During a Boy Scouts hiking trip, my friend Jerry gave me some important advice:
"When you get a physical, you better not get hard," he said.
Unfortunately, at age 11, I still referred to such exotic terms by their textbook translations. "Pot" was still "marijuana," "pussy" was still "vagina" and "gay" was still "nonathletic." So, I thanked Jerry for his advice and assumed he had stepped in wet cement on his way to a checkup.
Three years later, the true meaning of Jerry's warning became all too clear when I got a big, fat stiffy in front of my doctor.
Much like earthquakes, ninjas and razors in Halloween candy, you never know when an erection will strike. Actual arousal accounts for a small percentage of erections; often, all it takes is a cramped chair, new boxers or a front-row seat on Splash Mountain, and surprise, the circus is in town!
My enrollment in high school required a complete physical, testicles exam included. I had survived a few of these frisks before, and I always imagined my doctor rating my genitalia in the next room.
"His penis looks so stupid," he'd chuckle to the other doctors over a round of Vicodin and back massages from the nurse staff. "Does he really expect Ashley to like him with a penis like that?"
This time, however, I was greeted by an attractive physician in her late 20s. Her face seemed too pretty to be covered by a blood-soaked surgeon mask, but sure enough, she conducted the physical and politely asked me to take off my pants.
If you combine a loose cannon dangling between my legs with a sexy professional making six figures a year, the only response to such a request is: "Fire in the hole!"
The moment her latex-covered fingers made contact, I could hear the circus train rolling down the tracks. I tried concentrating on a decorative beach print hanging on the wall, but it was no use. From the crashing surf I envisioned my doctor, fully naked except for that bloody surgeon mask.
The whole ordeal lasted five seconds, which was enough time to get to half-mast. She pretended not to notice, but her rushing (and blushing) gave her away. Thank goodness my balls were cancer-free.
Humiliation is inevitable, and it's often triggered by the slightest nudge.
