Work Text:
It starts with an awful morning. Frank is finally back from tour, back to a bed he can stretch out sideways on, covered in pillows and dog hair instead of backpacks and duffle bags.
When he blinks awake from his thirteen-hour dead sleep, the first thing he notices is an overwhelming need to piss. And to get the last of the travel stickiness off of himself. He drags himself out of bed, groaning and stretching. He shuffles to the bathroom, trailing sheets and a snuffling dog or two. He shoos the girls away—they whine, their nails clicking on the floor as they wander back to bed—and shuts the door so he can piss in peace and quiet.
He looks rough in the harsh light of the bathroom: stubbly, bedraggled, his long hair a little messy. His wrinkles stand out a little more than usual. His belly and love handles protrude a little more than usual. Thirty-eight. He’s not getting any younger. Touring has never been easy, but he can tell it’s taking more out of him to recover every year that passes. It scares him.
He sighs, closes his eyes to the mirror, tugs down his sleep pants, and aims instinctively.
The flash of pain as his stream starts makes him wince and double over, splashing urine on the seat of the toilet.
“Fuck, what the fuck,” he hisses, slapping a hand against the wall. He engages his bladder again. It still burns but he grits his teeth and finishes his piss.
He throws himself into the shower, trying to ignore the uncomfortable throb in his groin as he scrubs himself down.
He spends the better part of the next hour sitting on the shower floor, alternating between hot and cold water and trying not to spiral mentally.
His dick could hurt for any number of reasons. Maybe he just had to piss really bad after drinking all that Gatorade on the plane to combat the inevitable post-tour sickness. Maybe it’s because he jacked off too much or something (this can’t be true—he’s had a muted libido for a while). But after his dad’s prostate cancer scare last year, he can’t stop thinking about the possibility that it could be something much, much worse.
So he drags himself to an urgent care clinic, waits in the waiting room for ages, pisses (painfully) into a cup, and answers awkward questions about his sexual and hygienic habits. He gets sent home with antibiotics for a urinary tract infection, pills that turn his piss Fanta orange, and a referral to a urologist.
Great. Fucking great.
Now he’s not even fucking forty and he has to get a prostate exam. Which means another man sticking a finger in his asshole and having a feel. Or a woman, he supposes. He can’t decide which he’d enjoy less.
He spends the next week-and-a-half leading up to the appointment anxiously Googling symptoms, debating whether to call his dad, calling his dad (“They’ll be in and outta there before you know it, son. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had doctors feeling around back there.”) and sitting on the couch with a hot pack on his abdomen and a dog on either side while Guy Fieri works a sizzling flat top on the TV.
He phones his best girl (space) friend, his tour wife Kayleigh, to complain about it. He’s not very keen on discussing his urinary problems or having his asshole fingered with his rock dude friends. He has easier friendships with girls. It’s too bad this fact hasn’t helped him keep girlfriends for very long.
“Shit, I’m sorry, Frank,” Kayleigh consoles him from his phone. “Those are the worst. Do you have cranberry juice? That usually helps me.”
“Nah, I can’t drink that stuff. Too acidic.” He grunts and leans over Lois, the canine currently using him as a pillow, to grab the remote.
“Aw. Tea, then? The antioxidants might be good.”
“The doc just said to stick with water and meds and mild foods. I appreciate the advice, though. I figured you might understand.”
“’Course! You poor thing. When’s the big day?”
Frank cringes. “Tomorrow.”
“How are you feeling?”
He sighs through his nose and kicks his legs up onto the couch, disrupting Lois’ nap. “I don’t know. How should I feel about another man sticking his finger in my ass in broad daylight?”
There’s a beat of silence that’s a few seconds too long.
“Oh my god,” Frank groans. “Shut the fuck up.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Kayleigh says as slowly as if she’s calming a spooked animal. It pisses Frank off even more.
“You gotta be kidding me. Kayleigh, it was like one fucking time. What, I kissed a dude when I was a drunk twenty-year-old and now I like fingers in my ass?”
“No need to stereotype, Frank. Not every gay guy likes fingers in his ass.”
Frank splutters. “I’m not even gay! If anything, you’re stereotyping because not every guy who’s kissed a guy is gay.”
“I never said that. Plus, liking fingers in your ass doesn’t make you gay.” Her tone is sarcastic, but he suspects she might be serious.
Frank looks at the ceiling, trying to ignore his brewing headache. “Well, I don’t like fingers in my ass, and I’m not gay.”
“Have you even tried it?”
Frank nearly hangs up the phone. “I’m not talking about this with you.”
“You already are.”
“Fine! No! I’ve had girlfriends who tried to but I wasn’t cool with that. So no.”
“You could stand to unclench a little, Frank. It’s not very progressive of you to be so weird about your ass.”
“I’m— Don’t say unclench.”
She cackles on the other end. “I didn’t even make that connection. That’s on you, sweetie.”
“Kayleigh,” Frank says miserably. “I called you to complain in solidarity with vagina owners. I didn’t call for you to interrogate my clearly established sexuality. Again.”
“Frank,” Kayleigh sighs, “Fine. You’re right, I’m sorry. You poor, poor thing. I’ll interrogate your sexuality some other time. You’ve suffered enough already.”
“Thank you,” he accepts, satisfied. “I have suffered enough. More than enough. Lucky for me, I’m great at suffering. I’m pretty much a professional.”
“That you are,” She sings. They sit for a moment, and Frank takes in a breath to figure out how to end the call. She interrupts him before he can. “I’m not kidding though, Frank. I really think you could stand to… loosen up. Nobody’s gonna care if you experiment a little. Nobody’s gonna think you’re gay if you let someone touch your ass. And even if you were—which is fine, by the way—all your friends would still love you.”
“I know that. That’s not what it’s about.”
“What is it about, then?”
“It’s just— I’m very particular about what I let people see about me. I don’t like being vulnerable. If I’m gonna be all exposed, I want to have some control of the situation, y'know what I mean? I like to be vulnerable in small doses. Like getting a tattoo, I let myself be vulnerable but I chose it and I know it’s gonna end at some point. I put my feelings into music so I can like, express myself, but there’s still a barrier between me and the audience. Letting someone literally touch me somewhere so vulnerable, with no degree of abstraction? No thanks.”
Kayleigh is quiet for a moment. “I see what you mean. For someone wound so tight you sure are introspective about it.”
Frank squeezes out a laugh. “Thanks, I guess.”
“You’re welcome. Y’know, once this whole prostate thing is over, you should come with me to my massage lady. She does this whole mind-body connection thing, it’s really life changing. I think it would be good for you.”
“Sounds very California.”
“Oh, it is,” she giggles. “But it actually works, trust me.”
“I’ll think about it. As long as she doesn’t touch my ass.”
Kayleigh laughs so loudly at that one that the dogs’ ears perk up.
—
Frank does everything he can to prepare for his appointment. He watches videos, he considers trimming his ass hair (he doesn’t), he tries getting a little more comfortable with his own asshole. He eats carefully and tries to make sure his bowels are empty (even though his sources told him not to worry about that). He manages to stick the tip of his finger up there in the shower a couple times, but he doesn’t get very far. He still feels weird about it. His junk is still a little sore from the UTI.
The morning of the appointment, Frank washes his ass more thoroughly than he can ever remember. He wants to have the least awkward prostate exam in the history of mankind. For some reason, he finds himself scrutinizing his hair and outfit, suddenly feeling like he’s been masquerading as a normal man his whole life and has forgotten how to look the part. He rubs his face and leaves the bathroom, shutting off the light.
It’s just a prostate exam. What’s the worst thing that can happen?
(His anxiety reminds him that the worst thing that could happen is that he gets a cancer diagnosis. He tells it to shut up, because if he already has cancer, the exam isn’t gonna give it to him, it will just catch it before it gets worse. But that thought doesn’t make him feel much better.)
—
Frank immediately notices a problem when he arrives at the office. It’s not that his tattoos make him stick out in the waiting room—the receptionist has more neck tattoos than he does. It’s not even that he’s late—the receptionist kindly lets him know that Dr. Way is still with another patient and he’ll have to wait another 15 minutes. It’s that the office the urgent care has referred him to is clearly catered to patients of the LGBT persuasion.
The waiting room is light blue and friendly. There are rainbow flags and posters about HIV and syphilis on the walls, glass bowls filled with colorful condom packets on the side tables. The paperwork asks questions about his preferred pronouns and the genitals of his ‘sexual partner(s)’. It’s fine, really. It doesn’t make Frank uncomfortable, not exactly. He’s an ally. He wore Legalize Gay shirts in 2008. He has gay friends. Well, he has lesbian friends. And a couple of trans friends, too. It makes him wonder if the urgent care doctor referred him to an LGBT clinic on purpose, and why he might’ve done that. It kind of scares him to think someone would assume he’s gay or something without him even knowing. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay, he just isn’t. If someone thinks he’s gay he wants it to be because of something he did or said intentionally, to taunt a homophobe or something. To think he missed whatever it was this time makes his brain kind of itch.
He ponders over it while scrolling through his phone until his name is called.
“Frank?” A nurse calls from a door that swings open to his right. Her hair is short, choppy and blonde. He stands and smiles wryly, shaking himself. He might be thrown off a bit by the clinic’s appearance, but he’s not gonna let it ruin his prostate exam.
He follows the nurse to an empty exam room with friendly green walls and rattles off his personal information to her once he’s seated in the armchair beside the exam table. He tries not to fidget too much and fails miserably.
“Alright, Frank. The doctor will be with you in a couple minutes. Make yourself comfortable.” She smiles brightly in her purple scrubs and matching lipstick, and he tries his best to smile back.
When she leaves, he stands and crosses the room to get a closer look at a poster on the wall, depicting different methods of PrEP. Pre-exposure prophylaxis. Different drug regimens, for the prevention of sexually transmitted HIV. A couple—two men—smile at him from the poster, their teeth gleaming and white against their brown and golden skin. Frank wonders why people in drug advertisements are always so happy and beautiful.
Before he can sit back down, he hears a sharp knock and swivels to see the door opening.
“Hello,” calls a soft voice, and the doctor enters with a swish of fabric.
The doctor is on the younger side, with a full head of soft brown hair tucked behind his ears and barely brushing the shoulders of his white coat. Frank’s heart drops into his gut as the doctor’s disarmingly big hazel eyes snap up to his.
“Frank?”
“That’s me,” Frank says, managing to find his voice. It sounds like it’s coming from someone else.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Dr. Way.” He extends a hand and Frank takes it automatically, giving the doctor’s wide palm a firm shake. The doctor’s hands are soft against
Frank’s well-worn calluses.
Christ. He’s young AND good looking. Maybe not as young as he thought at first—he has threads of silver at his temples and crows feet on his delicate cheeks as he smiles, but that just adds to the timeless beauty he projects. Dr. Way is pretty. He has a round face with a strong chin and a pointy nose. His jarring hazel eyes are rimmed with long brown eyelashes that are frankly a little ridiculous. He’s a little taller than Frank (not that it’s hard to be) and he wears a white coat over an olive green shirt that looks great on him but strangely too plain for his striking looks. Frank can’t decide if it’s harder to look at him or not to look at him. He quickly returns to his chair opposite the doctor, trying to find a spot just past the doctor’s ear to look at so he doesn’t get overwhelmed by his arresting gaze.
“How are you feeling today? I understand you’ve had an infection. Want to tell me about that?”
Frank clears his throat. “I’m feeling better, mostly.”
“That’s good,” the doctor says, sitting down on the rolling stool by the sink and flipping to a new page on his clipboard. “Tell me about your symptoms. Let’s start from the beginning.” Frank meets Dr. Way’s expectant gaze for half a second before he has to look away, opting to stare at his own hands and fidget. He can’t quite bring himself to face the full force of that stare.
“Well, let’s see. Um, I’d just gotten back from travelling, woke up and had to, uh. Urinate. It was really painful.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dr. Way says kindly, his pen moving on the paper. Old school, Frank thinks, and almost smiles. “Travelling? Go anywhere fun?”
“Uh, yeah, kinda,” he says, rubbing his freshest wrist tattoo. “I’m a musician, I tour with my band. Just got back last week.”
“A musician! That’s awesome, me too! What do you play?”
Frank looks up at Dr. Way, surprised. He didn’t think doctors had time for that sort of thing. He’s grateful to talk about something other than his dick and balls. “Uh, guitar, mostly. I sing too.”
Dr. Way rolls his chair near the sink without standing up and pulls open a drawer, setting a few supplies on the counter. “Awesome! I love guitar. I’m not a pro, but I can’t seem to stop collecting pedals.”
Frank finds himself laughing. “Me neither.”
Dr. Way smiles at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and Frank’s stomach does flips like it’s trying out for Cirque du Soleil. “But I digress,” the doctor says, “please continue.”
Frank describes the most painful piss of his life in his best, sanitized doctor’s office terminology, the UTI diagnosis, and the ongoing antibiotics treatment. He leaves out the part about prodding his own asshole.
Dr. Way listens intently, making a few notes and nodding, asking occasional clarification questions. He meets Frank’s eyes with a deeply sincere expression—the eye contact never gets easier—and crosses his legs at the knee, balancing his clipboard on top of them.
“So, for people who have penises, we have a couple of concerns when it comes to UTIs. A UTI sometimes happens when the bladder isn’t fully emptied, which can be a result of prostate inflammation. It can also be caused by a poor immune response, or by retaining the urine for too long, like with travelling. But since it’s often related to the prostate, we often recommend a prostate exam.”
Frank is still stuck on being called a person with a penis and isn’t sure how to respond. Dr. Way continues.
“It sounds like you’ve had some long travel days recently, which could have contributed to the infection. If you were, say, twenty, we probably would skip the prostate exam. But given your family history–” Dr. Way checks the paper briefly. “I think it’s probably best. At 38 you’re right on the cusp of when we’d recommend a routine exam, so I say we go ahead and get that done today. How does that sound?”
Frank blinks. He wasn’t expecting to be asked for an opinion. “Uh, yeah.” He looks down at his feet and crosses his ankles, folding his hands together and trying not to seem uncomfortable. “Since my dad had a tumor removed last year, I think it’s probably better to, uh, check.”
“I think so too. Have you had a prostate exam before?”
“Um. No. First-timer.”
Dr. Way smiles but doesn’t laugh at his joke. “Lots of people are nervous about it, but I promise it’s very quick. Most people say it’s not painful at all, just a little uncomfortable. I’ve done this about two thousand times, so no need to worry, I’ve seen it all. And I’ve had very positive reviews.”
Frank’s face goes hot at the last comment and he’s certain that he looks like a tomato. Was that a joke? He’s not sure but he gives a nervous laugh anyway. Oh god, of course it’s not a joke. His doctor wouldn’t make a sexual innuendo. He’s a professional. Frank is the one making it weird.
“Alright, just tell me what to do.”
For some reason, Dr. Way gives a little frown at that. There’s a knot in his gut suddenly, as if disappointing him is the worst thing he could possibly do. His mind races, trying to figure out if he said something wrong. Does he sound too eager? Does he sound too embarrassed? Is he just supposed yank his pants down and bend over?
“Okay, we’ll proceed at your pace and comfort level. Trust and consent are very important in my office.” Dr. Way gets up and goes over to the sink, washing his hands and drying them with paper towels. “We also offer a chaperone of any preferred sex or gender identity to join us in the room for the exam, if that makes you more comfortable.”
Frank can’t think of anything worse than asking a woman to sit in on the exam. Let alone another man, dear God. “Uh, that won’t be necessary.”
“Okay. I can get you a gown, or you can keep your clothes on and just undress below the waist and pull your undergarments down for the exam. What sounds comfortable to you?” the doctor calls over his shoulder as he places more things on the counter—folded cloth, a jar of something, a box of gloves.
Frank stares at the gloves. Suddenly he’s hit with a realization—this is kind of like a tattoo appointment. The doctor—his artist—will put on gloves and touch him in a weird spot and it might be a little painful, but he’ll just lay there on the table and zone out. He’s done it close to 200 times, he can do it again. It’s just a little different. In a very significant way.
“I think I’ll keep the clothes on,” he decides. That way it’s more like a casual tattoo appointment. they don’t do gowns with open backs at tattoo appointments. Last time he got a tattoo on his ass, he just pulled his shorts down.
“Alright,” Dr. Way says. “I’ll have you get up on the table and lay down first.” He pulls a fresh sheet of paper over the exam table and pats it. Frank takes a deep breath before stepping to the table. The proximity to Dr. Way is overwhelming, but also kind of intoxicating. Dr. Way is so intimidating to look at, but his voice is so gentle, kind and warm. Frank has to do a little hop to get his short ass onto the exam table. He scoots back until he can fully lie down. Dr. Way’s startlingly warm hand guides him to shuffle a few inches backwards.
“Okay,” he says, his voice gentle. “We’ll start with an abdominal exam. I’m just going to press on your belly a bit. Mind pulling your shirt up and lowering your pants just a bit?”
Frank stares hard at a ceiling tile. “Sure.” he pulls his T-shirt up a few inches and loosens his belt. The clinking sound of the buckle in such close proximity to another man—so close he can feel his body heat—feels very strange. He scootches his dark jeans down a couple inches, well aware that his pubes and some tattoos in slightly sexy places are on display. He tries not to think about that, or the way that his belly tattoos are looking a little stretched lately with the couple of pounds he’s put on. Why would the doctor care about that? The doctor wouldn’t care about that.
Doctor Way disappears for a moment, snapping on some nitrile gloves. The familiar sound is a little more anxiety inducing than it is in a tattoo studio, but he closes his eyes and breathes through his nose, imagining the buzz of a tattoo needle.
“Okay, I’m going to touch you now. Okay?”
Frank cracks an eye open to glance at the doctor and squeezes it back shut. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Okay. Let me know if anything hurts.”
Warm hands find their way to his lower belly and palpate some sensitive areas that make him feel like he needs to pee. Dr. Way talks him through it, remarking that things feel normal. When Dr. Way’s hands move to press on his bladder, Frank is extremely aware of every brush of the warm gloved hands, and how much they feel like someone going for a grope in a club or something, until they press down too deeply to be sensual. He’s kind of relieved when a small burst of pain makes him gasp and open his eyes. Dr. Way’s hands immediately let up.
“Painful?”
“A bit.”
Dr. Way prods repeatedly at different spots, asking if they hurt, and how much. Frank is grateful for the pain since it distracts him from thinking about how pretty Dr. Way is, and how warm and gentle—and big—his hands are as they slide over his stomach. When his hands are gone, Frank’s skin feels kind of cold in the bright, sterile room. His eyes open to the ceiling.
“Okay, are you comfortable proceeding to the next part of the exam?”
“Yeah. Yes.” Frank’s voice sounds distant to his own ears.
“Alright, Frank. Would you mind removing your pants? No underwear just yet. I’ll get you a privacy blanket.”
Frank nods, avoiding the doctor’s eyes and hoping the blush he feels on his face isn’t too obvious. He very carefully chose simple black boxer briefs for today to avoid any embarrassment.
To his surprise, the doctor pulls a curtain out from the wall, and with a whoosh, the room is divided in half and all he can see is Dr. Way’s pant legs and his soft brown loafers.
Hesitating briefly, he folds his jeans and sets them on a chair with his belt before climbing back on to the exam table. He sits for a moment, his bare legs a bit chilly, just breathing and willing his mind to empty.
“Okay, Frank?”
“Okay,” he hears himself say.
The curtain whooshes again and Dr. Way comes to his side with a light blue flannel blanket, unfolding it into a wide square that he tucks over Frank’s lap.
“Okay, let’s get you on your side.” A warm hand touches Frank’s flank and gently urges him to roll onto his side facing the wall. He’s grateful that he doesn’t have to look at Dr. Way anymore. He doesn’t think he would be able to do this if he had to look at Dr. Way the whole time. Even just hearing and feeling him and knowing he’s there is too much.
“Good, and bend your knees up to your chest, kind of a fetal position.” A warm hand touches the back of his thigh and he jumps a little, pulling his knees to his chest. His ass isn’t even out and he already feels exposed. He’s grateful for the privacy blanket covering him from his hips to his knees.
“Okay,” Dr. Way’s voice calls from a little further away. “Go ahead and pull your underwear down, I’m going to get some lubricant and tissues for you.” His voice is still high and sweet but it sounds very intentionally professional.
He hears the sink and the snap of fresh nitrile gloves and the muted tap of Dr. Way’s shoes on the linoleum as he approaches. He quickly tugs his underwear down just under his ass, still leaving the blanket on. He tries not to gasp when the blanket is folded up onto his hip, cold air making the hair on his ass and thighs prickle.
“Alright, I’m going to put a lot of lubricant on my finger. I’m going to go slow, and I want you to tell me if I’m going too fast or if anything hurts, okay? The exam is only a few seconds, I’m just feeling around the prostate with my finger for any abnormalities. It might make you feel like you need to pee when I press on it, but that’s normal. Okay?”
Frank’s throat is so dry that he’s not sure he’ll be able to speak. “Okay,” he manages.
He hears a slight wet sound and stares very hard at the texture of the wall.
“Could you pull your underwear down a little more?”
Frank’s not sure if it’s physically possible for him to blush more, but it feels like he does. He tugs his underwear down a bit further. He moves the blanket a little as he does so and fumbles with it to make sure he doesn’t get his entire dick and balls out.
“Okay,” Dr. Way’s voice is even closer now. “I’m going to touch you now, is that okay?”
Frank swallows. “Yes.”
“Okay,” he says, and a hand touches his hip. It feels like there’s something burning under his skin wherever Dr. Way’s hands land. “I’m going to spread you a bit here,” he says, and one large hand grips his right asscheek, one thumb touching the sensitive skin close to his hole to pull the cheek up and expose him. Frank feels like he’s miles away but also like he’s never been more physically aware and present in any place, ever.
“Might be a bit cold, sorry. It’ll warm up. I’m just going to start at the opening here, okay?”
Frank thinks he might say something, or maybe grunt. All he knows is that a large, rubbery digit coated in cold, wet lubricant is prodding at his asshole. Every muscle in his body contracts—including, unfortunately, his asshole.
“Sorry, it’s a bit cold.” The digit makes a circle around the tense rim of his hole, spreading the cold lubricant around. it feels like it’s dripping down his inner thigh. His crack is wet. He forgets to breathe.
“Okay, I’m going to have you take a deep breath in, alright? One, two, three,” Dr. Way counts, and Frank tries to match the deep breath. “Aaaand out.” Frank breathes out through pursed lips and suddenly the finger doing gentle circles around his hole is sinking inside of him. Inside. It’s warm, and large, and smooth. It’s bigger than his own finger. He clenches around it involuntarily. He forgets to breathe again.
“Good, you’re doing good. I’m going to go slow so I don’t hurt you, okay? The prostate’s usually around three inches in, give or take. The anus is very stretchy, so you’ll be okay. Let’s do another breath.” Dr. Way counts and takes a slow breath in, and Frank copies him, holding it until he lets it out. He releases the air and the finger is suddenly sinking in further, further than Frank’s own finger had gone. It’s a strange feeling of fullness, kind of a backwards feeling, but not awful. Just uncomfortable. He realizes that he’s not in any pain, not at all. He almost wishes he were, so he’d have a distraction from the fullness.
“You’re doing very well,” Dr. Way murmurs. “I’m just going to press down gently and feel around, okay?”
Frank doesn’t trust his voice at all right now, and doesn’t bother trying to respond. The long digit prods deep inside him and he feels the strangest sensation. Like he has to piss, kind of, but also like a thousand volts just went up his spine, and also like how it feels when he jerks off and presses on the spot behind his balls. The smooth, solid intrusion of Dr. Way’s fingertip presses harder, stroking and palpating around the spot. It feels weird and kind of good, and that fills him with a hysterical euphoria that’s quickly chased away with a flood of shame and terror. God, is he getting hard from a doctor prodding around in his asshole? If he makes it out of this room alive he’s going to lock himself away somewhere and never leave. People like Frank shouldn’t be allowed to be around other people. God, he’s a freak. He’s a—
Frank shudders as the finger slowly withdraws from inside him, rubbing against his rim and then leaving him feeling empty, clenching on nothing. He squeezes his eyes shut tight.
“Great, you did very well, Frank,” Dr. Way enthuses warmly in his lilting voice. “Your prostate is feeling totally normal.”
Frank’s heart flutters confusedly at the words of praise. He hears the rustle of a tissue box and the other hand is back, wiping the wetness from between his cheeks, and then both hands are lifting away. He finds himself kind of missing the grip on his right asscheek. His skin tingles. The flannel sheet is folded back down over his ass.
He hears the gloves snapping again and hitting the trashcan, the whoosh of the curtain, and the rush of the sink turning on again. He can’t bear to sit up or turn around. Icy dread rushes through his veins as he feels a familiar hot throb in his groin.
“I’ll leave you to clean up and get dressed,” Dr. Way calls from the doorway, “And then we’ll have a quick chat, okay? I’ll be back in a bit.”
——
Frank waits until the sound of the door closing finishes reverberating in his ears. He’s paralyzed for a moment, breathing shallowly, until he begins to move like an automaton. He slides off the exam table. He manages to stuff himself back into his clothes, shaking and buzzing. He opens the curtain.
Briefly, he considers running for the bathroom, but he can’t really will his legs to move from the spot. He sinks into the armchair.
He’s still sporting an uncomfortable bulge in his jeans but he crosses his legs and holds the paperwork he was given at reception over his lap and tries to look like he’s reading it. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears.
When there’s a polite little knock on the door, he breaks from his trance where he’s been trying to read the same paragraph on the crinkled paper about prostate health for several minutes without processing a single word.
The door cracks and Dr. Way’s warm tenor pierces the silence.
“It’s Dr. Way, may I come in?”
Frank grunts and clears his throat, adjusting his crossed knees. “Sure thing.”
The door swings open and Dr. Way steps back into the room. Frank thinks he’s ready for it this time but when Dr. Way’s head comes into view his stomach drops through the floor again. He’s wearing glasses. They’re black and kind of round with thick rims but sort of pointy at the edges, making Dr. Way’s face look a little intimidating on top of looking sweet and friendly. He feels a bit like he’s going to get a stern talking-to, but then Dr. Way sits down and crosses his legs, his sweet smile returning. His pant leg rides up, revealing tall socks with little cats on them. His hands (large, bearing no rings) fold together over his paperwork.
“So, when a patient with a prostate has UTI symptoms, we’re usually concerned about a couple of things.” He counts the possibilities on his long fingers. “Prostate health, since an enlarged prostate can increase urine retention and bacteria growth, We also look for STIs like chlamydia and gonorrhea, and then diabetes and other immune issues.” Dr. Way flips through the paperwork. Frank’s stomach sinks a little further—his immune system doesn’t have a great track record.
“Based on the numbers in your bloodwork from the urgent care, it seems you’re in pretty good health. Good numbers overall, no signs of STIs. However, there is another avenue we could explore, since your urine culture did show abnormal bacterial growth.” Dr. Way pushes up his glasses with a knuckle. Frank watches. “Sometimes we see UTIs in patients who perform anal penetration, since they can get exposed to E. coli or other pathogens from a partner’s rectum.”
Frank can feel his face getting warm. For God’s sake, he’s almost forty. This shouldn’t be embarrassing.
“The treatment plan for that kind of infection would just be to finish the antibiotics you’re already on, and I tend to advise patients to use condoms at least until there’s no more sign of infection, but condoms are always a good idea. That and peeing after sex, which is a good rule of thumb for people with vaginas and people who perform penetrative anal sex.”
Frank stares while the doctor rattles on.
“So I say we can continue with our current treatment plan: finish the course of antibiotics, take extra care to drink a lot of water, and take precautions with sex. How does that sound?”
Once again, Frank is surprised to be asked for an opinion. “Uh.”
A little crease forms between Dr. Way’s brows over the black frames and he flips to another page on his clipboard.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the doctor rushes, “I’m getting ahead of myself. We didn’t discuss your sexual history. Did you get a chance to fill out the forms on your way in?”
Frank swallows. “Yes, I did. I think I filled them all out.”
Dr. Way nods attentively, eyes darting over the paperwork. “Just to double check, it looks like you didn’t list any sexual partners. Mind if I ask some questions?”
Frank stares at a spot on the wall behind the doctor’s ear. He clears his throat. “Uh, sure. I didn’t list any sexual partners because I don’t have any right now.”
Dr. Way keeps nodding, which does nothing to quell Frank’s anxiety. “And does that include casual partners, or just long term partners?”
“Um, both.”
“Okay, that’s helpful information. Have you had any genital-to-genital, genital-to-mouth or genital-to-anus contact with any new partners within the last 60 days?”
Frank kind of wishes the fire alarm would go off. “Uh, no.”
Dr. Way regards him from behind his glasses and Frank suddenly feels a bit like a bug in a jar. “Okay, how about within the last year?”
Frank thinks for a moment. “Two or three times. I use condoms.”
“Do you mind if I ask the sex and gender of those partners?”
“Um, women.”
“Any anal penetration?”
“No.”
He can practically hear the cogs turning in Dr. Way’s head but he can’t imagine making eye contact.
”The reason I ask, Frank, just so we’re clear, is to get a better picture of your habits and the ways you can minimize risk while engaging in a healthy sex life.”
“Uh-huh,” Frank intones.
“And I want to emphasize that at my clinic this is a safe, judgement free space.”
“Right.”
“With that in mind, would you mind telling me about your sexual habits outside of partnered play?”
“I’m sorry?”
“As in, masturbation. Do you engage in solo play? And if so, how often?”
Frank can feel his face burning like he’s sticking his face in a blast furnace. His groin gives a shameful throb. “Um.”
Dr. Way looks entirely unfazed despite Frank’s certainty that he’s the color of a ripe tomato. “Daily? Weekly?”
Frank waits for Hell to open up the floor and swallow him. “Uh. A couple times a month, maybe.”
“Any difficulties with erections or maintaining erections, any abnormalities with ejaculation?”
“No,” he replies, his voice cracking slightly.
Dr. Way makes a note on the clipboard, nodding. “Okay. Not a lot, for your age.” He clicks the pen and tucks it into the front pocket on his lab coat with deft fingers. A flash of heat bursts in Frank’s gut as he recalls where those hands were touching him less than ten minutes ago. He feels himself clench involuntarily.
“Now, I don’t want to presume, but I have a few words of advice, from a prostate health perspective. I’ve seen a lot of wellness trends over the years, including semen retention and anti-masturbation trends that claim to be beneficial in all sorts of ways. But I can assure you that there is nothing shameful or unhealthy about regular masturbation. Evidence even suggests that regular ejaculation is actually beneficial for prostate health.”
Frank rubs a hand over his face. “Oh. It’s not, like, on purpose.”
”That’s good to hear,” Dr. Way hums, uncrossing his legs and pushing his stool closer to the sink, opening a drawer. His calf muscles flex underneath his scrub pants. “As long as you’re healthy and satisfied, that’s all that matters.” He pulls something small from the drawer and scribbles something on it.
”Sure.”
Dr. Way rolls back over, this time close enough to Frank that he can see a small patch of razor burn on his neck.
“My professional recommendation would be that you try to practice some personal intimacy a little more often. Daily ejaculations can drastically reduce your risk of prostate cancer, but a few times a week would benefit you as well.”
The doctor holds out a small card with some phone numbers on it.
”Here’s the number of a trusted sex therapist that I’ve referred plenty of patients to. She’s really great. Her website has a lot of helpful resources if you ever want to check them out. She specializes in somatic therapy and psychodynamics.”
Dr. Way smiles expectantly, the corners of his eyes crinkling behind his glasses. Frank takes the card, careful not to touch the doctor’s fingers, his brain helpfully supplying visceral memories of those very same fingers circling and pushing into his—
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks,” Frank hears himself say.
The doctor looks relieved. “You’re very welcome.” He turns back to the drawer.
“Oh, and one last thing,” he says, pulling out a little plastic cup and affixing a little sticker to it. “Would you mind giving a urine sample today? Just to make sure the infection’s all cleared up.” He proffers the plastic cup. Frank takes it and spins it in his fingers. IERO, FRANK ANTHONY JR., it says. URINE SPECIMEN.
“Bathroom’s down the hall to the left. There’s a little metal cupboard you can leave it in.”
Frank nods.
“Okay!” Dr. Way pats his scrub-clad thighs with his large hands and stands, still smiling. “It was great to meet you today, Frank. Any last questions for me?”
“Uh. No. Nope.”
“If you think of anything, don’t hesitate to call or shoot us a message.”
“Thanks.”
“Of course, Frank.” The doctor won’t stop looking at him with those overly kind eyes. “I hope we’ll see you again sometime. Just hopefully not too soon. Take care!”
Frank chuckles hollowly. “You too.”
Frank waits until the door has clicked shut and the last echoes of Dr. Way’s voice have stopped humming in his ears. He stares at the happy couple on the wall.
It feels like vomit and laughter and his pounding heart are all trying to escape his throat at once. He’s viscerally aware of the hot pulse of his cock between his legs, the warm throb in his ass, and the solid rock of shame in his gut, but no thoughts come to him. His mind is an empty room and TV static.
Agonizing seconds go by like hours until Frank’s limbs twitch with the reflex to flee. He finds himself standing. Removing his jacket and clutching it to his stomach like a teenager. Shoving a fistful of papers into his back pocket.
He takes deep breaths through his nose, moving through the room robotically, focusing on his senses. The cold metal of the door handle on his clammy skin. The squeak of his sneakers on the linoleum. The familiar smell of antiseptic.
In the bathroom, he stares at a poster above the toilet depicting the process of taking a urine sample. For Penises, one side says. For Vulvas, the other. He soaps up his hands, rinses them. The tight throb in his jeans does not go away. He closes his eyes to avoid confronting himself in the mirror, turns away and carefully reads the instructions on the urine sample cup.
He needs to wash his hands (check), twist off the safety cap (check), wipe the tip of his penis with a special wipe, and piss for a second or two before filling the cup. He sets the cup on the conveniently placed side table and grabs a wipe from the little basket. He undoes his belt with a jangle, tugs his jeans down over the obstacle, and sits on the toilet. There’s no delaying it now. He has to confront his problem.
Looking down, he scoots his briefs down his thighs and watches his turgid cock swing up, threatening to smack him in the belly. Fighting the dread and shame, he rips open the wipe and carefully, very clinically pulls his foreskin back to reveal his glans. The wipe is a little cold and almost abrasive on his sensitive skin. It sends little zaps of a feeling close to pleasure to the base of his spine. He uses three wipes as the instructions suggest, doing his best not to feel anything. He’s shaking a little bit. He grabs the plastic cup, aims, holds his breath, and wills himself to piss.
Not a drop hits the cup or the water below. He tries to focus on the pressure of his bladder, but all he can focus on is the ache and throb of his traitorous boner.
”Fuck,” he hisses, grinding his teeth. He’s far too old and far too not-gay to be dealing with this right now, but here he is. He fumbles for his phone, considering making a search for ‘boner killer’, but something about the panicked throb of his heart and the answering echo from below the belt tells him that that isn’t going to work. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands until he sees spots. All he has to do is piss, and then he can get out of here.
“Come on, come on, come on,” he huffs, holding the cup in one hand and the end of his cock in the other. He swears that the stress is only making him harder. He bites his lip, hard, hoping that the pain will distract him. All it does is make him taste blood in his mouth as he looks down at his rock hard, swollen cock pointing at the plastic cup like he’s trying to give a sperm sample instead of a urine sample.
He doesn’t know how many minutes of clenching and deep breathing go by, but he’s starting to feel even more panicked the longer he sits in this sterile bathroom. He tries staring at the wall. There’s a little red handle hanging from the wall next to the toilet that reads ‘PULL IN CASE OF EMERGENCY’. He worries that just by looking at it he’s going to send more clinic staff to witness his shame. He squeezes his eyes shut.
Stupid fucking old man prostate. Stupid fucking inexplicable teenage hormones in his stupid fucking old man body.
Frank decides that he would prefer to get out of this tile-floored prison cell sooner rather than later. And the only way out is through. He abandons the plastic sample cup on the little table, huffs a breath in through his nose, and takes the base of his cock in hand. He groans immediately, biting his tongue. He leans over the toilet, his left hand against the wall, and begins to stroke himself desperately.
It’s fucking dry and chafing, but he doesn’t care. He keeps pumping at as quick of a pace as he can stand, leaning into the wall and grunting.
He feels disgusting. It feels pathetic to be at the mercy of his own bodily functions in a place like this. The queasy knot of shame in his gut is overpowered only by the hot burning throb in his abdomen. It pounds through his cock and balls and makes the muscles of his asshole clench.
He tries to clear his mind and finish the deed. His pulse pounds in his ears, drowning out the rhythmic slap faintly echoing in the room. He can feel the phantom sensation of a warm gloved finger stretching the rim of his asshole, can almost hear a warm voice guiding and reassuring him. He thinks of kind hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. He chokes out a whimper of mortification. He can’t allow himself to think those things while doing this. His mind refuses to cooperate. He feels his ass clench around nothing, remembering the strange, full sensation of the doctor’s long finger. Somehow he feels empty now.
Frank hangs his head, gasping and groaning, gripping his cock tighter and jerking himself faster, letting his jeans slide down the backs of his thighs. He presses his forehead to the wall over the toilet and reaches his shaking left hand back behind his balls, his middle finger reaching the slick pucker of his anus. His fingertip traces it and comes away slick with a bead of leftover lubricant from the doctor’s gloves.
With a strangled sob, Frank ejaculates all over the toilet seat and the wall, shooting spurt after spurt of cum onto the porcelain. His legs go limp and he nearly falls onto the toilet, scrambling to brace himself against the wall again. He’s gasping and shuddering from the aftershocks when the pressure in his bladder finally crests and he’s pissing all over the toilet seat as well. He scrambles for the plastic cup, catching as much of the stream as he can before aiming the rest for the toilet bowl.
He was ashamed before, but now he’s burning with post-nut clarity and mortification at having jizzed and pissed all over the fucking bathroom, maybe even a bit on his own shoes. He rushes to twist the cap back on the specimen cup and starts frantically ripping paper towels from the dispenser by the sink and mopping up the mess.
Ten minutes of scrubbing later, the piss cup is in the little metal cupboard and Frank is shuffling out of the clinic, jacket collar pulled up to his ears. He rushes past the receptionist’s desk at as inconspicuous of a speed as possible.
“Take care!” a voice chirps, and Frank doesn’t look back to see if it’s Dr. Way.