So, it’s been a little while….
Back to the journey. After the enjoyable holiday it was back to reality. To work, to school, to having to think about health issues. Unable to lose oneself in another glass of wine, another meal out, and another sunset stroll along the seaside.
I made the GP appointment, and off I went. Everything was good, apart from one tiny little thing. A raised PSA. It had elevated from 1.1 in 2010 to 2.7 in 2017. Big deal. I’m getting older, it’s bound to go up. Not so. Super GP tells me that it warrants further investigation.
“I’m sending you for an ultrasound scan” she says.
“Oh thank god for that” I reply, “I thought you were going to stick your finger up my bum!”
“That as well” says Super GP, with a hard stare that Paddington would be proud of.
I know the position. Lie on your left side, because that’s the way the tunnel goes. Legs up and think of England. Or Australia (depending if football or cricket is on).
She draws the curtain. I drop my shorts. The examination couch is cold, unforgiving, uncomfortable. I curl up, almost into to a ball, the hot flush of embarrassment lighting up my face. I hear the gloves, squeak and snap, then Super GP is behind the curtain in a deft agile move. I didn’t hear the curtain rustle, or see it move. She’s like a bloody ninja. An arse ninja. I brace for impact.
There’s a farting noise.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fucketty fuck” was that me? Did I let one go? Not content to be mortally embarrassed, I seem to have moved off the scale to immortality. My story told, by the gods, for eternity. Remember when that lardy middle-aged dude chuffed in the doctors’ face? Then I get some semblance of mental control back. Clarity returns. It’s not me.
Holy shit, it’s her! Super GP has let one go. WTF is wrong with her? Why would you taunt someone, emit a slick little fart, to a guy who is already in a world of bottom torment already? It’s a power thing, I decide. Super GP must assert her authority. She needs to be the boss. The ass master. It’s a pre-emptive strike. I should fight back, launch one of my own.
At this stage I am actually considering following that course of action. I am not myself, my thinking is addled, mashed, disordered by the fear and embarrassment. I turn my head to assess the target only to see the tube of KY jelly in her hand, farting as she squeezes the last of it out. Waves of nausea come over me, the queasy relief that I avoided wanting the world to swallow me up, soon to be exchanged with the feeling of wanting the world to swallow me up some more.
Then it happens. Super GP launches her index finger Exocet. It locks on to my prostate…….and bang! Anti-climax. It really was. A gentle prod to the left, and then she moves to the other side. The Chuckle brothers comes to mind….seriously. There’s me laying down, naked from the waist down, lubed up, Super GP’s finger delving around my innards, and all I can think of is “to you, to me!” (1), as she’s back to the left again.
Then it’s done. I readjust myself and normal service is resumed. Albeit with just a little squelching ‘tween the cheeks, from a dollop of errant jelly. I thank Super GP for what she has done. I don’t know why. My mother brought me up to be polite. I’m still a little embarrassed, and so even though the majority of my brain is telling me to shut the fuck up, one maverick neurone is running riot and dragging a few cells along for the ride. The few cells that work my mouth.
“That was the best rectal exam I have ever had.” It just came out. It was like watching an accident. Slow motion, car crash, can’t help, can only watch. Super GP stops in her tracks, turns and looks at me. Like I had just pissed on her kids. Then her face breaks, and she laughs.
“Why, thank you. See you after the scan.”
“And the worst,” I mutter on the way out, my arse cheeks gliding against each other with the all grace of a hippo sledging. Lovely receptionist tells me I can go, and I’m out of there. I sit on my motorcycle, and there it is. Krakatoa, East of Java- a lava flow of lube erupts to oil the remainder of my crack in an explosive, effluent, final insult.