vituperation

August 24, 2002

I have to go to the doctor on Monday to get a full physical, because I’m getting on up in years and it’s simply time to start doing things like that annually. A few days ago, I mentioned to a co-worker that I was going for the full physical, one comment led to another, and he reminded me of a visit I made to a doctor about ten years ago. A visit which I shall now share with you.

I was fat in those days, weighing in at about 330 pounds. Not my heaviest ever, by about 40 pounds, but still pretty big. It was late 1992, and I had to make a trip to Washington D.C. with my then boss to be in a big federal computer conference so I could showcase the cryptography software I’d written and hopefully make him even wealthier. It was a long trip, lasting a week, and I rode in a car with my boss both ways. The week was filled with nothing but eating out: fast food for lunch and a big heavy meal for dinner. In other words, no fiber at all, and lots of slow-moving foods were traveling through my digestive tract that week.

No, this entry isn’t about constipation; don’t leave just yet.

Late in the week, Thursday or Friday, I started noticing a slight pressure in a certain location known for its lack of sunshine every time I needed to eliminate solid waste from my body. The pressure grew over the next day or two, and by the time we drove home - a mind-numbing twelve hours - I felt like I had a golf ball stuck up my butt.

Not that I’d know what that feels like, but you get my point.

I had my suspicions about what it was, but was too embarrassed to ask anyone like my friends or my parents. I decided instead to mention it to my doctor, whom I was scheduled to see the following week for a weigh-in. I was seeing him to lose weight, an older man whose program for me was to drink more water and eat big salads. At this time I had not yet found the joy that is Doctor Judy.

The pressure kept getting bigger (but only painful when I was in the bathroom) over the next few days until I felt like I was walking around with a basketball between my butt cheeks all the time. I was concerned I had a tumor or a growth, some insidious form of ass cancer.

After my weigh-in at the doctor’s office (I think I actually gained weight that time, probably from eating garbage the week before) I was taken into an examination room for my normal post weigh-in talk with the doctor where he could tell me to drink more water. We talked, and then I brought it up.

"I have this pain," I said nervously, "in my butt, near the hole. It feels like there’s something up there."

"Stand up and drop your pants," he said.

I blushed mightily. "I was afraid you were gonna say that," I replied, and stood up. I unbuttoned my pants and lowered them and my underwear, then stood up and cupped my genitals in my hands. The room seemed to grow warmer.

The doctor turned to his desk and dug through drawers until he found a flashlight.

"Come over here and bend over the table," he said, clicking on the flashlight. I obliged him, taking tiny little steps because my pants were bound up around my thighs. I never let go of my genitals. I faced the wall as I lay across the table, my face glowing brilliantly.

The doctor was silent for a moment.

"You need to spread them," he said, "so I can see."

I pushed my butt back as much as I could, toward him. My pants and underwear slid down to my ankles. I held my genitals tightly.

"No," he said, "you need to get it open."

Slowly I shuffled backwards toward him, my feet bound up in my clothes, trying desperately to get my butt cheeks apart. I wobbled from side to side, having a hard time staying balanced because there was no way I was going to let go of my testicles and the last shred of my dignity.

"No," he said exasperatedly, "with your hands. Pull it open."

Beads of sweat popped out on my brow as I slowly released my genitals and reached around to either side to grab a cheek in each hand. I obliged the doctor and pulled. And got a mental image of what the view from his side must be like, which made me start to laugh.

The doctor leaned forward, peering intently up my ass and shining his flashlight in every direction. His head went up, down, and side to side as he examined me from every imaginable angle. I shook uncontrollably, because I was laughing so hard.

"Mmmmhmmmm," he said finally, sitting up straight.

"What?" I said.

"You have a little hemorrhoid at three o’clock," he replied.

I was silent for a moment.

"My time or yours?" I asked, because in my total humiliation it made perfect sense.

It was his turn to be silent for a moment.

"Yours," he said.

"Is it as big as it feels?" I asked.

"It’s about the size of a pea," he told me.

A pea. Hmph.

Does that make me a princess?