For the first time in our three-and-a-half-year-long marriage (and sixteen-year-long relationship), we made joint doctor’s appointments. Stop number one: the dermatologist.
Sitting in the patient chair while Paul sat in a spare seat across from me in the tiny exam room was reminiscent of a prenatal appointment with your OB (or rather, what I imagine one would be like because I’ve never had one). Surely, Paul noticed my dopey smile when my eyes met his and I had this thought.
But back to his penis.
Our dermatologist was very nice and very thorough. Never before had either of us had to drop trou for a routine mole checkup. When it was Paul’s turn to be examined, the doctor requested that Paul slide his boxer shorts down to his thighs so she could check out his butt. I had to stifle giggles when his sweet cheeks were exposed.
And then she asked him to turn around to face her.
The junk that I’m well acquainted with seemed foreign in this novel context. A bright fluorescent light was pointed directly at his nether regions, but that didn’t seem as strange as the fact that there was another woman in the room. That she’s a professional who’s seen hundreds of men’s man parts didn’t make the situation—a lady looking at Paul’s privates while I looked on—any less bizarre.
Our next stop: the primary care physician. She saw us separately, and neither Paul nor I protested.
For the not-yet-prego ladies, have you ever gone to the doctor with your man? Did you have an awkward experience like we did?