Dr. Treeknuckle

I had been having some unusual urinary symptoms lately, so I made an appointment with the only urologist in town, Dr. Holden Treeknuckle. I laughed to myself at his name, but I knew that wasn’t very cool, so I dismissed such insensitivity to pursue what I needed for my health.

His office was simple, but it was clean. I approached the desk.

“Hello,” I greeted the receptionist, “I have an appointment.”

“So you do,” she replied.

“You know, with one of the ol’ pecker-checkers,” I joked. She rolled her eyes. “Oh, you’ve heard that one?” I asked her. Obviously, she had, ad nauseam.

“Heard ’em all, funny guy,” she said curtly. “Pole Patrol, Wang Gang, Dong Throng, Dick Clique, Peter Treater…should I go on?”

“No. I get it. Sorry.”

“Yeah, it gets old fast.”

She handed me some papers to sign. I noticed they were on yellow stationery, which I pointed out to her.

“Yellow? Dr. Treeknuckle have a sense of humor does he?” I asked.

“Really? Now, with wee wee jokes?”

“Wee wee? Is that what you call it?”

“No. We’re professionals here,” she told me in a scolding monotone.

“Of course. Sorry, again.”

I signed them in all the right spots and was invited to take a seat; and, presumably, to shut up.

After about a half-hour, a professional-looking man came to the door. He had on a starched white coat. So, we meet, I thought to myself. Dr. Treeknuckle didn’t look anything like I expected. He was young, and he was—quite handsome—if you really want to know. I mean, I’m heterosexual, but I know when someone’s nice-looking when I see it.

He led me down a corridor until he directed me to go through the third door on the right. I did.

“Please, if you would,” he instructed me, “take everything off and put on that gown.”

“Everything?” I asked.

“C’mon,” he chuckled, “you know the drill.”

“I suppose so,” I admitted meekly. This was because the drill, I realized, was going to be his finger up my ass.

Prostates are like that.

“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes. Will that give you enough time?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, certainly,” I answered.

Those gowns. Ridiculous things. Making your ass hang out of the back, with fastening tie ribbons impossible to fetch around your back. Still, this was what I needed. I wanted to nip any small problems in the bud before they grew into bigger ones, or—worse—unsalvageable ones.

With my clothes folded ever so neatly on the chair, I hopped up on the exam table, tucking the runaway open gown edges under me to keep the whole affair closed.

I waited.

Finally, after about ten minutes, there was a knock at the door. I grunted my approval and he peeked back in.

“Ready?” he asked. I spied the latex glove he was holding in one hand, the tube of KY jelly in the other.

“Sure,” I responded.

“OK, then. Hop off the table and stand at the end of it, facing forward. Yeah, that’s it. Perfect. Now bend over, please.”

I did.

I knew what was coming. But I also knew that in just a moment I would be dressed again and on my way out of Dr. Treeknuckle’s office, with peace of mind.

I bent forward onto the end of the table.

“Please spread your cheeks for me,” he requested. With my own hands—because I would wonder about the exam if I knew he was using his own two hands to do it—I did it.

Then he did…

It.

It’s a milking type of massage motion that renders a feeling as strange as no one could conceive. I was glad to be getting it over with.

He lingered, digit-in-ano, however, for what seemed like an inappropriate period of time.

“How ’bout those Knicks!” he said, making polite conversation decidedly away from anatomy, glands, or orifices.

“Yeah, they’re something,” I grunted. “What’s taking so long? Did you find it?”

“Oh, I found it alright. And it’s a beauty! It’s just that I’m stuck. I can’t get out!”

“Really?”

“Nah, I’m just messin’ with you. Ha!”

“Ha!” I agreed, begrudgingly.

Then he was out. I heard the snap of latex behind me and I knew the glove was off. It was over. I had persevered. It hadn’t really been all that bad.

“Thank you, sir,” he chirped in a friendly tone. “That’s all for me right now. So, just stay here and wait a little longer. I’m sure Dr. Treeknuckle will be coming to see you in just a few.”

“Wait!” I blurted, but he was gone. And Dr. Treeknuckle seemed angry when I told him. He opened the door and hollered to the receptionist.

“Call goddamn security. He came back again.”

“Christ!” the receptionist hollered back.

“Who?” I asked. “Who came back again?”

“Oh, just my former physician’s assistant. We had to let him go for all of the obvious reasons. But don’t worry,” Dr. Treeknuckle added, “he’s trained and all. He knows what he’s doing.”

“That’s good to know,” I said.

“At least we don’t need any more KY. Bend over please, if you would. And how ’bout them Knicks?”