Fantasy vs. Reality. Or the Night I Almost Broke My Nuts

Every straight male has had the "doctor's office" fantasy. No, not the one in which you find yourself tied down to a table as Charles Nelson Reilly walks in to administer something he calls "the full tomatoes." I'm talking about the one in which two [or possibly three] sexy-ass nurses come into the examining room and proceed to "manhandle" you. But in the good way.

My version of this fantasy always began with a routine exam for, I dunno, a sprained index finger. The nurse would ask me how it felt and if I could bend it, and before I could pick out which color splint I'd prefer, she's mounting my face like it was a front row seat to the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular.

That was before last week. When I took an unfortunate tumble off a ladder and landed balls-down on a can of paint.

Pain? Check. Mind-numbing, in fact. And the next day, with my boys still feeling like someone had them in a vice [and my el sacko now an impressive five sizes bigger than before], I sucked up what little pride I had left and went to the emergency room.

Of course, once there, I didn't want the world to know I'd hurt my nuts. So I told the woman at the desk I had abdominal pain and I took my place in the waiting area. Sure enough, when my name was eventually called, it was by the most stunning blonde I'd laid eyes on in some time. Six foot ten or something close, bright blue eyes and an outfit that fit so snug I had to blink to make sure it wasn't painted on.

So I went back with her, got seated in a little exam room, and when she looked at me with those goddamnfuckingmarvelous blue eyes and asked about my abdominal pain, I had to come clean, and explain that it was actually a bit lower. And she cocked an eyebrow. And said, "Oh?" And I melted. Because that was how I'd always dreamed it would begin.

But the Issac Hayes music never kicked in. Instead, she proceeded to ask questions. About my balls. And I talked to this gorgeous, statuesque blonde for ten minutes. About my balls. How I hurt them. How one is now larger than the other. How the ol' bag has inflated significantly since the tumble. And as I talked, I almost couldn't even hear the words spilling out of my mouth. Because all I could think about was how I was talking to this woman about my balls. In detail I've never spoken about my balls in my life. Ever.

So she finished her notes. And got up and smiled. And said the doctor would be in soon.

And me and my balls just sat there. For twenty minutes.

And in walked the doctor. Again, a pretty woman. This time, she's Asian.

And she looked at the chart. And I wanted to laugh because I knew she was reading about my balls. And it was funny and horrifying all at once.

So she asked me to take down my boxer briefs. And I did. And she started feeling my balls. And she asked if this is the swollen one and I wince and say that it is. And she kept squeezing and feeling. But there was no mood music. No sudden change in her grip. No quick massaging of the shaft. No comments like, "Mr. Ken, what you need is just a bit of release" or "let me get my friend Buffy in here to give a second opinion."

Just a gloved hand on my balls. And then it ended. And she explained that sometimes when your nuts are struck, there can be swelling that lasts for days. But I should have an ultrasound, she recommended, because on occasion, you can get what is scientifically referred to as "twisted testicles" [which, it turns out, is not the name of a new Broadway show starring Nathan Lane]. And when they twist, it's bad. Because they get no blood. And then, well, they gotta go.

So I panicked for a couple more days, then had the ultrasound. This time, a cute, middle-aged nurse was holding my balls, and even applying a warm, gelatinous goo to allow the machine to see them clearly. But I was immune to it all. I just wanted it to end. To let the boys live in peace. Just let me clear this hurdle, I prayed, and I'll never set foot on a ladder again.

And the results came back. And my balls were fine.

So I breathed a sigh of relief and went home, more than eager to close this chapter of my life.

But now, some days later, I find myself reflecting. About how vulnerable and fragile we are. And how life can change in the blink of an eye. And how your health really is everything.

And wondering if maybe, just maybe, that cute Asian doctor is sitting at home, thinking about the night she held my nuts.