I fondly remember the first man to ever touch my genitals, even though the experience is a scar on my memory. He was the kind of achingly handsome gentleman I've always wanted to grow into, and I still seek his traits in others. Doc charmed me the first time we met; I was 15 and he 30, yet he talked to me like a man and never a child. I saw him regularly all throughout my high-school years; I grew from quiet and closeted to out and proud while we were together. He possessed the broad shoulders, handsome face, and masculine energy I coveted as little gay boy. Doc fondled me shortly after my 18th birthday, although he would have done so sooner if I had requested it. We were in his space when it happened; framed zoological sketches by his toddler son hung on the walls. As he gently wrapped his hunky hands around my testicles, I skipped a breath and hoped to Goddess I would not immediately get an erection.
After several minutes of gentle caressing, he peered up at me. A disappointed look fell over his face, and I worried that this marked a bad shift in our relationship.
"I'm sorry, Matthew, but I don't know what this lump is," said Dr. Stephen "Doc" Holliday, my family-care physician. He always called me by my full name.
The night I'd turned 18, I'd found a pea-sized lump on my testes, something I'd never felt in years of self-exploration. I'd celebrated my senior-year birthday by drinking Smirnoff Ice and hitting the Cherokee Casino with my mother. I'd ended the evening by showering off the stench of Virginia Slims, and as I was soaping up I'd found a hard lump just south of my right testicle. Over several subsequent mornings I'd woken up hoping to find the little lump gone; alas, there it was every time I reached into my shorts. After weeks of this charade, I'd broken down and told Mom; I had an appointment with Doc Holliday the next day.
On the way to the clinic, the realization had hit me: I'm openly gay, and this will be the first time a man will touch my genitals.
He wasn't just any fuddy-duddy doctor: I fantasized about Doc on many a masturbatory occasion. Today I might describe him as a cross between gay porn star Dean Flynn and reality daddy T-Rav. Doc Holliday was so popular in town that folks waited up to a year to be accepted as his patient. Who wouldn't want a kind, beautiful man to care for you? The very first man of my dreams was straight, happily married with kids, and likely to make me ejaculate with the slightest touch.
The fear that the lump might be malignant overpowered my fear of Doc arousing me, and I did not receive the insta-boner I expected during the exam. All my blood rushed to Doc's hands, and I felt my testicles pulsing in his firm-but-gentle grip. Doc quickly found the lump; I assured him it didn't hurt as he moved it between his fingers. He said the lump was not growing off some other anatomical feature, yet it was clearly out of place. Everything else about my genitals pleased Doc; aside from the lump, he said I was a well-formed young man.
Our carnal connection was all too brief, and it hardly registered as erotic. I pulled up my pants. Doc performed his trademark slingshot latex glove removal. It felt as routine a visit as when I'd had an ingrown toenail, bronchitis, and shingles. The only difference with this visit was the fact that my ailment wasn't immediately fixed by Doc. He sat me down and told me I needed somebody else, a specialist, and he recommended his urologist buddy, Dr. Bowman. Doc Holliday smiled and assured me that he thought the lump was some innocent bit of tissue, but he said only a urologist could tell me for sure.
Having just gone to second base with my hot doctor, I was naively inapprehensive about yet another exam. I choked up when I realized the rub in my upcoming situation: I knew Dr. Bowman quite well. He was the silver-fox father of my tennis-team crush, Sean Bowman. Sean outpaced all others in my sexual fantasies (Doc Holliday included), and now his hot urologist father was going to score a home run on me.