It didn’t matter how he actually phrased it after that. All I heard was, “Drop you drawers, turn around and bend over, bitch.”
I want to be clear in stating that I am not accusing the guy of being less than professional. He did what he had to do and tried his best to put me at ease. I was just keenly aware of some of the more awkward details. So there I am, pigeon-toed for his pleasure, as he wades into the jungle.
His utterances:
- “Ah, there we go.”
- “Are you having a lot of pain with this?”
- “Hmm, just a little soft.”
My responses:
- “Whoa, sh….”
- “Well, it isn’t comfortable.”
- “What does that mean.”
And then I wiped four pounds of vaseline out of my ass while he watched. It was, I suppose, exactly as I would have imagined having something shoved up my butt. It was exactly like losing your virginity. Except totally sober and way more awkward after the fact.
So the good news is he doesn’t think I have cancer. He dispatched that theory, a little too frivolously, because of my age. But he gave me a prescription for a drug called Cipro, thinking that I have prostatitis, an inflammation of the prostate. Mom, if you made it this far, you can read about it here.
If it doesn’t clear up I am to call him back. I am not worried yet and readers of this blog shouldn’t be either. But, if I do have cancer, I am going to resume smoking immediately, I just want that to be clear.
So I went out and picked up the prescription and returned to my desk. And if the vaseline in my crack wasn’t enough reminder of my run in with the true meaning of the middle finger, I had an e-mail from someone completely unbeknownst to my situation waiting in my inbox.
It helped put me at ease for a few short minutes. As I sat here, rehashing the details in my head, I began to hear his voice. Words like rectal, lubed, republican…they resounded in my brain. And then I really heard his voice. He was at the front desk, talking to my wife about some Knights of Columbus bullshit here in town. It was as if seeing me and having his finger up my ass reminded this guy that he needed to stop by the newspaper office.
I slowly stood up and peeked over the edge of my cubicle. Not enough to see the finger in question, but enough to confirm the identity of the of the first man with whom I had become intimately, physically familiar. And all I can think now is, I wish I had walked by him and winked.
