Amazing. 2016 is upon us, and each year that passes proves to be a touch more difficult to comprehend. Twenty-sixteen … 2015 brought with it many things: pain and passion, friendship and the loss thereof, controversy, tragedy, travel and experience, and with it all, self-reflection.
It is with this self-reflection that I’ve come to an important decision: I can no longer churn out any more of the over the top, outrageous, offensive and revealing stories that I’ve become a bit infamous for here at Blue Skies Magazine. It’s simply time, I think, to take a step toward a more mature, more sincere and more respectful style, and it’s with this new resolution out there for the universe to read that I put pen to paper and write the first in a new series of articles meant to help and inform—and perhaps entertain—those of you who care to read.
The first time another man stuck his finger in my ass, I must admit I had mixed emotions. Of course as a heterosexual man, I don’t generally go out of my way for this type of contact with another guy, but on this occasion I hadn’t just sought it out, I had paid for it. Although it’s not an altogether unpleasant sensation under certain circumstances (circumstances which, for me, involve a woman), this wasn’t one of them.
I was a couple of years into my forties and renewal time for my FAA medical had come up. Working at the time as an airline pilot, a class 1 medical was required, and that’s exactly what I got. During the exam, my blood pressure turned out to be a touch high, and my vision wasn’t quite a clear as it had been, but all in all I was in pretty good shape. The doctor did ask, though, when the last time I had gone through a “complete” physical was. When I informed him I had yet to survive the dreaded proctology exam, he frowned, informing me that one of the No. 1 killers of guys my age was butt cancer.
Now, I’m far from a hypochondriac by any means, but prostate problems sounded like less than fun, and after the doc’s little speech, and my ass seemed to ache a touch, so …
My prostate and I have been getting along quite well until and since that day, and the doctors have confirmed we probably will for quite some time to come. The exams have usually been quick and painless, and I’ve been pretty lucky with choosing M.D.s with hands on the more petite side. I’ve never had a crazy exam experience, nor have I done or said anything inappropriate while another man was intentionally invading my personal space. But there is one jumper I know …
As the story goes, she was hot. Like, “Hot for Teacher,” hair in one of those fancy wound-up hairstyles, glasses halfway down her nose and a figure not even a bit hidden by the white doctor’s coat she wore as she walked into the room. He’d made the appointment with this particular urologist out of convenience only, not researching anything about the office other than its close proximity to the DZ.
When she walked in the door and started asking the standard questions, he assumed she was just getting all the preliminary info out of the way, and the doctor who would be performing the exam would be in shortly. He assumed that right up until she pulled a box of latex gloves out of one of the stainless steel cabinets that lined the examination table, along with a big-ass tube of lube.
“Prostate massage is part of the digital rectal examination (DRE) routinely given to men by urologists to look for nodules of prostate cancer and to obtain an expressed prostatic secretion (EPS) specimen.”
He knew nothing of the term DRE, and had no idea it was possible to “extract” an EPS sample this way. Although the entire situation had caught him completely off guard right from the moment a beautiful woman had walked into the room, it didn’t surprise him nearly as much as the familiar feeling that was quickly taking over.
The doctor hadn’t actually been after a secretion of anything, but that did not change the fact that a secretion was what she was going to get. With knees buckling under him and fists with a death grip on the side of table, the paper draped over the exam bench he was leaning over quickly resembled a Jackson Pollock painting.
If she was shocked by the rather speedy and unexpected result of her examination, she didn’t show it. Not that he actually made eye contact with her for the rest of their brief time together. She simply stripped the paper from the exam table, tossed it and her gloves into the HAZMAT canister next to the door, made a few notes on his paperwork and walked on out the door.
Personally, I think anyone who chooses to go into a line of work which regularly requires you to insert your finger into some random man’s ass must have, or eventually work their way into, one hell of a sense of humor, and she probably got a fucking great laugh out of it all. Hell, for all I know she did it on purpose!
As a side note, you’ll be happy to know the DRE she performed showed no signs of anything out of the ordinary, and he was given a clean (albeit messy) bill of health.
What does any of this have to do with Blue Skies or skydiving? As my generation of instructors gets older, this type of thing is a hell of a lot more important than you might think, so it’s a call to all my fellow 40-something jumpers to take good care.
Actually, that’s complete bullshit. This one was written specifically for a reader request passed happily on to me by Kolla! Guess he just wanted to know The Fuckin’ Pilot’s stance on sticking things in your ass …
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