Sleeping At The Wheel

“Okay, here we go.”

The doctor was doing her best to keep me relaxed for the procedure, an activity which required her to probe a part of my body that, as a rule, is rarely probed. But the exam room was dimly lit, and I was able to enjoy the sound of a light rain bouncing off the exterior windows.

Her instructions continued.

“Okay, what you want to do is take a deep breath and squeeze ‘up.’”

“Squeeze up?” I inquired. I was laying on my side, facing away from the good doctor, thank goodness. She was attractive and, considering what she was doing . . . um . . . in the depths, eye contact would have been difficult at best. At worst, impossible.

“Yes. When you squeeze, try to pull my finger up.” She was disturbingly matter of fact. Clearly, I wasn’t her first.

To the best of my ability, I did as I was told and received appropriate encouragement for doing so. To my surprise, I was enjoying our little tete-a-tete, the initial feelings of vulnerability waning, now replaced with the warmth of acceptance. As I basked in the glory of the strength of my pelvic floor, a thought occurred to me.

Was our newfound intimacy enough on which to build a relationship?

I doubted it, at least in the moment, so I let the errant thought go and returned my focus back to her confident instructions.

Sadly, this part of the examination lasted less than two minutes.

“You did well.” She sounded sincere and didn’t giggle at all, not even a little. “I’ll step out while you get dressed.”

I wondered if her absence during the redressing process was necessary. After all, by then she’d pretty much seen everything there was to see. But I wisely kept my mouth shut, and waited for her to leave before hopping off the exam table and pulling my pants up. After a final question and answer, she reviewed behaviors that might help calm my precocious bladder. Review complete, she closed her notebook.

“I think you should make one more appointment.” She was looking over from the small desk positioned opposite the exam table.

“How come?” I asked, mainly to maintain what I perceived to be some sort of doctor’s office decorum. Had she told me to make ten more appointments, I would have happily done so.

“I want to hook you to these electrodes so you can practice controlling your pelvic floor.” She held up three wires of different colors, each terminating to a disposable, sticky felt pad.

I smiled. “You had me at electrodes.”

She laughed. I made her laugh. “See you next week.”

I drove out of the rainy parking lot feeling hopeful. Would my next appointment be as much fun as this one? I couldn’t know, but I found the addition of electricity to the proceedings more exciting than was (likely) healthy.

Where would she put the electrodes, I asked the windshield. The windshield did not respond.

The week passed in slow anticipation and I struggled with my emotions. Should I send flowers? After what we shared in the exam room, I believed at least one of us should receive a bouquet, but which? I spent some time contemplating the idea but rejected it. I felt it was too early in our relationship for the giving and receiving of flowers.

I’m not sure why.

The rationale resulted from a mish mash of reasons, which included questions about who had more power in our little confederation (her), higher annual income (probably her), and who was more committed to the relationship (definitely me). Despite all this, I chose not to muddy the waters.

Better safe than sorry.

The big day arrived, and I walked into her office with a mix of trepidation and hopeful anxiety. Surely, whatever was going to happen with the electrodes would be well and truly life changing.

She was waiting for me at the check-in desk.

“You ready to go?”

I stuttered. “Uh . . . yup.” How should have I responded? It’s not like running low-key electricity through my groin was a daily occurrence. At least not yet.

“Follow me.”

She led me back to “our” exam room and, after closing the door, held up the contraption that would help teach me to “relax” during potty time.

“I attach these three wires to you and then run them back to this,” she held up the boxy control unit. “It will help you judge when you’re contracting and relaxing.”

I nodded obediently, imagining her in a leather jumper, holding a whip.

Finally, the moment of truth.

With perfunctory professionalism, she attached the three sticky electrodes to strategic sections of my posterior before instructing me to pull up my pants, making sure the wires were sticking out at the waist. My impression was that of a robot with a charging plug hidden somewhere below my belt line?

She handed me the control unit. Did I detect a slight smile on her face?

“Now, squeeze really hard.” My squeeze scored better than a 2.5. She was clearly pleased. “That’s good. Now relax. You want the needle to be no higher than 1.” I took a deep breath and scored a 1. She had me repeat this action in standing, sitting, and prone positions, the last being the most fun, and a few minutes later I could contract and relax at will.

I loved every minute of it.

When it was all over, she handed me her business card and told me to call if I needed her. We shook hands. I was hoping for more, of course. A hug. Maybe a hearty slap on the ass. Neither was forthcoming, but I did not leave hopeless. I had her card and would definitely contrive a reason to see her again.

I stopped at the jewelry store on my way home. A man can dream.