Not much time to write this morning, I’m afraid, as I’ve got to get ready to go teach all day (ugh!)–as if I had any bloody answers! But I’ve got some good news I wanted to share to break the monotony of so much automatic, broken-record bleakness:
Now I’m a superstitious bloke and a blinkered one at that, and would feel foolish for blurting out something premature, like a boy discovering puberty on a first date. With that super-cautious, preternaturally prudent disclaimer out of the way, allow me to say that it appears that for the first time in seventeen years life is not a literal pain in the ass.
As I mentioned in the previous post, I was violently violated by a urologist a long time ago, and the muscle in my right buttock was traumatized by his manual maneuver, which he made in such a manner that could only leave me to conclude that he was either a sadistically vicious prick or else the most incompetent quack ever to don a doctor’s smock. I probably should have sued him at the time, only he covered his own ass well by recording our conversation before the examination. I was too naive and stupid to see the implications of this until afterwards, thinking it had some medically relevant value, and made the mistake of answering personal questions about my sexual history and practices (practice makes perfect), misplacing my faith. Maybe I was fooled by all the medical tomes adorning his bookshelves, the framed certificates from distinguished universities and impressive degrees that vouched for his urological excellence.
Or else I was taken in by his breezy, joking manner, which reminded me more than a little of my favorite English professor in college.
Anyway, he slipped in a remark about how the procedure would be painful, saying I could “bite down on a spike” if I needed to, but said it in such an offhand manner that I thought he was exaggerating. Since his disclaimer was recorded, as was my reflexive consent, he had airtight evidence against me if I sued him for malpractice. (And, to go with a more paranoid flight of fancy, even if I won the case, he could always blackmail me with the personal details of my tales of sowing wild oats.)
After our interview, he had me bend over a table in his examining room and drop my trousers and drawers, then buried his arm so far up my ass he lost his watch (which I guess means he could have sued me for the theft). It hurt so much I felt as if I were being raped. I was too aghast to demand that he stop, and then he did it again from the other side, widening my asshole even further and charging me for the favor.
The reason for this absurdly vigorous manipulation of my prostate gland was to “milk” it so he could extract a drop from my penis to see if I had an infection. Immediately after the rape he went into his office and examined it under a microscope, then said I was clean. (My incentive for visiting him in the first place was especially daft; temporarily unable to enjoy the luxury of coitus, I felt tired after jerking off and wondered if there was something wrong with me.)
It also seemed fishy that he had scheduled our appointment for six p.m., after everyone else was gone (his receptionist was there when I arrived, but then she left right away). Then again, I couldn’t have gone to see him earlier in the day, as I’d had to teach.
Compounding matters, I had to ride my bike home, and lived about eight miles away.
The pain I’ve endured over the years has been attached to a visceral hatred of this man and a wish that he die a long, slow, leisurely, excruciatingly painful death. In more philosophical moments, I realize that this petty thirst for revenge is bootless and besides wouldn’t make the pain in my butt go away. Forgiveness is better for your health.
But it’s hard to forgive someone who fucked up your life so badly and got away with it.
The good news is that I’ve started getting acupuncture, and the pain is gone.
At least for now.