Fantasy vs. Reality

Practically every straight male has had the "doctor's office" fantasy. No, not the one in which you find yourself tied down to a table as Charles Nelson Reilly walks into the room to administer something he calls "the full tomatoes." I'm talking about the one in which two [or possibly three] sexy-ass nurses come into the examining room and proceed to "manhandle" you. But in the good way.

Mine always began with a routine exam for, I dunno, a sprained index finger. The nurse would ask me how it felt and if I could bend it, and before I could pick out which color splint I'd prefer, she's mounting my face like it was a front row seat to the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular.

That was before last week. When I took an unfortunate tumble off a ladder and landed balls-down on a can of paint.

Pain? Check. Mind-numbing, in fact. And the next day, with my boys still feeling like someone had them in a vice [and my el sacko now an impressive five sizes bigger than before], I sucked up what little pride I had left and went to the emergency room.

Of course, once there, you don't want the world to know you've hurt your nuts. So you tell the woman at the desk you've got abdominal pain and take your place in the waiting area. Sure enough, when your name is eventually called, it's by the most stunning blonde you've ever laid eyes upon. Six foot ten or something close, bright blue eyes and an outfit that fits so snug you have to blink to make sure it's not painted on.

So you go back with her, get seated in a little exam room, and when she looks at you with those goddamnfuckingmarvelous blue eyes and asks you about your abdominal pain, you explain that it's actually a bit lower. And she cocks an eyebrow. And says, "Oh?" And you melt. Because this is how you'd always dreamed it.

But the Issac Hayes music never kicks in. Instead, she proceeds to ask questions. About your balls. And you talk to this gorgeous, statuesque blonde for ten minutes. About your balls. You explain how you hurt them. How one is now larger than the other. How the ol' bag has inflated significantly since the tumble. And as you talk, you almost can't even hear the words spilling out of your mouth, because all you can think about is the fact that you're talking to this woman about your balls. In a detail you've probably never spoken about your balls in your life. Ever.

So she finishes her notes. And gets up and smiles. And says the doctor will be in soon.

And you and your balls sit there. For twenty minutes.

And in walks the doctor. Again, a gorgeous woman. This time, she's Asian.

And she looks at the chart. And you want to laugh because you know she's reading about your balls. And it's funny and horrifying all at once.

So she asks me to take down my boxer briefs. And I do. And she starts feeling my balls. And she asks if this is the swollen one and I wince and say that it is. And she keeps squeezing and feeling. And there is no mood music. There is no sudden change in her grip as she starts to massage the staff and says, "Mr. Ken, what you need is just a bit of release." There is no "let me get my friend Buffy in here to give a second opinion."

Just a gloved hand on your balls. And then it ends. And she explains that sometimes when your nuts are struck there is swelling that lasts for days. But I should have an ultrasound, because on occasion, you can get what is scientifically referred to as "twisted testicles" [which, ironically, is also a new play by Neil Simon starring Nathan Lane]. And when they twist, it's bad. Because they get no blood. And then, well, they gotta go.

So you panic for a couple more days, then have the ultrasound. Again, a cute nurse is holding your balls, and this time she's even applying a warm, gelatinous goo to allow the machine to see your nuts clearly. But you're immune to it now. Just let it end. Let the boys live in peace and I promise to never set foot on a ladder again.

And the results come back. And your balls are fine.

And you sit back now, some days later, reflecting, and wondering if maybe, just maybe, that cute Asian doctor is sitting at home thinking about the night she held your nuts.