I wish I could say I was simply going for my yearly PAP but the fact of the matter is that I had a hemorrhoid flare-up.
My ass doctor is 6 foot 5 inches tall and has abnormally soft hands. I imagine him preparing for bed, slathering each hand in not-for-resale, doctor’s office samples of KY Warming Jelly (or “Gelee” as they say in France, or “Gigli” as they say in the Bronx) sealing the moisture in with latex gloves.
The doctor, whose last name contains the word “FLESH,” stuck my problem area with a needle and I didn’t feel a damn thing.
“Did you do it,” I asked him, “I didn’t feel a damn thing.”
“If I had been two milimeters off, you would be in bed for ten days,” he bragged.
Imagine taking this precision and expertise into the bedroom. A learned physician, the professional ass doctor, taking a pro bono personal excavation of your ass with complete knowledge of every part and its function.
It sounds much more relaxing than a sharp fingernail aimlessly jabbing you like they’re trying to poke a hole in a piñata.
I want to date a proctologist. Or just have sex with one. And by sex I mean he does stuff to me and I do nothing in return.