Sunday 23 January 2011

He gave me the finger & didn't even buy me dinner

Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!

I know this may be hard to believe, but I don’t really enjoy writing about going naked.

Granted, three of my last five columns have been on that overexposed subject - the naked McDonald’s guy, half naked ‘hunkle’ Zheng Geping and making a sex video like ‘Gary Ng’.

In my defence, I managed to avoid any mention of nudity last week when I wrote about my colleague Sylvia Toh Paik Choo’s new book, The Complete Eh Goondu.

And considering that Sylvia is 63 years old, I’m sure everyone is grateful to be spared that mental image of associating nudity with her. (Er... until now - sorry.)

Keep in mind that last week, I could’ve easily gone to town with the guy who posed naked at Marina Bay Sands and called it art. Well, not literally "gone to town" with him, but you know what I mean.

He was reportedly charging people $250 to have a picture taken with him. For that kind of money, I would've also expected dinner and a movie with a happy ending (which I might have gotten if I had literally gone to town with him).

Lest I’m accused of being body-obsessed, I abstained from ruminating on that meaty topic in last week’s column. No more “naked” columns, I promised myself.

But I can’t resist it. I’m only human. I’m breaking my promise.

On Wednesday, The New Paper reported that a prominent plastic surgeon was being sued by a 17-year-old girl because she claimed she was traumatised after he forced her to take off her underwear and then took nude pictures of her.

I was also recently traumatised by a visit to a doctor, though it wasn’t a plastic surgeon. What I have is natural beauty.

Being a man of certain age, I’m required by my employer to go for annual health screenings. It was my first such check-up.

The doctor was a genial older man. Because it was my first time, I felt awkward as I wasn’t sure what to expect. We chatted a while about my medical history, but I sensed we weren’t clicking. The chemistry just wasn’t there.

I was also nervous because I knew sooner or later, he was going to ask me to strip. My pulse was racing. I hoped it didn’t affect my blood pressure reading.

When he finally popped the question, it was a relief. I tried to be adult about it, but after I took off my shirt, he wanted to see more.

Because I wanted him to like me, I complied. He was, after all, a doctor.

And then he asked to insert his finger into my rectum to examine my prostate.

I had never had anyone insert his or her finger (or anything else) into my rectum before – and if I did, I have blocked it out of my memory.

The doctor appeared as embarrassed asking it as I was embarrassed being asked it, which wasn’t very reassuring.

He said I could decline the prostate exam if I wasn’t comfortable. He didn’t seem to look forward to it himself.

I said that since we had already come this far, we might as well just go all the way.

At least he used protection.

Being the professional that he was, he put on a rubber glove, lubricated a finger and professionally inserted it into my anus. He then wriggled his cold latexed finger around my rectum before pulling out.

I tried to act cool during the whole process, but I had never felt more violated in my life.

For the rest of the day, I could still feel the impression left by the finger in my rectum long after I fled the doctor’s office.

And I didn’t even get dinner or a movie out of it - just the unhappy ending.

One small consolation is that apparently, I have a healthy prostate, whatever that is.

Now please excuse me while I take a long cold shower and wash this column from my memory.

- Published in The New Paper, 23 January 2011