Have you ever had a good groping? I mean a serious, intense, we ain't messin' around here groping? Ain't nothin' better than a good groping, except maybe a good groping with an excellent follow-through. I got me a good groping this afternoon.
Too bad I didn't enjoy it.
As I've mentioned here before, Beth and I are trying to get pregnant again. Well, she's trying, I'm just having fun helping. We've been having trouble with it, though. No, not that kind of trouble; I know Tab C goes into Slot B, I've got the mechanics of the act down. The trouble is that my little spermies are lousy swimmers and there's not very many of them. It reminds me of Beth's family's in-joke about bad restaurants: "The food was really bad. And the portions were so small!" So they're not getting the job done and Beth's not getting pregnant and we've been seeing a fertility specialist.
This specialist referred me to a urologist, whom I saw today. Who gave me the groping. It's kind of pathetic when you think about it. I spent my afternoon getting the best groping of my life -- from a man. My penis hardly knew what to make of it. In its entire history it's only been gripped by one man's hands and it was very confused to suddenly find another man's hands being so familiar. Female hands groping? It's all over that, it enjoys that quite a bit. Strange male hands? Whafuck?
I'll say one thing, that doc knew his business. I've had thorough gropings in my day, but this guy beat them all. (I can't believe I just used the word "beat" in conjunction with this topic. Freudian slip? Erm... No?) He covered every square inch of my ol' trouser trout, including a few I didn't know were there. And then he went after my balls. He groped. He kneaded. He prodded. He tugged. He poked. He hefted. He cradled. He spent quite a bit of time on them. Nobody -- NOBODY -- has ever spent so much time so thoroughly playing with my balls. Looking back on it, I kind of wish Beth had been there taking notes.
My equipment passed with flying colors. Everything's normal, no obvious reason for dogpaddling sperm. And ladies, the doc said I had the biggest unit he'd ever seen on a man. Not really, wishful thinking. What he really said was "Take it out." And I said "It is out." And he laughed and laughed and laughed. No, wait... Sorry, that was an old high school date memory. I don't think the doc commented on the size at all, but God knows he would have said it with authority if he had.
Now, every guy, when he has to drop trou for the doc, has a pathological fear screaming in the back of his head that Woody's gonna wake up and get happy at precisely the wrong moment, said wrong moment comprising the entire office visit, but especially the hands-on part. I'm no different, I was thinking downboydownboydownboy the whole time, especially when I was getting the world class groping that in feminine hands would have led to what some might call a diamond cutter. Fortunately, Spike (one of his many names) was in shock over the hair on the hands and didn't get frisky.
But then the doc left the office, as they always do, telling me to lie down and he'd be right back. I lay back, pants around my ankles, and he covered me with one of those paper blanket things. He left, I was alone with my own thoughts, and my own thoughts began conspiring against me. Hyperaware of the sensations of the groping still fresh in my groin, I started thinking about how horrifying it would be if I suddenly popped a chubby. I pictured the doc coming in and seeing me lying there under a paper pup tent. I thought about what disgusting images I'd think of to calm the wild beast if that happened. I thought about it. And of course, because I was thinking about it, it happened.
I began to sport wood. Oh. My. God.
I started studying the ceiling tile, counting the rows and how many tiles were in each row. It was curiously erotic. I developed an intense interest in the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Hmm... How many tubes are in each fixture? Uh oh, I said tubes. Hehehe. Okay, how are the lights mounted on the ceiling? I said mounted. Hehehe. They're mounted with nuts, you idiot. Nuts. Hehehe.
I was in serious trouble.
I started looking around the room, desperate for something, anything, my peabrain couldn't go Beavis and Butthead over. Maybe a nice tongue depressor. Tongue. Hehehe. Okay, how about one of those little rubber reflex hammers? Hammer. Hehehe. Hold it, hold it! Hammer? That turns you on? Not rubber, the logical choice, but hammer? You're a sick man, Chuck.
And then things got much, much worse. I noticed the magazine rack on the wall. Wall Street Journal, US News And World Report, Newsweek... Good, good. And GQ. With Pamela Anderson Lee on the cover, wearing men's underwear and a slingshot T-shirt. Holding her breasts, nipples clearly outlined through the fabric. Squeezing her breasts. Right. At. Me.
Redwood tree, anyone?
I gave in. Fine, Spike, stand up, but you're wasting your time, you're not getting any action in here. I resigned myself to greeting the doctor with a paper pup tent, to the shocked look on his face, to the absolute shame that would prevent me from ever coming back to his office again, to Zoe growing up a lonely only child because daddy popped a boner at the guy who was going to help her have a sibling.
Well, that wasn't any fun for Spike or the reptilian traitor in my head. If I'm not going to try to stop it then what's the point in doing it? Spike lay back down, disappointed. I thanked him for understanding and promised I'd make it worth his while later. And I did NOT look at that damned magazine cover again.
All was quiet when the doc finally came back. Spike stirred slightly in spite at one point -- he just had to get the last word in -- but was mollified when the doc gave me an order to go to a clinic next week to provide another sperm sample. He was getting action on doctor's orders, so he was happy. I was happy that Spike wasn't inappropriately happy. The doc didn't know it, but he was happy because he missed Spike getting frisky.
So we all went home happy. But Spike let it be known that he wants that Pamela Anderson Lee cover next week. And maybe a fluorescent light tube, too.