Her hands were warm, soft fingers pressed lightly on my skin. Delicate hands, slender light-brown forearms. This close I could smell a perfume on her - a smooth-rounded, purple-background scent. Definitely perfume. Not just medical handwash, with its spikey, chemical citrus flavours.
"And now I'm going to take your temperature," she said.
Lovely junior doctor has been running through basic medical checks with me, post-op and minus the catheter.
"Oh, you look too young to be in here," she says.
"Good technique, flatter the patient."
We're chatting about all sorts of things - her job, mine, how her supervising surgeon's a bit of a twat. I'm making her laugh, flirty but not really flirting.
But.... Oh god, she's going to need to look at my perineum stitches at the end of this. There's two things guaranteed to shrivel a penis to its compactest size - swimming in icy water and medical examination. I'll wriggle down my underpants to reveal something akin to a doormouse asleep on a deflating beanbag. I know it's a hospital, she is a doctor, she does this all the time. But I'd rather have something more like a manly accoutrement than a medical curiousity. I can imagine this situation making it into her doctoral thesis "The Doctor and The Doormouse: Managing Ego and Self-Image in the Small Penised Male."
Uh, nothing for it but to start conjuring up some imagery to get some blood flowing. Hang on, what if I get an erection? She'll think I'm some sort of Singing Detective pervert. Tricky balance - not erect but not recessed either. Here goes.
"Let me put this on, check your blood pressure...."
New girlfriend... in bed... going down on me.... nope, nothing stirring.....
"And put this on your finger, see what your blood oxygen is like."
Ex-lover..... fucking from behind.... oh jesus, nothing happening at all
"Are you allergic to any medicines?"
Ex-lover covered in massage oil..... aargh, it's not working.
"Ok," she says, disconnecting the machine and turning away from me.
"I'm just going to check..."
I hook my thumbs into my waistband and start to hoik my tracky bottoms down, oh this is going to be humiliating.
"....your breathing," turning back to me with a stethoscope, me hastily hoiking trousers back up again.
In the end, she didn't need to see my knackers. Which was good. Male vanity, delicate thing, y'know.
After I'd drunk a whole jug of water and pissed plenty out, they let me go home. I now piss like a racehorse, a yellow cable. Fantastic. Stitches pretty sore, but better by the day - I feel like a new man, with a new knob.
