name="Final Exam" by A. R. Gregory

Final Exam

The ridiculous hospital gown they handed me when I came in doesn’t even cover my backside. I feel like an idiot lying on my belly in the examining room, a pillow stuffed under me, my ass jutting skyward, the way I was told to position myself. I snatch a towel from the nearby countertop, drape it as best I can over my chilled butt. Me, the hapless protagonist — or is that prostate-agonyist — in yet another installment of the nightmare saga known as visits to my urologist’s office?

This must be why none of the receptionists and nurses looked me in the eye when I walked in today. They could already see me in their minds’ eyes, bare-assed, bottoms-up. They didn’t want to lose it, laugh their asses off.

The doctors here, all men, disappear into the inner sanctums of their offices when they aren’t officiating in the examination rooms. But the women are always buzzing about like busy little bees. They flit through the hallways in their green smocks, wafting their clipboards and specimen cups, running the show with smooth feminine efficiency. They’ve always seemed nice enough too, filling the place with their high-pitched chatter and giggles. But something is different today, and the only thing I can figure is me, here and now, about to take the next step in the embarrassing game of “Let’s Keep an Eye on Your prostate, Mr. Jones.” Did I say next step? More like a small step for me, a giant leap for my humiliation.

What an organ, the lowly prostate. Can’t live with it, can’t live a life worth living without it. If that complicated little lump was contrived by an Intelligent Designer, he gets more points for sadism than for his engineering expertise. Harder and longer to pee the older you get? What the fuck? Oh yeah, and there’s that.

The thing is, I’m not even sure why I’m here today. All I know is Dr. Johnson’s assistant, Nurse Trainor, phoned me this morning. I had to come back in for something called a “transrectal ultrasound.” Yikes! She said they just spotted something in my blood work from my regular checkup a couple of weeks ago, something the lab had missed at first. What the… She assured me Dr. Johnson thought it was nothing, but I should come in for this ultrasound exam “just to be on the safe side.” When I grilled her about what the hell was going on, she said it could be lots of things, but most likely it was just some fluctuation in my hormones or whatever.

There was enough urgency in her professional tone to spur me to agree to an appointment this afternoon. I told my secretary I was taking off early, with no mention of where I was going or why. No need to start the wheels of gossip spinning about the boss’s prostate and the possibilities of incontinence and impotence. And then, as I mentioned, when I arrived here, all the women seemed furtive and aloof.
But visiting my urologist’s office is hardly all bad. Any chance to take a gander at Nurse Trainor is worth the time and trouble. Talk about a beauty spot! No, make that the epitome of a beauty spot. The lone little mole at the base of Nurse Trainor’s neck, just above her finely crafted collarbone, is the woman’s sole visual flaw, if it can be called a flaw and not her ravishing beauty’s perfect exclamation point. I relish that little mole’s existence every time I come here. It magnifies the flawlessness of every other part of Nurse Trainor’s exquisite form. The point that proves the point!

And speaking of the gorgeous woman, where the hell is she as I lie here like a fool? And what about Dr. Johnson? You bust your balls to get to your appointment on time, because God knows you don’t want to piss off your oh-so-busy physician, then you wait indefinitely. And you do that waiting in a little exam room dungeon decorated with diagrams of sliced-and-diced male and female organs, as if the worried-sick patients need some help with their imaginations too.
A single, sharp rap on the door wakes me from my anatomical studies. I flinch, brace myself.

“Decent, Mr. Jones?” The professional, yet oh-so-sultry voice of Nurse Trainor!
I glance over my shoulder, make sure the towel I snatched off the counter is still covering my ass. While I’m decent enough, I can’t say the same for my thoughts. It’s Nurse Trainor! Before I can spout a clever comeback about my decency, the door flies open. Dr. Johnson’s tall, shapely assistant breezes in, her lofty breasts leading the way, practically bursting through her lab coat. And there’s that daring little mole! Then I notice her pinched lips, suppressing a smirk no doubt, as she peers at my hoisted butt covered by the crumpled towel. Every part of me, body and soul, shrivels under her gaze.

“O — kay, Mr. Jones. Ready to begin?” She closes the door behind her, dims the lights.

“But, Dr. Johnson... I thought he’d be doing...”
She sniffs, “Sorry, no Dr. J today. Your date’s with me. You’d have to bend one of us nurses over the table to rouse Dr. J enough for a transrectal.” She winks as her pouty lips stretch into a sarcastic grin.

What the... It’s all I can do to keep my jaw from dropping. Nurse Trainor talking about Dr. Johnson like that? I’ve known the man nearly thirty years. His penchant for risqué humor is legend. But considering their area of expertise, it’s no surprise urologists would be the earthiest of doctors. Glorified plumbers, always up to their elbows in other people’s urine. Why wouldn’t they be as vulgar as their pipe wrenching counterparts? Even lewder, considering the parts they handle.

In the locker room at the club, Dr. Johnson and his fellow urologists always have some racy new story, usually about a compromised nurse or receptionist, or even a female doctor. Dr. Johnson’s last one involved a smitten little striver named Pammy, a file clerk or whatever, who dreamed of becoming a urologist herself someday. I don’t remember the details of the scandal she starred in, even though Dr. Johnson told the ribald tale himself. Just some funny but pitiful nonsense, as I recall. But how could I forget a name as foolish as Pammy? I think I even felt sorry for the hapless girl. Wouldn’t wanna see any daughter of mine the butt of such locker-room fare.

But back to my point. It’s easy to imagine Dr. Johnson cracking wise about his female underlings, even waxing salacious about Nurse Trainor. I can’t imagine him not wanting to stretch her fine form over an examining table for some serious palpation. But such slanderous humor coming from Nurse Trainor, at Dr. Johnson’s expense? Of course he would never approve. He’s the head of this practice, even the chief of urology at the biggest hospital in the city! He’d be fit to be tied if he found out.

Maybe Nurse Trainor’s bawdy quip was her way of lightening up the embarrassing situation I find myself in. How better to put a guy at ease than with an irreverent joke, right. Best to return the conversation to a more professional tenor. Wouldn’t want it getting back to Dr. Johnson that I had anything to do with mocking him. I glance over my shoulder at Nurse Trainor, who’s busy revving up the ultrasound machine. “So, uh,” I mumble, “you’re doing this exam?”

She tilts her head, squints at me, says, “You’re wondering if I can do it all by myself, without Dr. J’s input?” She laughs, then flicks off the overhead light. “You have no idea what we nurses can do. Don’t worry, I’m a trained professional, a real transrectal pro. Now, no need for false modesty.”

I flinch when she yanks the towel off my backside. But when I glare back at her, I see the radiant face of an angel in the glow from the ultrasound monitor. A hot-as-hell angel too, her sultry eyes, soaring cheekbones, finely crafted lips, and — oh my God! — her dizzying cleavage hovering beneath it all.

The last vestiges of my irritation disappear as my imagination soars. Nurse Trainor, the trained professional. Whatever the alleged problem with my prostate, I can’t help but visualize what it would be like to show her how I can still perform. I even feel my prostate — soon-to-be-scanned scanned by her! — quiver with excitement. Better think about the football game I saw last night on TV. Wouldn’t want to look like a horny teenager who can’t get through a medical check-up without popping a boner. I decide some medical small talk is in order, anything to feel less awkward. I half-glance at her over my shoulder. “You say it might be something to do with my hormones?”

“Anxious are we, Mr. Jones? Your first transrectal? Don’t worry, I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with your hormones.”

Could a woman’s voice be more sultry, more seductive? I don’t know if she’s toying with me or it’s just her standard banter for soothing a patient about to be transrectaled. I feel a swelling in my groin. So much for my thoughts of football. Nurse Trainor might as well be one of the bouncing, stretching cheerleaders at the game, enough to steal my attention from a ninety-yard return. Maybe that’s even her purpose around here, to test, by her mere proximity, if a patient can still get it up. I chuckle nervously. “This, uh… It’s my first time for one of these.”

“You’re in experienced hands, Mr. Jones — very experienced. I’ve learned all kinds of things under Dr. J. He mentioned you’re a member of his club, by the way, so only the best for Mr. Jones.” Without a warning, she slathers my ass with what feels like a pint of cold, wet goo.

“Yikes!” I shudder. My tailbone feels frostbitten. So much for my budding boner. I scowl back at her over my shoulder. “Ever warm that stuff first?”

“Men, so strong and rugged. Not just the right temperature for you, Mr. Jones?”
Now she’s trying to ram something up my ass. It feels like a foot-long spike! “Ah! Aah!” I grip the sides of the exam table. “What the...”

“Sorry ‘bout that, Mr. Jones! You know what they say, it isn’t a date unless...” She giggles and pats my bare buttocks, even swirls her warm palms over them. “Better now?” she coos.

I have to admit, her hands — there! — feel good, exquisitely so. I can even forgive her for whatever just happened in the vicinity of my anus.
She stops rubbing. “Wait,” she says. “I see the problem. It’ll never work like this....