Visiting the doctor has become my new thing. In fact, he has replaced muscle relaxants, hot sauce or girls with short, black hair as my new addiction. I can’t help it; he makes me feel young. I want him to tell me I am well. I crave his reassurance. I cling to his every word hoping to hear that I am beautiful, inside and out.
The doctor and I have a relationship that is completely not unpleasant. It is brief with conversation kept to a minimum but hella punctual – what more could a guy ask for? Even better, our dates end with heavy petting.
The doctor pulls down my underwear for me and gives each testicle a good squeeze. I think about the last time my girlfriend gave me that much attention. Sorry, ex-girlfriend.
I decide that maybe it’s a better idea to envision something less sexy. Like a US Marine Corp stepping on a grape tomato. Or a hammer smashing an eyeball. Or my scrotum being run over by a Ford Coupe.
The check-up goes by, mercifully, without incident or erection. Drunken escapades aside, this may be the one time I am thrilled that my penis doesn’t work.
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