The Urologist’s Exam Ended Differently

What nobody tells you properly about the aches and pains of getting older is that. They drop them on you in stray phrases: look after your back, watch your blood pressure, don’t forget your sugar. And then one day you realize those aches and pains aren’t reminders anymore, but neighbors who moved in to stay with you. I turned sixty-two two months ago, I’ve been insulin-dependent diabetic since I was forty, and for some time I’d been dragging around something I preferred not to name: a dull pain when I urinated and the feeling that something down there wasn’t working the way it used to.

My wife died eleven years ago. Since then I’ve lived alone in an apartment in downtown Rosario, with two plants I water badly and a fat cat named Cipriano. I had long since given up on my sex life. Not for lack of desire, but because diabetes brought me an erectile dysfunction that spared me the hassle of looking for comfort anywhere else. Or so I told myself.

When my family doctor referred me to the urologist, I hesitated before dialing the number. There’s something old-fashioned, almost childish, about imagining that a stranger is going to stick a finger up your ass to feel around a gland. I put off the appointment for two weeks. I’d make it, cancel it, make it again. Until the pain decided for me.

The office was on a quiet street, in an old building with a yellow facade. The waiting room had worn-out armchairs and an aquarium with no fish. The secretary, a woman in her fifties with her hair pulled back in a tight bun, had me sign a form and told me Doctor Aguirre would see me in five minutes.

Doctor Aguirre. The name sounded like a literature professor’s.

I wasn’t prepared for what came out when the office door opened. The man who invited me in had to be my age, maybe a couple of years older. Tall, broad-shouldered, with gray-streaked hair cut very short and a jaw marked by stubble. He wore a dark blue polo shirt under his open lab coat. He had that look of a man who aged well, without hiding the gray or the wrinkles, and it suited him damned well.

“Good afternoon, Eduardo,” he said, extending his hand. “Come in, come in. Would you like some water?”

I said no. I sat down in the chair across from his desk and tried not to stare too much.

We talked first about the obvious: when the pain had started, how often I got up at night to urinate, what medication I took for diabetes. His voice was deep, calm. He asked his questions looking me in the eye, without the haste of a public clinic, and I answered feeling more exposed than the matter really warranted.

“I’m going to have to do a digital rectal exam,” he said after a while, almost as if asking permission. “It’s uncomfortable, I know. But at your age and with your history, it’s the first thing worth ruling out.”

“I know,” I replied. “I came prepared.”

The phrase came out with a tone that sounded more suggestive than I intended. Or maybe not. He raised an eyebrow just enough to let me know he’d caught it, and kept going as if nothing had happened.

“Good. Go behind the screen, lower your pants and underwear to your knees, and lie on your side on the exam table, with your knees drawn up toward your chest. We’re going to take this calmly.”

The screen was made of worn green fabric. Behind it there was an exam table, a stool, and a metal cart with gloves, gauze, and a tube of lubricant. I recognized the brand; it was the same one that had sat on my nightstand for years, unused by anyone with me.

As I pulled my pants down, I heard my own heartbeat. It wasn’t fear. It was something else, something that had been kept tucked away for a very long time.

I hadn’t been nervous about anyone in decades.

The doctor came in already wearing gloves. He sat on the stool at hip level and rested his gloved hand on my hip, just above the bone.

“You’re going to feel a little cold from the lubricant. Breathe normally. If it bothers you, tell me.”

“It won’t bother me,” I said, and again I felt the sentence come out without me choosing its tone.

He paused for a moment. I felt it. Then he opened the tube, dripped a generous amount of gel onto his fingers and, with his other hand, parted my buttocks with a tenderness that didn’t seem strictly clinical. He ran his thumb along the crack of my ass, up and down, smearing me, making me slick before he even tried to enter. I felt the cold of the gel run down my perineum and drip onto my balls, and he let it drip, without drying it, as if he were amused to see me wet down there.

The first contact was exactly what the manual said: the index finger pressing slowly, entering carefully. What mattered was what came after. Instead of pulling out quickly, as hurried doctors do, Doctor Aguirre lingered. He moved his finger in circles, pushed deeper to the knuckle, held it still, moved it again. He found a swollen spot in there and pressed it slowly with the pad of his finger, and a gasp escaped me that had nothing medical about it anymore. He pressed again. And again. Every time he brushed that area, I felt an electric tug running down to my cock, making it rise against the paper on the exam table. He was palpating a prostate, yes, but he was also making my body understand that this was something else.

And my body understood.

I hadn’t gotten hard without pills in years. Years. And there, lying on my side on an exam table with someone else’s finger all the way up my ass, I felt my crotch filling in a way I no longer remembered. My cock throbbed against my thigh, thick, hard in a way I couldn’t remember, the tip already wetting my skin. I let out a groan. Just one, but enough.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, and from his tone I knew perfectly well he knew it didn’t.

“No.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

There was a long silence. His finger was still inside, moving with a patience that was almost cruel. He went in and out, twisted, and every two or three thrusts he pressed my prostate again with a precision that made me grit my teeth against the paper sheet. With his other hand, the one that had parted my buttocks, he started stroking the inside of my thigh, up and down, never quite reaching my balls. Grazing but not touching. I couldn’t see his face. I could only hear his breathing, heavier than before, and the wet sound of the gel every time his finger went in and out.

“Eduardo,” he said in a low voice, “what I’m going to ask you isn’t medical.”

“I know.”

“Has it been a long time since you…”

“A long time.”

“With a man, ever?”

“Never.”

I felt him slowly withdraw his finger, and then the pressure of his open hand on my hip. He turned me until I was lying on my back. My cock stood up against my stomach, and he looked at it without hiding it, with a half-smile that was almost proud. His lab coat had opened fully. The bulge in his pants was pronounced, and he did nothing to hide it. On the contrary: he adjusted himself over the fabric with his hand, slowly, so I could see the size of the thing pushing from inside.

“If you tell me to stop right now, I’ll stop,” he murmured. “If you tell me to go on, we lock the door and keep going. What you decide stays between you and me.”

I had no words. I nodded. Not even a full nod, just a movement of my chin. He understood it as a signature.

He stood up, went to the office door, and locked it. When he came back, he wasn’t wearing the lab coat anymore. He had taken it off and left it on the desk chair. Under the blue polo his chest was broad, still firm for his age, with hair peeking out at the collar of the shirt.

“Take everything off,” he said, and for the first time his voice stopped being the doctor’s.

I obeyed. I took off my pants completely, removed my shoes, my socks, my shirt. I sat on the exam table naked, my hard cock pointing at my navel, with the body of a sixty-two-year-old man who hasn’t looked in mirrors for a long time. And he, instead of noticing what I was noticing, came closer and ran his palm over my chest, my stomach, my thighs, slowly, like someone recognizing familiar ground for the first time. He went down to my cock, grasped it at the base with his whole hand and weighed it, not stroking me, just feeling its weight and hardness in his palm.

“Look at that,” he murmured. “And you said it wouldn’t get hard.”

“I haven’t seen it like this in years.”

“Relax,” he said. “There’s no rush here.”

He ran his thumb over the tip, caught the drop that had surfaced there, and brought it to his mouth. He licked it from his finger while looking me in the eye. I felt my ass clench on its own, around the emptiness his finger had left behind.

Then he undressed. First the polo, then the pants. He had the body of a man who looked after what he could: moderate belly, pectorals that had drooped but still showed shape, strong legs. When he lowered his underwear, I saw his dick for the first time. Thick, long, already hard, curving slightly upward, with a dense nest of gray-streaked hair and heavy balls hanging beneath. The tip gleamed, already wet. Seeing it took my breath away.

“Want to try it?” he asked, again with the intonation of someone who already knows the answer.

I didn’t answer with words. I dropped to my knees on the clinic floor, on the cold carpet, and took it into my mouth. The first other man’s cock of my life at sixty-two, and I took it like I’d done it a thousand times. The texture surprised me. Soft skin moving over absolute hardness. The salty taste of pre-cum filled my tongue immediately. The way he rested his hand on the back of my neck, not pushing, just guiding.

“Like that, slowly,” he murmured. “Take it out, look at it, suck the tip. That’s it. Now down, as far as you can.”

I obeyed every instruction. I pulled his cock out of my mouth, ran my tongue over the head, took it back in trying to get deeper each time. Saliva gathered at the corner of my mouth and dripped down my chin to my chest, and he used it, smearing my cock with two fingers, making it slick so it would go in better. I grabbed his balls with one hand, weighed them, squeezed them gently, and he let out a hoarse groan that filled me with a strange kind of pride. I sucked what I could. I probably didn’t know how to do it properly, but he didn’t seem to care. When he pulled out to breathe, he rubbed it over my cheek, over my beard, dragged it across my closed lips so I’d have to open them again.

“Open,” he said. “Come on, open your mouth for me.”

And I opened it. He said things in a low voice, things you don’t hear a doctor say: how much he liked it, how well a beginner did, how obvious it was that I’d been waiting for this for years without knowing it. That I had the mouth of a man who had pretended for too long. Every word burned somewhere new, and with every word I took him deeper myself, until he pressed the tip against my throat and then I felt it for real, gag reflex and all, and he loosened up and let me breathe.

“Perfect,” he whispered. “You learn fast.”

When I felt his whole body tense, when his balls tightened against his body and his cock swelled even more in my mouth, he pulled my head away.

“Not like that,” he said. “The first one isn’t getting wasted.”

He lifted me off the floor by the armpits, almost effortlessly, and laid me face down on the exam table again. This time he didn’t bend my knees. He pushed me down with his open hand on my back and, with the other, reached for the tube of lubricant again. He parted my buttocks with his left hand, exposing the hole, and squirted the cold stream straight in there, dripping all the way to my balls.

“I’m going to go slow,” he said. “If it hurts, tell me.”

And then, just as he was leaning over me, I heard the noise. The office lock. A tiny click, almost imperceptible. The door opened a crack and the secretary’s bun appeared through the gap. She didn’t come in. She just stood there, watching, with the master key still in her hand. Doctor Aguirre looked at her over his shoulder without taking his fingers off my ass.

“It’s fine, Marta,” he said, still touching me. “Stay if you want.”

She didn’t answer. She closed the door behind her softly and stayed standing against the wall next to the screen. She didn’t say a word the whole time. She just watched, arms crossed under her breasts, without blinking.

I should have been embarrassed. Maybe ten years ago I would have been. But at that moment I only felt that woman was part of the room, like the metal cart or the green screen, and that her gaze made everything feel even more real. I didn’t cover myself. Aguirre didn’t either. On the contrary: he parted my buttocks even wider so she could see too, so she would understand too.

When he put it in me, he did it for real. First one finger, with more gel now, all the way in, hooking upward to brush my prostate again. Then two, and there I felt the stretch, the discomfort at first turning into something else as he kept insisting. Then three, opening me with painstaking patience, twisting them, spreading them inside so I would relax. I moaned into the paper sheet, and every moan sounded alien, as if it came from a man who hadn’t been me until that afternoon. My cock was flattened against the table, leaking, leaving a wet stain on the paper. Marta was still against the wall, motionless, but I could feel her looking at me there, looking at my open ass and his three fingers going in and out with a wet sound.

“Look how it opens,” he told her over his shoulder. “Like it’s been waiting for this all its life.”

Marta didn’t answer. I buried my face in the paper.

“Ready?” he asked me.

“Yes.”

He pulled his fingers out and rested the tip of his cock against the hole. I felt it first as a weight, round, broad, much bigger than three fingers. He pushed gently, insisted, and at one point the ring gave way and he shoved it in halfway with one long push. I let out a muffled cry against the sheet. It wasn’t from pain. It was from the shock of having something so alive inside me.

“Hold on,” he said, still, not moving. “Breathe. Hold on and breathe.”

I stayed still under him, with that other man’s cock driven halfway into my ass, feeling my body adjust to the impossible. Then the rest, slowly, in short thrusts that kept gaining ground. Each push drove him in a little farther and each retreat left me gasping. When he was all the way in, when I felt his balls resting against mine and the hair of his pubis brushing my buttocks, he went still. He gripped my hips with both hands. I heard him let out a long sigh, as if he, too, had been waiting years for this.

“All the way in now,” he said in my ear. “It’s all the way in. See? You could do it.”

“I’ve got it all,” I repeated, hearing my voice break.

Then he started moving. At first carefully, measuring me, pulling out almost entirely and sliding back in slowly, so I could feel it properly, so I could learn what this was. Then deeper, faster, fuller. He grabbed my hips with both hands and started fucking me hard, with a long, deep rhythm, slamming into my ass with a wet flesh-on-flesh sound that filled the office. I clutched the edge of the exam table, knuckles white, and with every thrust a grunt escaped me that I didn’t even recognize as my own. I felt my face against the paper, felt the sweat of his body sticking to my back, felt his balls knocking against mine with every movement, felt even— and that was the strangest part— Marta’s gaze like another hand, passing through me from the wall.

“So tight,” he gasped against my nape. “So tight, like it’s never been used. You never used it, did you? Not even one finger of your own, in sixty-two years.”

“Never,” I managed to say.

“Look at him, Marta,” he told the woman without stopping. “Look how he takes it.”

I heard her move for the first time. A rustle of fabric. One step, then another, coming closer. I felt her beside the table, almost over me, looking down at me. She didn’t touch me. She just watched. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her dark skirt, her hands resting on the edge of the table, very close to my fingers. And instead of frightening me, it made me lift my ass a little more for him, for both of them.

Aguirre noticed. He gave a low, rough laugh.

“Look at that, look how he asks for it.”

He changed the rhythm. He withdrew almost all the way and slammed into me at once, all the way in, searching for my prostate again from inside. When he found it, every thrust hit me right there, and my whole belly clenched. I felt my cock, flattened against the table, getting even harder without anyone touching it. Something began building down below, a deep tug, different from the one I knew, as if the orgasm were assembling itself somewhere else.

“I’m going to come,” I panted against the paper. “Without touching myself, I’m going to come.”

“Hold on,” he said, not slowing down. “Hold on a little longer for me.”

I couldn’t. On the third thrust into that spot, I let go. I felt my cum shoot out in spurts against the table, without having laid a finger on myself, an orgasm so long and so deep it bent my arms and made me press my face into the paper. My ass tightened around him with each wave, and he let out a savage groan.

“There it is,” he gasped. “There it is. That’s how men come.”

He kept thrusting while I was still shaking, using the tremor in my body, and in two or three more pushes he buried himself all the way and came inside me. I felt it, hot and abundant, spurt after spurt, and I knew from his sudden stillness that he’d been holding it for weeks. He stayed on top of me for a long while, breathing against my neck, still inside, feeling his cock emptying itself in my ass in pulses.

I don’t know how long it all lasted. Ten minutes, fifteen, an hour. Time on an exam table doesn’t measure the same way.

When he finally came out, he did it gently. I felt him slip out slowly, and behind his cock I noticed a warm thread running from my perineum to my balls: it was him, leaking out of me. Marta saw it too. She lowered her eyes, followed the trail. Aguirre made a small gesture with his head. She nodded and left the office, closing the door again without a sound.

“Are you okay?” he asked me.

“I’m fine.”

He brought me a small towel from the adjoining bathroom, one of those doctors only use. He cleaned me himself, with a care that made me close my eyes. He wiped the towel over my buttocks, between my buttocks, over my balls, over my stomach where my own cum had stuck to the paper. Then he dressed, put the lab coat back on as if nothing had happened, and returned to the desk while I sat up.

When I came out from behind the screen, dressed again, he had the prescription ready. He handed it to me without smiling, with the same professional seriousness with which he had received me.

“We’re going to do a PSA and an ultrasound next week,” he said. “Marta will give you an appointment on the way out.”

“All right.”

He walked me to the door. Before opening it, he lowered his voice.

“Thursday afternoons are when I have fewer patients. If you want to come more often, always pick Thursdays.”

Thursdays. I filed it away in my head like an important date.

Marta gave me the appointment with the same neutral face as before, not looking at me any differently. I went out into the street. It was midafternoon, the sun was out, and for the first time in years I walked three blocks without thinking about my prostate, or diabetes, or Cipriano waiting hungry at the apartment. I walked strangely, a little open, still feeling the warm thread of him running down inside my pants, and that discomfort was, no exaggeration, the best thing that had happened to me in ten years.

***

It’s been four months since that first appointment. I go every Thursday. Sometimes it’s just the two of us, and he lays me on my back on the table, lifts my legs up over my shoulders, and fucks me while looking me in the eye, his cock buried to the balls, talking dirty until I come without using my hands, like that first afternoon. Sometimes, when he sees I’m in a good mood, he nods at Marta and she comes in to watch from the wall, like that first afternoon, saying not a word, arms crossed beneath her breasts, watching her boss fill my ass with semen. It’s a strange relationship, I know. It started as an exam and turned into something I don’t even have a name for.

But at sixty-two, after so much silence, there are things for which one no longer needs a name. It’s enough that they exist.