As if finals weren’t bad enough, I had to get an infection in my scrotum as soon as classes ended. I first realized that there was a problem when I noticed that, every forty-five minutes or so, regardless of what I was doing, I got the sensation that someone had flicked my right testicle with all their fingerly might. Needless to say I set my studying aside and immediately made an appointment at UC Berkeley’s aptly named Tang Center or, as I like to call it, “Tang Center.”
I knew that diagnosing this problem, whatever it would turn out to be, would involve some fondling on the part of the physician, and since having a woman feel around my sack and then tell me what’s wrong with it is a horror I know all too well, I was hoping to see a sympathetic male doctor. Naturally, there were none available that day, and rather than live through an extra day of imaginary nut flicking I opted for an afternoon appointment with “Dr. Julie.” Oh, baby.
I soon found myself sitting atop an examination table sans trousers (there’s just something so uncomfortable about the feel of crinkly butcher paper against your bare bottom) with Dr. Julie poking and squeezing and looking for trouble. The exchange went something like this:
“Does this hurt?”
“No.”
“Does this hurt?”
“No.”
“Does this hurt?”
“YES!”
“Ah. That’s your epididimis.”
“Ah. Well, you can let go of it now.”
Although the good doctor was 99% certain that it was epididimitis, she seemed to think that a prostate exam was also in order. The prostate exam, one of mankind’s more sinister developments, is a pleasure most men don’t get the opportunity to experience until age fifty, but I guess I’m just lucky. And so, I bent over as Dr. Julie went to work with a rubber glove and some lubricant, creating a level of discomfort that effectively destroyed any penchant I ever may have had for homosexual experimentation. Thankfully my prostate was in perfect working order, or at least it was once she stopped playing with it.
Diagnosis: epididimitis. A bacterial infection in the little doohickey that connects the testicle to the urethra. According to Dr. Julie it’s usually caused by chlamydia or gonorrhea, but since I’ve never been sexually active this particular bout was caused by some intrepid intestinal E. coli bacteria that somehow found their way down my urinary tract and decided to colonize my scrotum. Lousy imperialist bastards. Bitingly ironic, isn’t it? All through high school they tell me that abstinence is the best way to avoid sexually transmitted diseases, and here I am, a twenty-year-old virgin with VD.
Just when I though I would sink into testicular despair, I suddenly got some wonderful news from the good doctor. I asked if there was any “behavior” I should be avoiding while the genitals heal, fearing that my daily visits to www.allgirlgirl.com would aggravate the infection. As it turns out, Dr. Julie explained, regular ejaculation would actually help treat the infection! Apparently this type of problem often appears in people who don’t ejaculate regularly (which makes me wonder if Catholic priests have permanent antibiotic prescriptions), and a steady export of manly mayonnaise would flush out the offending bacteria. FABULOUS! What began as a pain in the worst place imaginable turned out to be the ultimate justification for self-gratification. So there was my prescription: antibiotics, vitamin C, and porno. On my way out I coyly asked Dr. Julie if she or her nurses could give me any “extra help” in treating the infection, but she just smiled and offered me another prostate exam. God bless Dr. Julie, and God bless adventurous E. coli bacteria for giving me an excuse to look at porn instead of studying for finals.
