Know Your Audience

In my idealistic days before I headed off to Antioch College, I needed a physical exam to complete my eligibility requirements. Feeling like an adult at 17, I set up my own appointment and showed up to the doctor for the first time I remember ever going without being sick.

Everything was routine until we got to testicular exam. The doctor asked, “do you mind if a few medical students observe this part?”

“Sure,” I answered, without really thinking about it. Surely it would be over soon enough, and I’d most likely never see these people again. How bad could it be?

It hadn’t occurred to me what kind of medical students would observe a testicular exam, rather than just performing it on themselves. That’s right — medical students without testicles. My pants were already down as the room filled up with young, female medical students, perhaps specifically chosen for their attractiveness. “A few” turned out to be somewhere closer to “ten,” but at this point I’m focusing as hard as I can on not getting an erection while an audience of gorgeous females stares at my naked junk.

I’ve had the dream where I try to explain why I’m completely unprepared for the test and why I’m sitting in class naked. I woke up in a cold sweat, feeling like I’d run ten miles. This was somehow much, much worse.

The doctor, businesslike and professional, has apparently prepared by chilling his hands to a temperature that won’t melt ice cream. He talks and points. I have apparently discovered the secret of slowing down time, because each second stretches out for an eternity. When I steal a glance at my attractive audience, they’re all staring intently at the doctor’s hands, some frowning, some taking notes. Should I close my eyes? Look up at the ceiling? Look down? Nothing seems to be the right thing to do.

When it’s finally over, the students start shuffling out the door, and the doctor turns his attention to my glands or organs or something. About half the students glance up at me. I’m sure I catch a few smiles, but I can’t think of anything reasonable to say. “You have really cold hands,” I say to the doctor, and giggles erupt as he closes the door behind them.

The moral to this story: don’t make assumptions.

Alternative morals: don’t trust your doctor; weird things can happen anywhere; things can always be worse

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One Response to Know Your Audience

  1. shining says:

    I am not clicking on the google ad for testicular cancer!

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