Gay medicine: two anecdotes
Oct. 25th, 2004 11:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jawnbcWhen I was 22 and furiously gay (personal intense rage + new marginal identity=bitter, self-aggrandizing moral indignation), I decided I needed a gay doctor. Which I still think was--and is--a good idea. I was volunteering at the Gay & Lesbian Switchboard of New York way back then; part of my (unpaid) job was to provide referrals for things like, well, gay doctors. I asked some of the guys I worked with (most of whom were older, as in 30-45. gasp!), and got some names. I don’t remember the first doctor’s name, but I certainly remember the visit.
I went to his suite in the West Village, all chipper about having a doctor I could out to and open with. I even nursed a wee fantasy that he’d be dashing, that we’d fall in love, and I’d be Mrs. Gay Doctor. He turned out average looking, appeared rather fatigued (to be fair it was NYC in 1987--AIDS burnout no doubt), and I ditched the romantic notions immediately.
So he took the history (good), explained a lot about sexual health (very good), and did all of the typical diagnostics. He also wanted “to take a look at (my) ass.”
“But I’m a top” (don’t u fookin’ laugh--I was back then. Swear!)
“You never ever get fucked?”
“Never have. Not interested either.” (stop laughing you fooktards!)
“How about a tongue? A finger?”
“Well...ok a tongue’s fine, and maybe 1 finger . . .”
He then explained--seriously, legitimately--that I was therefore at risk for things like gonorrhea and syphilis, as well as warts. So I took his direction, laid on my side, and pulled one knee up to my chest as I faced the wall (and away from him). He then used a sort of plastic funnel to dilate my sphincter, so he could shine a light and take a look around.
“It looks fine. I’m gonna take this out now...so relax. I’ve just gotta check your prostate and we’ll be all done.”
“OK”
So he pulled out the cone of silence (whew!), and very quickly slid his finger in. And probe, and prodded. And...lingered. Ew . . .
He pulled his finger out, and I heard that glove snap sound, so I started to pull myself together. He didn’t say anything, so I turned around and asked “so, how did it look down there.”
Leering smile “beautiful...just beautiful. Keep it just like that . . .”
Ew. I never went back
Some 10 years on, I’m living in Vancouver. I’ve got a great gay doctor, with whom I’ve established excellent rapport. He’s wicked smart, charming, and doesn’t think he’s Gawd--what else can you ask of a GP? By this time he’s been my doctor for about 5 years.
I’ve been damn near perfect in the safer sex department, but was having some prostate problems (I used get prostatitis rather frequently), and wanted Robert to make sure everything was OK. “OK” he said “get up in the position and I’ll take a look.” He meant look in the figurative sense. You perverts.
So I jumped up, dropped trou, and assumed the position. Nothing happened. Then, nothing continued to happen. Just as I was about to say something, Robert cleared his throat. I turned my head and he had averted his eyes:
“No Jawn, on your side, facing the wall, one knee up to your chest. . . .”
“Oh! Right! Sorry!”
I had got on the table in the doggy position. . . .
I went to his suite in the West Village, all chipper about having a doctor I could out to and open with. I even nursed a wee fantasy that he’d be dashing, that we’d fall in love, and I’d be Mrs. Gay Doctor. He turned out average looking, appeared rather fatigued (to be fair it was NYC in 1987--AIDS burnout no doubt), and I ditched the romantic notions immediately.
So he took the history (good), explained a lot about sexual health (very good), and did all of the typical diagnostics. He also wanted “to take a look at (my) ass.”
“But I’m a top” (don’t u fookin’ laugh--I was back then. Swear!)
“You never ever get fucked?”
“Never have. Not interested either.” (stop laughing you fooktards!)
“How about a tongue? A finger?”
“Well...ok a tongue’s fine, and maybe 1 finger . . .”
He then explained--seriously, legitimately--that I was therefore at risk for things like gonorrhea and syphilis, as well as warts. So I took his direction, laid on my side, and pulled one knee up to my chest as I faced the wall (and away from him). He then used a sort of plastic funnel to dilate my sphincter, so he could shine a light and take a look around.
“It looks fine. I’m gonna take this out now...so relax. I’ve just gotta check your prostate and we’ll be all done.”
“OK”
So he pulled out the cone of silence (whew!), and very quickly slid his finger in. And probe, and prodded. And...lingered. Ew . . .
He pulled his finger out, and I heard that glove snap sound, so I started to pull myself together. He didn’t say anything, so I turned around and asked “so, how did it look down there.”
Leering smile “beautiful...just beautiful. Keep it just like that . . .”
Ew. I never went back
Some 10 years on, I’m living in Vancouver. I’ve got a great gay doctor, with whom I’ve established excellent rapport. He’s wicked smart, charming, and doesn’t think he’s Gawd--what else can you ask of a GP? By this time he’s been my doctor for about 5 years.
I’ve been damn near perfect in the safer sex department, but was having some prostate problems (I used get prostatitis rather frequently), and wanted Robert to make sure everything was OK. “OK” he said “get up in the position and I’ll take a look.” He meant look in the figurative sense. You perverts.
So I jumped up, dropped trou, and assumed the position. Nothing happened. Then, nothing continued to happen. Just as I was about to say something, Robert cleared his throat. I turned my head and he had averted his eyes:
“No Jawn, on your side, facing the wall, one knee up to your chest. . . .”
“Oh! Right! Sorry!”
I had got on the table in the doggy position. . . .
