"Hello?"
"CJ?"
"This is him. How are you?"
"I'm good. I'm John by the way. I was hoping to make an appointment for a massage, but I had a couple of questions first."
This is the part of the conversation when I wait for the reveal, praying it's nothing too odd, like ballooning.
"Do you perform real massage?"
"Yes. I can do all therapeutic, sensual or a combination of both."
"Great. I'd like a forty-minute combination massage. Then, I would like to give you a twenty-minute check-up. I just want to give you the same check-up that any general practitioner would. And yes, I am a doctor. I love my job."
I had recently convinced myself that I had testicular cancer due to some dull pain in my balls. I later discovered through an official check-up and most of my male friends over thirty that I was wearing my underwear too tight, but at the time I was still convinced that I had cancerous balls so I agreed to the "check-up" section of the appointment.
Two days later he showed up at the scheduled time, carrying a brown leather medical bag. He was around fifty with a full head of grey hair, medium build and looked like a doctor in the sense that he looked clean, harmless and was dressed from head to toe in Eddie Bauer.
"Hi. Can I take your bag for you?"
"Sure."
I took his bag and led him over to the massage table. He was a gentleman throughout the entire session, forgoing the usual straying greedy hands behavior. I resisted asking him outright about my testicles thinking it may be a bit presumptuous. I finished the massage sans happy ending. The respectful doctor then hopped off the table, stretched, clothed himself and looked in my direction while tapping my massage table.
"I'd like you to hop up on the table now," he asked while adjusting his glasses.
I did as he asked and he immediately started feeling the lymph glands in my throat.
"There's no swelling here so that's good."
He then grabbed his bag and sat it on the desk near my massage table. He pulled out a stethoscope and a reflex hammer. He put on the stethoscope and checked my heartbeat.
"Nice. There's no irregularity."
He then went from one knee to the other causing both to jerk forward as would be expected. I suddenly felt twelve years old and wondered if that was his modus operandi.
"Good." He said while avoiding eye contact.
"Okay, if you could please stand, pull down your underwear and look to the left."
I did as asked and he cupped my balls. I prayed—as I always do in this position—that I wouldn't get a hard-on and embarrass myself in front of the good doctor.
"Cough, please."
I coughed as he felt around my balls.
"So, does everything feel okay down there? Any lumps?", I asked, not being able to resist.
"No, everything feels fine. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I've been experiencing an occasional dull pain."
"The underwear you had on earlier looked rather tight. That in addition to the fact that you are in your thirties now is surely the reason. Try wearing boxers more often."
"Ok. Thanks." I said quietly untrusting.
"Well, that's all. You seem to be in great shape. I'll be going now. And thank you for a wonderful massage."
He paid on his way out, leaving a generous tip.
One week later I had an appointment with my regular doctor. I had pretty much the exact same check-up including the part where I should wear boxers except this time I paid two-hundred dollars for the experience.
I only wear boxers now.
