Check your balls

A PSA

Photo by Craig Thomas on Unsplash

A few months ago, while showering, I felt a bump on my scrotum. When I got out of the shower, I told my wife, but I didn’t use the word scrotum.

“Honey, I’ve got a bump on my balls.”

“Babe, I don’t have time to fool around,” Christina said. “I’m late for work.”

“This isn’t some ploy. I need you to check my balls.”

To be safe, Christina made me sign a contract that said I wouldn’t try any “funny business.” The contract defined “funny business” as including, but not limited to the following: hanky-panky, canoodling, making whoopee, getting lucky, knocking boots, doing it, shagging, doing the no pants dance, or fucking. Usually, I don’t sign a contract without my lawyer looking it over, but I too was late for work.

“Are we good?” I asked, after signing the contract.

Christina snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

“Drop your drawers,” she said.

“Where did you get latex gloves? And are those really necessary?”

“Hey buster,” she said, poking my chest with her gloved forefinger, “who’s the doctor here?”

“Neither one of us. I’m a writer. You’re a media executive.”

Christina sighed.

“Well, who watches surgeries and other medical procedures on YouTube?”

That was a trick question, and she knew it. Christina’s idea of relaxation is watching videos of doctors performing surgery. The sight of blood and guts calms her. I, on the other hand, have been known to freak the fuck out at the sight of blood, or even the mere mention of a boo-boo.

“Now, drop your drawers and let me check your balls, babe.”

I dropped my drawers.

“I don’t … wait … there … uh-oh.”

“What? Do you feel it? What is it? Am I gonna die?”

“It’s a mass,” Christina said.

“A mass!?”

In the shower, it had been a bump. But in the time it took to negotiate the examination contract with my “doctor” the bump had been upgraded to a mass.

“You should call your doctor,” Christina said. “They need to look at this.”

Christina left for work, and I called my doctor’s office. They told me to come to their urgent care clinic as soon as possible. I was on deadline — and let’s be honest, hopeful that the mystery bump / mass would disappear on its own — so I waited a few days. Eventually, however, I filed my story / worked up the courage to get my balls checked.

At the urgent care clinic, a nurse checked my vitals, then she looked at my chart, and asked if I wanted another person in the room for the exam, since this was a “sensitive matter.”

“Another person?” I asked.

“It’s standard,” she said. “We do this so you’re comfortable.”

Comfortable was a strange choice of words. I’ve never found any comfort at a doctor’s office, and I’m pretty sure I’m not alone there. But I understood that she was using comfortable as a synonym for legal says we need to cover our ass when we examine your junk.

“I think it’s best if it’s just me and the doctor,” I said. “No offense, but it’s already weird, and adding another person just makes it weirder.”

I laughed, the nurse didn’t. She told me to get undressed, put on one of those ridiculous gowns, and wait for the doctor. Then she left.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Up until that moment, I hadn’t thought at all about the doctor who would examine me. If pressed, I probably would’ve pictured a man, because gender bias is real. But I would’ve been fine with a female doctor, because a trained woman is just as good as a trained man, and let’s be honest, there’s nothing sexual about a testicular exam.

Except…

Someone must’ve paged the hottest doctor in Los Angeles. She looked a little like Olivia Munn. Actually, that’s incorrect. She looked a lot like Olivia Munn. That made it even more awkward, because while most people would say my doctor was conventionally / objectively attractive — whatever that means — I happen to find Olivia Munn very attractive. In fact, and Christina will back this up, she’s on my hall pass list.

“Let’s take a look,” she said, snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

The doctor sat down on a stool and told me to stand in front of her.

“Go ahead and lift your gown,” she said.

To keep things professional, I looked up at the ceiling and tried to think about my turn-offs: Hotel resort fees, parents who let their kids play on escalators, hiccups, people who drive with their high-beams on, “convenience” fees when you buy a movie ticket online, the smell of rotten eggs, and JD Vance.

“You can put your gown down,” she said, taking off her gloves. “You have folliculitis.”

My mind raced. My heart stopped. Folliculitis sounded bad.

“Which is what?” I asked.

“It’s an ingrown hair.”

I’d never felt so relieved, awkward, and silly all at once. Relieved because there was nothing wrong with my balls. Awkward because, well, that should be obvious. And silly because I’d gone through this whole rigamarole for an ingrown hair.

“I guess I didn’t need to come in for that,” I said.

“No, I’m glad you did,” she said. “Honestly, a lot of men are afraid of seeing a doctor when they discover something on their penis or testicles. They’re embarrassed, or ashamed, or whatever, and so they don’t go to get it checked.”

“Well, I figured better safe than sorry.”

“You’re very brave,” she said.

Brave? That seemed like a stretch, but I accepted the compliment just the same. The doctor left the room, I got dressed, and headed home.

A few weeks later, the bill arrived. Thanks to the wonders of American healthcare, the cost of checking my balls was $1,246. But because we have “good” insurance, I was only on the hook for $346.

“Do you believe this?” I asked Christina. “Three hundred bucks for someone to cup my balls and tell me they’re fine.”

“Wowsers.”

“Fucking-A right wowsers. Healthcare is a racket, babe. I could’ve hired hooker off of Craigslist to check my balls for half the price.”

“You do love a good deal,” Christina teased. “But I’m glad you got it checked. Peace of mind is priceless.”

Christina was right. Peace of mind is priceless. And as it turned out, Doctor Olivia Munn was also right. Not just about the ingrown hair, but about men being afraid to see a doctor in these situations. In the months since seeing the doctor, I’ve heard three different stories about friends of friends who put off seeing the doctor only to discover that they had testicular cancer. That’s three men in my extended social network who are worse off because they were too embarrassed to say, “hey, doc, there’s something wrong / painful with my dick and / or balls.” I’m sending those guys good vibes, via our mutual friends, for speedy recoveries. I’m also sharing this story with the hope that it reaches some guy who’s been putting off getting his dick / balls checked. If you’re reading this, dude, it’s probably just folliculitis, but better safe than sorry, right?

Reading material for the waiting room at the doctor’s office

Situation normies regularly say my books make them laugh, give them the feels, and help them see the world in a new way. I love hearing that. Honestly, that’s all I’ve ever wanted to accomplish with my writing. So do me (and yourself) a favor by picking up one, two, or all three of my books today.

Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places.

Murder and Other Distractions is available here.

Ride/ Share can be purchased here.

Stick around and chat!

I ask, you answer

1. How they hanging? Explain.

2. Why is American healthcare so expensive? Wrong answers only.

3. Who’s on your hall pass list? Dish!

4. Why are men such cowards about this kind of stuff? Go deep.

5. Besides JD Vance, what are your turn offs?

Noteworthy