The Examination
An SPH Experience by VaderSomething.
The next morning it was worse. Not agonizing—just this dull, persistent throb sitting low in my groin, like a heartbeat that had migrated to the wrong part of my body. I took some ibuprofen and went to work. By the third day, it hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had settled into something constant enough that I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
I called the local surgery that afternoon. The receptionist told me the earliest available appointment was in two weeks, but if I wanted to be put on the cancellation list, she’d call me if anything opened up. I said yes, hung up, and went back to work.
At seven the next morning, she called. Someone had canceled for eleven fifteen. Did I want it? I said yes.
I’ve been seeing the same doctor for years. Dr. Ferguson. She’s in her early sixties, silver hair, glasses on a chain, the kind of woman who has a calm, no-nonsense manner that makes you feel like everything is going to be fine. She’s been my GP since I was a teenager. She’s seen me through everything—stomach bugs, a broken wrist, a particularly nasty bout of tonsillitis. I’ve never felt awkward with her. She’s clinical and thorough and has a way of making you feel like you’re just another item on her list, which, honestly, is exactly what you want from a doctor.
I arrived at the surgery at eleven. The waiting room was half-full—mostly older people, a mum with a toddler, a guy in a hi-vis jacket staring at his phone. I sat down, picked up a magazine I had no interest in, and waited.
At eleven twenty-two—doctors are never on time—my name was called. But it wasn’t the usual thing where the receptionist buzzes you through. Dr. Ferguson herself appeared in the doorway of her consulting room and called my name.
I stood up, walked over, and followed her in.
And then I stopped.
There was someone else in the room. A younger woman, sitting in the chair beside the doctor’s desk. She was wearing a white blouse, dark trousers, and a lanyard with an ID badge hanging from her neck. She looked up and smiled as I walked in.
“This is Dr. Patel,” Dr. Ferguson said, gesturing toward the younger woman. “She’s a junior doctor. She’s spending the day with me, shadowing. Do you mind if she sits in?”
Dr. Patel stood up slightly, a polite half-rise, and nodded. “Nice to meet you.”
She was South Asian—Indian, maybe, or Pakistani—with dark brown eyes, smooth olive skin, and black hair pulled back in a neat bun. She was young. Twenty-five, maybe twenty-six. She was, and I’m not exaggerating, genuinely beautiful. Not in a clinical, sterile way. In a way that was immediately, uncomfortably obvious. High cheekbones, full lips, a small nose. She had the kind of face that would make you stammer if she asked you a question in a coffee shop.
And she was going to be in the room while I explained why my groin hurt.
“Sure,” I said. “That’s fine.”
I sat down in the patient chair across from the desk. Dr. Ferguson settled into her seat, and Dr. Patel pulled her chair slightly to the side, angling herself so she could see both the doctor and me.
“So what brings you in today?” Dr. Ferguson asked, opening her computer.
I explained. Tennis. The reaching forehand. The twinge. The dull ache that hadn’t gone away in three days. I kept it clinical, matter-of-fact. Groin pain. Tennis. Three days. That’s all.
Dr. Ferguson nodded, typing. “Any swelling? Any visible bruising?”
“No.”
“Any pain when you cough?”
“A little. Not much.”
“Any pain during urination?”
“No.”
She turned away from the screen and looked at me. “Right. It sounds like it could be a groin strain—quite common with tennis, especially if you’re not warming up properly. But we should rule out a hernia, just to be safe.”
“Okay.”
“Do you mind if I check?”
“No, that’s fine.”
I said it before I really thought about it. The words came out automatically, the way they always do at the doctor’s office. You agree to things. That’s what you do. You trust the person in the white coat, say yes, and then deal with whatever comes next.
“If you could stand up for me,” Dr. Ferguson said, pushing her chair back slightly, “take down your shorts and underwear, and I’ll have a look.”
And that’s when it hit me.
Take down your shorts and underwear.
In front of Dr. Ferguson, who I’ve known for years and who has probably seen my genitals at some point when I was younger and it didn’t matter.
And in front of Dr. Patel. Twenty-five. Beautiful. Sitting three feet away. Watching.
A shudder ran through me. Not a visible one—I don’t think—but something that went from the back of my neck down through my chest and into my stomach. The kind of full-body premonition that tells you something bad is about to happen, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.
I stood up. My hands went to my belt. I fumbled with the buckle—it’s one of those leather ones with the two prongs, and of course, today of all days, it decided to be difficult. My fingers felt thick and clumsy. I could feel Dr. Patel’s eyes on me. Not staring—she was being professional—but she was watching. That’s what she was here to do. Watch and learn.
I got the belt undone. Unbuttoned the shorts. Unzipped. Let them drop to my ankles. Stepped out of them. Now I was standing in my boxer briefs and a t-shirt, in a doctor’s office, with two women looking at me.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my boxer briefs and pulled them down.
And there it was.
My cock. My circumcised, frightened, pathetically shriveled little cock.
Let me explain something. Normally, I groom. I trim the pubic hair short—not completely shaved, but trimmed down to maybe half a centimeter. And I shave the base of my shaft, the area right above my dick, so that what little length I have isn’t buried in a thicket of hair. It’s a trick. An optical illusion. It doesn’t make my dick bigger, but it makes it look less small, less like it’s hiding.
I hadn’t done any of that in over two months.
I’d been busy. I’d been lazy. I’d been single for a while, and there was no one around to care, so I’d let it go. And what had grown in was thick, dark, and completely unchecked. A full, wild bush of pubic hair spreading across my groin, up toward my navel, down onto my thighs, and worst of all, right around the base of my cock.
And my cock—my cock had shrunk. The same way it always does when I’m nervous, when I’m cold, when I’m in any situation where I really, really don’t want it to be small. It had retreated into itself like a turtle pulling its head into its shell. It was maybe two inches long. Circumcised, so the head was exposed—this little pink knob sitting on top of a thin, contracted shaft. And around it, framing it perfectly, was this massive, untamed halo of pubic hair.
It looked like a lion’s head. That’s exactly what it looked like. A tiny, shriveled, pink little lion’s face surrounded by a wild, dark mane. The hair was so thick and so long that my cock actually looked smaller than it was—which, honestly, it didn’t need any help with. It was already small. The hair just made it look like it was being swallowed.
My balls had pulled up tight against my body, squeezed into two small, hard lumps at the base, barely visible through the hair. The whole package—cock, balls, hair—looked like it belonged on a frightened animal trying to make itself as small as possible.
I stood there, naked from the waist down, and I could feel the air in the room. I could feel the silence. I could feel Dr. Patel’s gaze drop to my groin and then quickly come back up.
Dr. Ferguson didn’t react. At least, not visibly. She’d seen it all before, I’m sure. She pulled on a pair of latex gloves with a practiced snap and leaned forward.
“Okay, I’m going to check for a hernia. You might feel some pressure.”
She reached forward with one hand and pressed her fingers into my groin, just above the crease where my thigh meets my torso. She pushed in, feeling for something. I felt a dull ache—not the examination, just the strain being aggravated.
“Now, I’m going to check the testicles,” she said. She shifted her hand down, cupping underneath my balls, and pressed upward. “Cough for me.”
I coughed. Nothing happened. No bulge, no protrusion.
“Again.”
I coughed again.
She moved to the other side. Same thing. Fingers pressing into the left groin, then under my balls, then the cough. Her fingers were cold through the latex, and every time she touched me, I could feel my cock trying to retract even further. Like it was trying to disappear entirely.
And the whole time, she was talking.
“So what we’re looking for,” she said, turning slightly toward Dr. Patel, “is any bulging or protrusion through the abdominal wall. You can see here—” she pressed her fingers into the inguinal canal on my right side, “—the external ring. If there’s a hernia, you’ll feel a distinct bulge when the patient coughs. Sometimes you can even see it.”
Dr. Patel leaned forward. She was sitting maybe two feet away from me now. Her eyes dropped to my groin—not in a rude way, not in a lingering way, but in the way that someone who is learning looks at the thing they’re supposed to be learning about. She was looking at Dr. Ferguson’s fingers, at the area being examined.
But to get a good look, she had to look at the whole area. And the whole area was my hairy, shriveled, pathetic little package.
“Yes,” Dr. Patel said. “I can see.”
Dr. Ferguson moved her fingers to the left side. “Same thing on this side. You want to feel the difference between the two sides. Sometimes one ring is wider than the other.”
She guided Dr. Patel’s hand toward me. “Here, feel.”
And then Dr. Patel’s fingers—her slim, brown, manicured fingers—were pressing into my groin. Right next to my cock. Right next to the thick bush of hair that I hadn’t trimmed in two months. Right next to my tiny, terrified, shriveled-up little penis.
She pressed. I coughed. She pressed again. I coughed again.
Her fingers were warm. Softer than Dr. Ferguson’s. She was being gentle—too gentle, almost, like she was afraid of hurting me. Or maybe she was just trying not to touch anything she wasn’t supposed to.
“Good,” Dr. Ferguson said. “What do you feel?”
“I don’t think there’s any bulge,” Dr. Patel said.
“Correct. No hernia.”
Dr. Patel withdrew her hand. Her eyes flickered down to my cock one more time—just for a second, just a glance—and then she sat back in her chair.
I’m sure it was nothing. A reflex. A natural thing. But I saw it. And I know what she saw. She saw a grown man standing in front of her with a penis the size of her thumb, surrounded by a forest of unkempt pubic hair, looking like a frightened little boy who’d lost his swimming trunks.
“That’s fine, you can get dressed,” Dr. Ferguson said, pulling off her gloves.
I grabbed my boxer briefs from the floor and pulled them up so fast I almost tripped. I yanked my shorts on, buckled the belt—still fumbling, still clumsy—and sat back down in the chair.
Dr. Ferguson was already typing. “It looks like a groin strain. Nothing serious. I’d recommend rest, ice, and ibuprofen for the next week or so. If the pain hasn’t improved after ten days, come back, and we’ll look at it again.”
She printed a prescription. Handed it to me. I took it.
“Any questions?”
“No. No, that’s fine. Thank you.”
I stood up. Dr. Patel smiled at me—polite, professional, the same smile she’d had when I walked in. But there was something in her eyes. Something I couldn’t quite read. Amusement? Pity? Or maybe I was imagining it. Maybe I was projecting my own humiliation onto a perfectly normal interaction.
“Thank you,” I said again, and walked out.
I made it through the waiting room, past the reception desk, through the front doors, and into the car park before I let out the breath I’d been holding.
I sat in my car for a long time. The engine was off. The windows were up. I just sat there, staring at the steering wheel.
And then, unbidden, unwanted, my brain produced the image:
The two of them, alone in the room now. The door closed. Dr. Ferguson turning to Dr. Patel with a knowing look.
“He’s only got a little one, hasn’t he?”
And Dr. Patel, covering her mouth, laughing softly.
“I know! I couldn’t believe it. I was trying not to stare.”
“And the hair! Didn’t he ever hear of trimming?”
“Like a little acorn in a nest!”
I shook my head. They wouldn’t say that. They’re professionals. They’ve seen hundreds of patients. Thousands, probably. My penis was nothing special—not in either direction. Just a small, ordinary, slightly-below-average penis that happened to be having a very bad day. They wouldn’t remember it. They wouldn’t talk about it. They’d move on to the next patient and forget I’d ever been there.
That’s what I told myself.
But I haven’t been back to the surgery since. And next time I need to go, I’m going to ask if Dr. Ferguson has any appointments where she’s working alone.
The End.
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