Remove Your Pants And Bend Over, Please.

The room is cold and industrial and is fashioned with minimalistic design if any. I sit on the padded table and wonder if this steel cubicle could be used for interrogation or other clandestine purposes, is this the type of room where lives end if secrets are not spilled and spilled blood is the preferred outcome?

I hate waiting in such small places, I wonder if I am being watched, being judged on some minuscule fuzzy black and white soviet era monitor. Are there cameras in here? Shit I hope not.

The man enters the box and his salutary greetings are practiced and stale, I wonder how many times a day he does this, does he ever question the time was was faced with that fork in the road and chose this path? Only he knows and he 'aint telling.

His order is clear and precise "Remove your pants and bend over." Damn,

does this flesh covered robotic man realize the power in those words?

If these syllables were uttered in a bar while busy in the swirl of the drink, does robot-man know the consequences of his breath? I think not because if that was said to a man in a pub the outcome would be clear and simple and the Marquess of Queensberry rules would not apply.

Unfortunately on this day we are on his turf and this cold, steel cubicle is his domain. He is the doctor and I am his patient.

I am about to have my first prostate exam. Fuck.....

 

Bent over a table is not a good look for a grown man.

Bent over a table and hearing the steely snap of a latex glove is not much better.

Finally, bent over a table hearing the tube of lube being squeezed into said latex glove makes even

the most hardened scrapper run for his happy place.

On this crappy day I am the recipient of all of the above and off to my happy place I go.

Shite, it's closed for the winter dammit happy place you are supposed to

be open 24/7 and 365. I must face this in real time.

So here I am bent, lubed and entered, my manhood in peril of becoming questioned and all I can think of is "I wonder if this would be easier if the doctor was a woman, a good looking woman?" No, I think it would be just as bad because there is the other issue to deal with when your pants are down to your ankles and breasts are in the vicinity. Double embarrassing.

"Necessary" was my word of the day, as robo-doc reached for my tonsils taking the scenic route, I kept saying over and over:
necessary, necessary, necessary.....

And to think when robo-doc pulled out was finished with the test, his next auto simulated syntax was:
"There are towels over there, clean yourself up." 

What the hell robo-doc no dinner, no dancing or flowers? Are you humping and dumping you rat bastard! you deflowered me and all you can conjure up is:

"Clean yourself up." 
It gave me a new respect for the street walkers and other assorted sex workers, at least they carry their own lube, allegedly.

I now have a better understanding of how women feel while propped up and peeled wide in the gynecologist's chair, I get the fact that it's for medical reasons at least I had my back turned to robo-doc, I could not imagine him entering me from the front and having to look him dead in the eyes while trying to make small talk.

"Catch the game last night Doc?" 
Damn scary thought that is.

My father was diagnosed with prostate cancer and it is my duty as a son to get myself checked. As explained above the entire process from the cold room to the lifeless doctor was about as pleasant as a kick in the nuts right after you have been kicked in the nuts.

Anyway the good news is that my father crushed his cancer through radiation and is as healthy as a Scottish Clydesdale and good old Sausage is cancer free but now has a bit of a limp. Damn you robo-doc.

Sausage and his Dad, kicking cancer's ass.

 

Lets hear it then, whoever is the first to 

make the most obvious comment 

gets the prize, the last of the soon to be world famous

Sausage Fingers mouse pads.

I know you are a dirty bunch so come on what ya got.

The last one