My name is Lisa (changed for privacy), and I am a 36-year-old Nurse Practitioner. The following is a confession about how I, in a grotesquely unprofessional and wholly unethical fashion, implemented a generationally mortifying SPH experience for a budding young man who was a patient of mine when I was a young woman.

When I was 23 and still in my DNP program, I got licensed as an RN and began to split my time between classes and hospital shifts. It was a requirement of the program, and my peers were all doing the same, most of them at the same hospital (which I will not name).

I was only a few months into my first ER rotation when a young man was brought in after a rather dramatic motorcycle accident. I believe he was 20 or so, at least a couple of years younger than me. He was of medium height, very skinny, and a little nerdy looking with a head of hair that had needed a trim for at least 4 weeks. He was a little cute, in a boyish way. He looked like someone who still apologized to his mother for swearing. I will give him the name “Dave” in the spirit of retaining anonymity. Dave had suffered a deep laceration high on his right thigh, sliced open by a jagged piece of guardrail his speeding bike had torn through on impact.

I was in the room when the surgeon was repairing the leg, mostly to hold instruments and observe. Dave had been prepped for surgery prior to my arrival. He was shaved bare from the waist down to expose any hidden damage and lay naked from the hip down, leaving his genitals exposed. At 23, I hand’t seen many penises in a clinical setting. There had been some here and there at the hospital, and then a few boyfriends in my personal life, but I was at this point in my life, still fairly inexperienced. But Dave’s penis was memorable. Not because it was unusual medically—there was nothing pathologically wrong with it. But because it was, quite simply, the smallest penis I had ever seen.

(I recall the memory of Dave’s penis now as a more matured and experienced medical professional. At this point in my career I have seen every size, shape, color and configuration of the male penis, more times than anyone could count. Despite all of my experience with genitalia, the image I can still vividly conjure of Dave’s little baby penis, shaved clean as a boiled egg and pitifully displayed on that medical table, continues to make me giggle. Maybe I’m supposed to have grown past that sort of reaction. But I haven’t. Not really. That probably makes me a bad person, but it also makes me honest.

To illustrate the young man’s actual size, I must compare his shape and length to a baby carrot bitten in half, with a tiny pink circumcised acorn head, and little grape-sized balls clinging tight to his body in a smooth pink sac. I couldn’t stop staring at it for the entire procedure. As a young woman, it looked so silly and pathetic to me. I remember smiling under my mask during the entire procedure, not paying attention at all to the surgeon’s work. I wanted so badly to take a picture to show the other girls in the program, but of course I couldn’t. It looked like a preschooler’s genitals had been dropped onto a lanky, unconscious man’s frame, and no one had noticed. Perhaps the pre-schooler is being generous…

I didn’t see Dave again for several days, as my schedule kept me out of the hospital and stuck in the classroom. When I finally returned for my next shift, I learned he was awake, stable, and recovering well. I asked a senior nurse if I could be assigned to his care—partly out of duty, partly out of an admittedly juvenile curiosity. I wanted to see it again: his underdeveloped, child-sized appendage.

I was equal parts amused and intrigued. Questions danced in my mind like a catchy tune you can’t stop humming. Was it really as small as I remembered? Had I exaggerated it in my head? Or—God help him—was that truly its resting state?

I went to check on Dave almost immediately. He was in a double room, which could hold two patients, their spaces separated by a curtain. That detail becomes important later. When I entered, the partition was pulled back, and the second bed was empty—he was alone.

Dave lay flat on his bed with his head propped up on his pillow, scrolling through his phone. He looked up at me with innocent, doe-like eyes. He appeared skittish as I approached. Even before I spoke, I could sense that girls made him nervous. A pretty, 23-year-old nurse attending to him while he wore nothing but a paper-thin hospital gown was definitely outside of his comfort zone. His anxiety might have seemed sweet under different circumstances. But—and I am slightly ashamed to admit this—knowing he carried between his legs a penis the size of my pen cap made his bashfulness seem less endearing and more… pitiful.

I greeted him professionally and asked the usual questions: How was he feeling? Had he been eating? Was there any pain or discomfort? I mentioned that I’d been present during his surgery and that his injury had been a nasty one. He immediately went sheepish, avoiding my gaze. I remember that this made me smile. I knew exactly what he was thinking: Did she see it? Does she know about my shameful little secret?

Next, I told Dave I’d need to check his bandages—standard procedure for a laceration like his. I pulled back his blanket and saw blood seeping faintly through the fabric of his gown at the right thigh. Not an alarming amount, but enough to warrant redressing the wound and inspecting the stitches. I informed him calmly.

His gown was tied in the front rather than the back—an accommodation for easy access to the injury. This is where my first true transgression began. Up until now, I hadn’t done anything inappropriate. I hadn’t asked to see Dave naked. I hadn’t sought it out. His tiny, tragic little penis had simply been presented to me in the OR. I was an innocent bystander, a bemused witness.

But now, I had a choice.

I could have preserved his modesty. I could have just slid the gown up over his wound and left his dignity intact. But that’s not what I did. Instead, without so much as a warning, I untied the front of his gown and opened it fully, unveiling his pale, skinny, freshly shaved body in all its awkward glory.

And there it was. The same preschooler-sized half-babycarrot I remembered. Tucked above a pair of tight, underdeveloped testicles that looked like they belonged on a boy, not a man. I stared. I couldn’t help it. I don’t think I smiled, but I’m certain if Dave had looked at my face, he’d have seen the effort it took to suppress one.

I noticed the muscles in his arms twitching, like he wanted to shield himself. But he didn’t. Maybe it was a shame. Maybe it was the unspoken pressure of medical authority. To cover himself would be to admit he felt exposed, insecure, and embarrassed. And I think he knew that I knew.

When I glanced up at his face, it had gone ghost-white. He looked mortified. I felt something unfamiliar. It’s hard to explain the feeling exactly, but it was something like satisfaction.

I was glad he felt humiliated. It felt appropriate. It was like he should feel small and powerless, lying there beneath my eyes, unable to meet them.

As I began to peel away the old bandages, a strange sensation settled in my chest—one I hadn’t named until now. It wasn’t just curiosity that brought me here. Yes, I thought his penis was funny—God, it was hilarious—but there was something else. A quiet, creeping pleasure in his discomfort.

(As I write this particular moment in my confession, I realize that I have never examined why I did what I did. I’ve always told myself it was for my amusement, just curiosity, just a joke in my head. But the truth is murkier. In the detailed retelling of this story, I am confronted with memories of feelings that I don’t think I understood as a younger woman. I suspect that there was a part of me that enjoyed his humiliation. His shame. His stillness. The way he couldn’t look at me. Perhaps it was a bit of sadism that enjoyed twisting the knife and making poor Dave squirm through forced exhibition of his underdeveloped private parts. And if that’s true, and there was (or is) a sadistic streak inside of me, it would certainly explain my impulse to do what I did next.

I seated myself in such a way that his miniature manhood was in my constant eye-line, and took my time removing his old bandages. I moved as slowly as I could – I wanted to prolong his exposure. I could feel his suffering with every excruciating moment. He wanted it to end so badly – to hide his shame from me, but he did nothing to protect his modesty. I was in control, and every second that I made him lie there made him feel smaller and smaller (at least in my mind).

After several painstaking minutes, Dave must have had enough, because he awkwardly shifted positions, acting as if he was trying to get more comfortable, and then let his left hand rest over his exposed penis, trying to hide it from me. He tried to do it casually, as if his hand just happened to land over his exposed genitals.

I remember this being a real rush for me, because up until now, I could only assume that Dave was embarrassed. With a penis as small as his, it seemed inevitable, but only through the act of covering did he undeniably expose himself as being ashamed. I know that I smiled this time. I couldn’t help it, and I know he saw it.

His hand wasn’t in the way. I could have ignored it and finished my work easily. But that’s not what I did. Instead, I gingerly grabbed his wrists and moved his arm back to the side, explaining that I didn’t want to risk his hand slipping and causing more injury to such a new and delicate wound. I forced the boy to uncover himself and expose his embarrassing appendage once again. And after I did it, he said “sorry” like he had done something wrong. I felt powerful, and by contrast, he looked so small.

Once I had the bandages removed, I leaned in and squinted at the wound as if something was off. There wasn’t. It was purely performative. I made some noise of contemplation, as if there might be something wrong, and told him that I should probably get a second opinion to make sure. Dave looked up at me, started, and opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but he couldn’t get the words out. Before I left the room, I helped him to take off his gown completely because he had bled through it and promised to return with a clean one. I put a large gauze pad over the wound and left him there naked and alone. As I left the room, I took one last look at his pale, skinny body sprawled naked on the bed with his little boy genitals looking even sillier from a distance.

“Just sit tight,” I told him. “I’ll be right back.”

I rushed through the hospital hallways with the urgency of a surgeon rushing to save a life. I was looking for other girls from my program. I needed to share this boy’s misfortune; I needed someone else to see and share in the joke.

The girls weren’t hard to find. The ER was slow that day, and within minutes, I had three of them following behind me. I knew all three fairly well—pretty girls I’d gone out drinking with more than once. It’s crazy to think about now, as a 36-year-old woman, how we’d attend med school-level classes on a Friday night, party until 2 A.M., do lines of coke in the club bathroom, and wake up at 7 a.m. to play medical professionals in the ER.

I didn’t tell the girls why I needed them, only that I wanted them to take a look at something. As I ushered them through the hallway, I remember feeling giddy and nervous.

I walked into the room first with the girls following closely. Dave had hidden himself under his blanket. I was glad about that. It gave me an opportunity to unveil him again, but this time with an audience. Only Dave and I knew what was hiding underneath. When I said earlier, his face turned as white as a ghost; that was nothing compared to how he looked when three new, young, hot women walked through the door behind me and stood around his bed, gazing down upon his vulnerable, frail body.

I greeted him professionally, as before. All he said was hi, but he stuttered over the single word. He was terrified. I imagine how helpless he must have felt in this moment, knowing that in mere seconds, he was about to experience the nightmare he had imagined ever since he hit puberty and realized he wasn’t going to develop.

(As I write this, I imagine a life spent trying to hide his inadequacy. He turned his back to change in the locker rooms. Faking sick when friends went skinny dipping. Avoiding intimacy out of fear. All of it leading to this moment—when I pulled back the blanket and put his lack of manhood on unimpeded display for four attractive women under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights.)

I pulled the blanket back in one deliberate stroke, void of any pomp and circumstance or time to brace for the shock. I took another quick look at his half-babycarrot and then up to the faces of the girls.

I was anxious for their reactions. This humiliating exhibition was purely of my creation, and I was giddy to see how my audience responded. I will give the girls the names Jamie, Tina, and Sammy. Initially, all 3 had the same look of tempered shock, with widened eyes and pursed lips, trying to mask their real emotions. It was human. They had no idea that Dave would be naked underneath, nor that he would be exposed in such an unceremonious fashion with no warning or preparation.

Dave’s entire body became rigid and tense. His fists were clenched, and I could see his leg twitch. Jamie stared right at the boyish equipment, just as I had when I first saw it. She was the only one to speak. “I can see why you wanted a second set of eyes on this,” she said, shifting her eyes to his leg to disguise her true intentions, but I heard a smirk in her voice that told me what she really meant. I wondered i Dave did as well.

Sammy looked away and shifted around as if she didn’t know what to do with her body. She would either look to the door, or farther down the patients legs, avoiding eye contact with his penis. Tina just watched with intrigued focus, not making it obvious where she was staring, but there was a spark of amusement in her eyes. It was in all of their eyes, an obvious shared mocking look that made me feel validated in my actions.

I felt empowered by this moment, and all of my previous nerves washed away. I wasn’t some weirdo who was going to be shunned for my immaturity and unprofessionalism. I was part of the group. I felt all four of us shared the same silent truth: we were shocked, amused, dominant—standing over this humiliated boy, silently laughing at his infantile penis.

When I turned back, Dave’s eyes were shut tight, like he was praying that when he opened them, this would all have been a dream. But it wasn’t. When he finally opened his eyes, the four of us were still there, looming over his shaved, naked body with eyes that laughed, silently, in a way I’m sure he’ll remember for the rest of his life.

I began my “consultation” as was necessary to keep the veil of medical investigation. I can’t even recall what anomaly on his leg I invented, but we collectively concluded that it was no cause for immediate concern and that it was safe to proceed and redress the wound. I grabbed my supplies to wrap the leg and put an end to our shameful group humiliation, but then Jamie made a comment that almost ruined the whole facade. A comment that shocked me so much, it almost sent me over the edge.

Jamie was easily my closest friend in the group and by far the most fun and wild. Her comment seemed innocuous to the uninitiated. All she said was, “Do you need the tape, Ms. Lamb?” (Not my real last name.)

It was an inside joke. When a male patient has an injury so close to his appendage, we will sometimes have to tape his genitals out of the way so it doesn’t interfere. Daves penis wasn’t long enough to reach past his balls (which were also quite small), and therefore obviously was not in any risk of interfering with an injury on his thigh. That was the joke. And Jamie had just made it—out loud, in front of him.

Sammy turned away, faking a coughing fit to hide her laughter. It nearly broke me.

I told Jamie it wouldn’t be necessary. I should have left it at that, but that same funny feeling was pressing on my chest. The same feeling that I felt satisfied with Dave’s submission earlier, when we were alone. The same feeling that derived pleasure from Dave’s humiliation. I must have felt empowered by the girl’s standing there with me. Call it a gang mentality, or just call it gang cruelty.

I explained the joke.

In as professional a tone as I could summon, I explained to Dave that USUALLY we would need to tape a penis out of the way with an injury so high on the leg, but in his case it was not necessary.

He just said, “Oh, okay,” but I could see how deeply it cut. And maybe it’s just my imagination, but I swear his tiny little penis shrank even smaller—as if trying to hide itself in shame.

This was the final blow. I had openly mocked his baby parts to his face. He knew, I knew it, and the girls knew it.

This was the end of the ordeal. I wrapped up his leg, much more quickly than my intentionally slow performance of removing them. I felt that the event was finally over. I had humiliated the poor boy enough and cultivated an audience to laugh about the memory with for years. I helped Dave into a new gown with a clean bandage on his leg, and we left.

 

The End.

 

 

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