What’s wrong with me? Well, a lot actually. I’ve been to the doctor for this, this, this, this, and this, Eat your heart out HIPAA. I also didn’t poop once for three straight weeks, which probably explains why I like taking pictures of my feces whenever I can. But that’s another story for another day.
As a kid, doctor appointments usually went something like this: the doctor says there’s really nothing to worry about. Then, he/she hypothetically mentions a possible treatment not yet approved by the FDA. This would suddenly become the miracle cure to the disease I didn’t really show symptoms of in the first place. I didn’t mind leaving school early every other day to be poked and prodded at. However, coupling the legitimate doctor appointments with the notes my girl friends (note that that’s two words – like anybody would date me in high school AMIRITE?!?!!?) would write so we could skip school created an unprecedented volume of excused absences. School officials became suspicious.
But when I turned 18, that’s when things really got interesting.
Of highest concern for my medical team was tracking my “annual freckle growth moving average” to catch any early signs of skin cancer. But how could one possibly compare the freckles I have today to the freckles I had five years ago? Three years ago? Even six months ago? That’s when three simple words would change my life forever: nude. photo. shoot.
It’s not every day that you’re asked to don your birthday suit in the name of science. It’s even less frequent that your doctor asks you to “pull your testicles back” so that the birthmark on your inner groin can be fully captured by a high-res camera. And maybe only one in a thousand nude photo shoots result in the computer breaking and you having to return a month later to “finish the job”. Yet, I defied the odds on all three counts. 40 18″x12″ hi-res images and two trips to Johns Hopkins later, my freckle baseline was captured.
Fast-forward a year to October 13, 2009.
I entered Johns Hopkins Hospital on a crisp, fall day with nothing but the clothes on my back and a portfolio of my penis images under my arm. Now, before I go any further, it’s pop quiz time.
Answer to follow below…
As I waited in the exam room in nothing but a gown thinking of possible ways to delay the inevitable awkward conversation with my doctor, in walks one of the most beautiful specimens these eyes had ever seen. The woman introduces herself as a Hopkins med student, just barely older than I. My regular dermatologist was bogged down checking out some old woman’s warts, so to stall my impatience and keep the customer satisfied, he sent her in his stead. Remember that pop quiz you took just 25 seconds ago? Let’s get back to that real quick.
Answer Time: If you answered “All of the above” you’re tonight’s big winner! Tell him what he’s won Johnny – A DERMATOLOGY SCREENING FROM A HOT 25-YEAR OLD NURSE!
As her eyes raced over to the supporting documentation I had carried in with me, she became bewildered as to its purpose. Clearly, she hadn’t taken Nude Photos Shoots and Their Role in Dermatology in her med school curriculum yet. She flipped through, page after page. Starting with my face, ears, shoulders, upper torso, and then she hit it. Page 12. She could tell, that I could tell, that she could tell that she was not prepared for the visual stimulation that she just got hit with. And it got weirder from there.
Captivated by my absurd physical abnormalities, she ran her hands over my epidermis. Inch by inch, her fingers crawled up my arm, inspecting every pore, every “angel kiss”. I lost myself in her gentle glide as her smooth touch complemented my own. And it was at that exact point in time that the unthinkable happened. With a slight swipe of my shoulder, the unexpecting med student awoke the beast from its 20 month slumber of sexual aridness. The looseness of the gown grew less noticable by the second. I fluffed the gown like a deflated pillow to create as many tidal waves of gown cloth as I could. But it was too late.
Kneeling in front of me, our heroine asked me to rise. As I lept off the bed and onto my feet, she channeled her inner Neo to dodge the protruding object that raced over her left shoulder. Our eyes met, if only for a moment, before social norms and courtesies set in and she shied away. Our short romance would come to a sudden halt as she shuffled out of the room with whatever humility remained. I stood in the middle of an empty room – cold, alone, erect. The doctor would enter minutes later as her protectorate, shielding her from further exposures to my unstable loins.
I left the hospital with a story fit for Hustler and dreams of what may have been. The fall would turn to winter, foliage to emptiness, and the dry spell would continue for several more months before we threw Eli a kick-ass birthday party and I was tackled onto a pool table at a bar and mouth raped.