It burns when I pee, part 2:
Let me refresh your memory or bring you up to speed in case you missed the first part of this story.
I had just begun my freshman year of college. I was in the dorm taking a leak when I winced and looked down, surprised not to see sparks shooting out the end of my member. My initial thought was “WTF??” but it didn’t take long to dawn on me that the ex-girlfriend with whom I’d hooked up a week prior had given me a little back to school present in the form of the clap.
Me and my diseased weiner walked to the clinic as soon as I’d zipped up and washed.
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The university medical clinic is much like any other doctor’s office. You walk in, approach the receptionist’s desk, tell her who you are and why you’re there. The difference lies in the fact that the other patients usually aren’t limited to two attractive coeds who stop the conversation they’re having to watch and listen as you approach the front desk.
Shit.
My conversation with said receptionist went something like this . . .
Her: Politely smiling but still seeming partially annoyed that I had interrupted whatever it was she was doing, “May I help you?”
Me: Leaning forward, trying to be as quiet as possible, “Uh, yeah, I was just using the restroom and I noticed some . . . pain.”
Her: Polite smile erased and not trying to be quiet at all, “What type of pain? Pain when you urinate?” Now, I’m sure she said these words in a normal, doctor’s office voice. However to me she might as well have shouted them at the top of her lungs into a cave because they seemed to echo and carry off the walls into the far reaches of the building. I could just see the heads of doctors, nurses, and patients alike prairie dogging out of office and sick room doors to chance a glimpse at the train wreck unfolding at the front desk.
Girls: No doubt holding their collective breath so as not to miss a single word of my conversation.
Me: Not daring to turn around to check to see if said girls were looking my way because one, I had no doubt they were doing exactly that and two, I would just as soon had my genitals chewed off by a rabid wolverine as to make eye contact with either of them. Grimacing due to her indiscretion, I am none-the-less still being polite and simply nod my head twice, quickly.
Her: Not even trying to hide her contempt, “I see.”
She hands me a clipboard with the usual form to fill out, asking about my current condition, family history, the usual. Not wanting to turn around, I start to fill it out at the counter when the heartless bitch says, “Take a seat and bring that with you when we call your name.” She might as well have added, “You perverted, diseased waste of skin.” She didn’t, but she was thinking it. Yes she was.
I sigh and turn around and you guessed it, the two girls are looking right at me. Damn I hate it when a couple of girls are both looking at me then quickly put their heads together and start whispering and giggling. I just know it’s not because they think I’m cute. No, it’s because I have something on my face, or my fly is open, or I have the fucking clap and the shithead receptionist just announced it to everyone within a three mile radius!
Being only eighteen, the thought did not occur to me to shut these two up by sitting down right fuckin’ next to them. Embarrassed, I sat behind them so as not to be in their line of sight. I was, however, not so embarrassed that I didn’t sit closely enough that they didn’t have to stop talking about me without my overhearing.
It wasn’t long before my name was called and I was standing in front of some soon-to-be-retired doctor with my pants and skivvies around my ankles. He walks over to me carrying what looked like half of a long Q-tip. I did not like the looks of that because I was damned sure he wasn’t going to be cleaning anyone’s ears with it.
He starts to move that thing toward my johnson and I start to shuffle my feet backwards. He looks up at me like he’d just as soon stab me in the heart with a tongue depressor as be there checking out my junk.
“Stand still and hold the tip of your penis open.”
Did I just hear him right? “Uh, you mean like this?” and I grab it between my thumb and forefinger, making it give him a couple of horizontal winks.
“No! Use two hands and open it up.”
So I grab myself with two hands and do my best to open wide and say “ahhh”. The whole time I’m talking to myself. “Ya know doc, that’s a pretty small hole for such a big Q-tip. That fucking thing’s dry too and . . .”
Now, if given the choice of being punched squarely in the balls or having this sadistic son-of-a-bitch do to me what he did next, I’m not sure which I’d choose.
He shoved that dry piece of raping cotton on a fucking stick into my wang and it was all I could do not to rain down upon him with a string of curse words that would make the devil blush! What I did do was whence loudly and instinctually yank my groin back away from his hand (without moving my feet), pulling the stick of the Q-tip out of his hand.
So there I am, pants around my ankles, half dancing around with the skinny end of a Q-tip hanging out the end of my wagging bouncing dick.
Doc has this look on his face that I can only describe as surprised amusement with a little bit of “You’re getting what you deserve right now you stupid teenaged asshole.”
“Sorry,” I say, still wincing from the extreme burning I’m feeling from the puffy headed invader hanging out of my pecker. He just stands there, looking at me so I kind of shuffle a little closer to him.
“You’re gonna have to hold still,” he says. I did my best as he made sure he shoved the damned thing in another half inch but when he gave it a couple of ninety degree twists I about yanked it out of his hand again.
Pulling my pants up as he smeared the sample onto a microscope slide, I was told to go the waiting area and my results would be brought out shortly.
I walk back out into the waiting area and suck me sideways! Two more girls had joined the two that were already there! Goddam I really hate it when four girls are looking at me then put their heads into the middle of a circle and begin whispering and giggling! Fuckers. I mean, WHAT THE HELL?!?! Are these bitches having a goddam sleepover in the waiting room? Why the hell are they still there?
I’m sure my face was red, not from embarrassment but from the inside of my dick burning like a mother.
Pretty soon, Doc comes out and motions for me to walk back to the examining room. He confirms I have gonorrhea, hands me a bottle of pills, and tells me to take one a day for ten days.
“That’s all I have to do?” I ask.
“That’s it,” he replies. It should clear up by then.
“Thanks doctor.”
He nods and I start to leave. I walk back to him and ask, “Um, how long before I can have sex again?”
I’ll never forget the look on his face.
