In which Our Hero has a ball
Testicles should never be handled gruffly.
I met a man today who does exactly that.
A professional urologist, he receives testes on Wednesdays and Thursdays.
He begins with a long-winded explanation of two treatment options, each of which contradicts something he said previously. Then he gives vague instructions about how to sit on the bed, and panics when you do it wrong.
Two days ago, I asked if I could see him in the morning. I would already be in the area at 9:30 a.m. I would rather not wait around until 5 p.m. The scheduler said I was lucky to get an appointment at all.
Fuck you, I thought. I’m paying for this. You’re a fertility clinic. You should have a urologist on staff. You’re not doing me a favor: this is your job. (This is my general experience with this clinic.)
Eventually, he slaps cold ultrasound goo on my balls and takes out the wand. He peers at the screen.
They look normal. No shit they do. He seems surprised. Has this man never seen a huevo before?
And then, the best part:
He cleans them.
There is something deeply satisfying about a gruff old man cleaning your testicles with visible irritation. No tenderness. No ceremony. Just the job, done thoroughly and against his will.
A small, immaculate fuck you.
I don’t respect doctors merely because they’re doctors. Many of them I respect less because they are. Authority that demands deference without earning it irritates me.
So when a man who has done nothing but steadily lose my respect cleans my testicles—however gruffly—it brings me joy.
Julian Wise 