So, anyway, I sat down in the front row of the "theatre" (and I use that term loosely... in all honesty, I should say, "I sat down in the front row of the room where the big screen projection television was kept"... seriously, it was no more than 20 feet wide at the most... the smallest I've ever seen... but I digress). So, I sat down, and watched the film. I personally liked it. I would have liked it more if I'd known Los Angeles and Wilshire Boulevard better, but the "terror" of the lava was real enough for me. Taking a detour in my drive home to see the buildings that were recreated for the movie only made the movie feel less real... (and anyone who has ever seen a television show taping will know what I'm talking about.)
Tonight, I'm still just taking it easy. I'm writing this and that's about it...
June 24, 1997
Well, later this afternoon I think I'm going to the dermatologist. The reason I say "think" is that the dermatologist is a business partner of Larry's and Larry's going to see him for a bump on his arm. I can go along, but I don't have to.
The reason I'm hesitant, though, is that I'd be going to have him look at my balls; there I said it. --I could have said it more "medically" with scrotum, but I have to remember that there are people reading this who aren't native English speakers... and well, I'm sure "balls" translates.
Anyway, for the last couple of months (if this is too graphic or if you know me, why not just skip ahead to the next entry ) my balls have felt like they've been covered in rubber cement. There's no visible change from how they've always been, but the seem to be "hiding" and rarely come out to play, if you know what I mean. Scratching them only adds to the unpleasantness, and so, I really think they should be looked at and either cultured or whatever. I mean, all I do know is that something is different and I want it back the way it was.
Of course, the idea of going into a doctors office and pulling my pants down isn't exactly the most appealing. Believe it or not, I've never done it before. In Kentucky, if you knew the doctor, you didn't even have to go into the office. For college, I needed a physical, but the doctor simply asked questions about my "underwear region" and never asked me to show him anything. And so, all the way through age 21, I've gotten by without ever showing my stuff to a doctor.
Yeah, I know it's slightly crazy. It's not like doctors haven't seen a million and no one's ever recoiled in fear after I took my underwear off , but still, the idea of showing myself to someone who's not really interested in seeing it, just gets me nervous.
When Larry and I arrived at the parking lot for the doctor's office, I was still nervous about having to drop my drawers... or, well, having to hike up my shorts. (I purposely wore those basketball type shorts, with the loose legs, so that I could simply raise one of the legs and still keep a degree of clothedness. ).
Anyway, as we began travelling upwards in the elevator, I tried calming myself and managed to get a good grip on it... until we walked into the doctors office. The doctor waved to Larry and then the secretary said "Hi Larry." Oh wonderful, everyone knew him and I was there to show my cootie infested balls.
After a couple minutes in the lobby, the nurse called Larry back... remember, the appointment was for Larry, not Larry and me. So, I walked back with him and stood silently as the nurse asked him what the problem was. He said that he had some spots on his arms that he wanted looked at, and then she headed out.
When the doctor came in, Larry and he began talking... and talking... and talking. I just wanted to pull my shorts up, get the diagnosis and go, but they were talking shop... forever.
Eventually, the doctor asked Larry what he wanted him to look at and Larry showed him the spots... little warts, no big deal, he'd simply freeze them off. As the doctor got up and was heading out the door to get the liquid nitrogen, Larry told him there was one more thing... and looked at me.
I hiked up my shorts and said that I couldn't see anything but that they seemed to itch a lot more than before. I moved them around, giving him the view at all angles, and then he said he couldn't see anything. He said that if it were a fungus, it would be red and perhaps scaly and it was neither. He said he'd give me some moisturized, but basically, it was determined that I was crazy: I'd whipped my balls out there for nothing.
Of course, he didn't give me the moisturizer: the nurse did. OK, OK, now in hindsight, I doubt he told her, "Give the younger guy the blah-blah moisturizer for his scrotum," but at the time, all I could think was that she was wondering about my balls.
So, the doctor froze the warts on Larry's arm and we headed out. I survived the ordeal... and I guess a little embarrassment from thinking I had something is better than actually having something
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© 1997 Justin Clouse