Last week I went to the urologist for pain in my left testicle that got worse over the past several weeks. It turned it was epididymitis. I was relieved when he told me that antibiotics should take care of it -- that was until he told me he wanted to check my prostate, to make sure the infection hadn’t spread there. Besides, he said, no one leaves the urologist’s office without a butt probe. At the tender age of 25, a 6 foot 4 man who wears XL gloves was going to ream my tight, virginal anal orifice. My cheeks started clenching in fear. I had to pee into a cup first while he readied the gloves and lube, and then I was made to bend over the end of the table with my underwear down. He approached from behind, and sensing my dread, attempted to reassure me. “This won’t be as uncomfortable as you might imagine.” He put his hand on my back to get me to bend all the way down, chest flat against the table. Then he grabbed ahold of my thighs to make me spread my legs apart, knees bent and butt sticking out, like a football center. I could feel the cool room air on my now readily accessible butthole. I hoped my hairy ass didn’t smell. I realized in horror that I hadn’t taken my morning dump yet and I needed to. I fought back a fart. A click of the cap and a long squirt of lube followed, and then he gently placed his left hand on my shoulder. “Just look straight ahead,” I heard as I attempted to look back. It’s never a good thing when someone in the medical profession doesn’t want you to see what they’re about to do. I felt vulnerable, like I had just dropped the soap. “You’re gonna feel some pressure.”

Wham! Like a poop seeking missile, his finger went straight for the hole and plowed deep into my rectal passage until his fist was pressed against my asscheeks. I gave a loud grunt and immediately clenched my sphincter, ass, and legs. I went on tiptoes from clenching so hard. I instantly had a strong urge to shit, but simultaneously felt like I was already shitting. The paper on the exam table crinkled as I squirmed from the large, cold, slimy digit buried in my rectum. The hand on my shoulder applied firm pressure to hold me down like a rape victim. “It'll be easier for both of us if you relax your sphincter like you're pooping,” he suggested nonchalantly. I was sort of surprised by his use of the nonmedical term. Realizing the futility of the struggle, I gradually eased up on the clenching and started to accommodate the girth of his digit. I started to wonder whether he was annoyed or grossed out by having to poke around a rectum full of shit. Suddenly, I felt a twitch in my penis, like he’s pushing into it from inside. “That’s your prostate. I need to massage it to collect some fluid.” With that, he pressed down hard, so hard it actually hurt, and it felt vaguely like I needed to pee or maybe come. I remembered hearing that prostate massage was pleasurable experience and had thought about asking my girlfriend for one. Getting one from the urologist precluded any further desire to experiment. After like a minute of violently kneading the internal organ, he stopped and he slowly slid his finger out. It felt like a turd was sliding out of me, and at first, I thought it landed on his floor. A long “pffft” escaped from my loosened asshole and a weirdly rank fart, probably a combination of poop and lube, filled the small exam room.

I cautiously stood up. I still felt the urge to shit and at this point, I was unsure whether my battered sphincter was still trustworthy. “Turn around for me,” he requested. Without a further word, he grabbed my dick (with a fresh pair of gloves!) and squeezed the length of the shaft until a thick, transparent drop of liquid came out, which he collected on a microscope slide. I pulled my briefs back up. I wore a new pair to the exam, but at this point I didn’t care about the detritus on my rear. I could barely mutter coherent responses or look him in the eye as the dick doctor went over his diagnosis and treatment plan. He handed me a prescription for antibiotics and painkillers and shook my hand. He had a firm handshake. On my way out of the office, I became aware that my gait was different, less masculine, and hoped the cute receptionist didn’t notice. Seated in the car, I could feel the mess on the seat of my underwear spread as I proceeded to let loose a couple of wet ones. Suffice it to say, the new pair of briefs were a complete loss, and even the jeans needed a good wash. I started a hot shower, curled up in fetal position and sobbed. A few days later, I got a call from the urologist’s office telling me my prostate was uninfected and a-okay. He didn’t even call me personally.

I guess the lesson is to expect an anal probe from your urologist. Take a dump and shower before you go. The loss of your anal virginity is a small price to pay for having your man parts well maintained.