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Noticing my hysterical jump and defensive pose, he quiets his voice to a whisper. “Sorry to, um, startle you. I just… I’m ready.”
“Of course. Yeah.” I nod feverishly, follow him into the room, and take a few discreet, calming breaths to slow down the rate at which my heart is sprinting inside my chest. Honestly, for a woman who did gymnastics in her childhood, you’d think my cardiovascular system would be able to tolerate adrenaline a little better than this. A minor startle from a hot fireman and I’m panting like a dog in heat.
His gown covers everything, but it’s strangely anticipatory and it feels like I’m seeing more of him than I should. It’s weird and odd and completely irrational. So, I shut my eyes for a brief moment and force myself into doctor mode.
“Just take a seat on the exam table, please,” I instruct him with a gesture of my hand.
He does without question.
Then I start my assessment.
First, his vital signs. Blood pressure, heart rate, respiratory rate, and temperature.
All good. All within normal limits.
Next, with my stethoscope, I listen to his heart and lungs and abdomen.
Also, good. Steady, strong, clear.
“Am I going to live to see another day, Dr. Lauren?” he asks once I finish a quick reflex check, smirking up at me from his spot on the exam table, and I can’t not return his expression with a grin.
“Yes, it appears that you will,” I answer and make a few notes in his chart. “Now, if you don’t mind, please stand up in front of the exam table so I can…uh…check…your…uh…testicles.” The words are damn near impossible to push out, but I manage and gesture for him to stand at the end of the exam table as I roll the stool over in front of his upright stance to take a seat.
With a deep breath, I reach into the valleys of my training and rub my hands together to warm them up—and avoid his eyes at all costs.
Rearranging the fabric of his gown, I get ready to start.
He stands quietly, but as for any other details of his position or expression or identifying details, I have no idea. I cannot look at him. Right now, the balls are their own independent entity. They have their own life, their own career—their own vacation home in Malibu, as far as I’m concerned.
“Okay,” I say as calmly as I can manage while holding my knuckles against the fleshy globes of this fine-as-hell man’s balls. “I’m going to have you just turn your head to the side and cough.”
He turns his head, but he doesn’t cough. Instead, he makes conversation like I’m not sitting here palpating his testicles.
“Why is it that you have to turn your head to the side anyway? Does it do something to the tendons or expose the hernia more or something? I’ve never really understood the whole turn your head to the side thing.”
I clear my throat against the impulse to ramble profusely and keep my answer as concise as possible. “Actually, it’s just so you don’t cough directly in my face. No medical reason.”
“Holy shit, are you serious? All this time and I thought it revealed some major medical secrets or something.”
I smile, glancing from his eyes to the wall and back again, still holding his balls and willing my hand not to jerk accidentally as he chuckles. The little globes vibrate against my fingers.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
“Why don’t you just grab ’em from the back or something? That’d be easier, I’d bet.”
“You know, I’m not sure. I just do the examination like they trained me to. So, um…” I pause, but mentally, I’m shouting, Please, just wait with the questions until after your balls are out of my hand!
“Oh,” he says, chuckling nervously this time.
It’s a really strange sensation while physically connected to his genitalia, and I have to close my eyes tight against an overwhelmingly human instinct to be embarrassed.
There’s no need to be embarrassed. I’m a doctor. This is just a part of the job—nothing personal, nothing sexual.
My cheeks start to redden, I can feel the heat blooming in every direction, evidently impervious to my very sound pep talk.
I’m a doctor, I repeat to myself, this time with grit. Ignore the very attractive patient, ignore the fact that his impressive penis is right in front of you, ignore everything but checking for a gosh darn hernia, Lauren.
When I finally get myself under control, I look up and into his bright, icy-blue eyes to find him staring at me, a warm, genuinely unaffected smile on his face.
There’s a moment in time—a pause—that feels like the world goes still. Like, in some cosmic, weird way, I’ve been waiting for this moment for the entirety of my adult life.
Suddenly, I feel calm. Assured. Ready to take charge of the room and the situation again and do my job, regardless of all of the awkward bobbles that have added up to get us here.
