What the Hell?
by Cole Parker
You remember when you were a kid and had to go to the doctor for a routine physical exam? Remember that? I sure do! There was this one time . . .
I was 13 and wanted to play soccer on my 8th grade team. No problem doing that. Just had to sign up for tryouts. I was a decent player. Not great but probably a little above average, maybe because I was a little bit larger than most other boys my age. I wasn't fast enough for a forward position, but didn't mind mixing it up a little, getting physical with the other sides' forwards and so was happy to play in the backfield.
There was one stickler, though. To get on the team, or even come to tryouts, I had to have a physical exam.
Hey, I was a healthy kid. I didn't like going to doctors; I never had anything wrong with me, but they always wanted to give me a shot, and I hated that. "This won't hurt at all, just a little pinprick." Sure. Let me give you one, you bastard, and see how you like it. I thought that but never said it because they were adults and I was a kid. I sure would have liked to, though, and I almost did a time or two, but always after getting the little pinprick that felt more like someone punching my shoulder with an ice pick. No way I'd say it before they mugged me. That would have been like waving a red flag before a bull, and perhaps the bull would have vengeance on his mind.
I didn't like the sound of that physical. I'd heard about those sports physicals. Heard from kids who'd gone through them. The details were always a bit juicy:
Like this kid Jerry I knew told us over lunch one day. "I had to get naked in the waiting room with the nurse right there. No female has seen my Jolly Roger since I was about seven, and here she is, watching me undress. She didn't have the decency to look away. Some sort of pervert, I guess. Then when I'm bare, I walk into the doc's room and he looks me over, does stuff, then handles the equipment. I didn't get hard or anything, the mood in there didn't worked against that, but still, some strange guy handling me? I mean really handling me, balls and all? I don't think I'm going out for sports again after this. Not worth it. Once was more than enough; too much, really!"
So, hearing that, I wasn't looking forward to this, but boys my age exaggerate a lot, and maybe it wouldn't be that bad. I really wanted to play on our team.
So I make an appointment and when it's time, I go in. I go from the waiting room into another room where there's only this nurse and me. The nurse tells me to get naked.
What's this all about? I've thought about this, convincing myself it won't be too bad. I could see myself just dropping trou for a second or two while the doc did the cough test. But that wasn't what was happening here. The nurse wants me naked! She tells me to strip!
She does give me a sheet with which to cover my delicates after stripping, and I can turn my back on her while doing it, but still . . .
I don't seem to have a choice. So I do it. I get naked, and believe you me, that sheet's around me about a half-second after my undies are down. But then, it's just her and me in the room waiting for my turn. It's chilly in there, too, and I'm not a bit comfortable. The nurse is about 25, I'd guess. Sorta pretty. And she keeps glancing at me. Damn! Alone, naked—and while the sheet is covering me, it's thin and both of us are aware that that's all I have between me and my modesty—with a young lady keeping watch. Yes, uncomfortable as hell. At least she hasn't seen my goodies.
Then the door to the inner sanctum opens, and a boy my age, also sheeted, walks out, looking a bit ashen. He doesn't meet my eyes. He's holding his sheet closed in a very tight fist. This doesn't fill me with confidence.
"Next," the doc says. He's middle-aged. I can't guess his age. Somewhere between 35 and 55. I'm not good at knowing the ages of men in that range. They all just fall into the category of 'old' to me.
I walk into his office and he closes the door. "Okay," he says, "let's get rid of the sheet."
Hey, wait a minute! I thought the procedure was that he does all the preliminary stuff first, and he only has the sheet dropped when it's time for the down-and-dirty stuff: checking for a hernia or any abnormalities in that region of the body. Something like a ten or fifteen second check. Perfunctory, that's the word. But this guy wants to do everything with me nude? What's going on here? Why?
He gives me a look, an uncompromising one, and I drop the sheet. Naked. Wow. Absolutely bare. I'm not liking this at all.
He goes through the motions. Weight, blood pressure, reflexes, ears, eyes—everything, it seems to me, that could be done without being so exposed. Why must I be nude? No reason at all. The longer it takes, you'd think I'd be getting used to it, but I'm not. I'm 13! 13-year-olds do not like people seeing them nude! I am that age. I don't like this free peepshow he's getting at all!
It's finally, finally time for the hernia check. He has me stand, and he puts his hands are where I've heard the counselors talk about bad touch. He feels both my balls, and he takes his time doing it. It isn't a bit enjoyable. Then he has me cough and tries to stick my balls up into my body. Ugh!
I think he done now, and the only thing I can think of to be happy about is that he's a guy and no one else, especially not that young nurse, has witnessed the proceedings.
But he's not done like I figured he was, and it becomes even worse. He takes my dick in his hand, looks it over and, for crying out loud, retracts my foreskin. I'm the only one in the world that's ever done that, and now this stranger is doing it?
He does that a couple of times, then says to me, "You don't mind, do you? My nurse needs to see this."
I say, "What?" in a strangled sort of way, but he's already opened the door and said, "Miss Temblen, would you come in here for a moment? You need to see this!"
She comes in and he grabs my dick again, and he's talking and she's looking and he's sliding my foreskin around and I'm still totally naked, naked as that proverbial jaybird, and all I can do is put my hand on my head, grab a bunch of my hair, and groan in anguish, trying to ignore what's going on below.
Voting
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