Sandra shifted uneasily, trying to get comfortable. Her buttocks were cold against the hard examining table. "Why do they have to make these robes so they never cover everything?," she thought. "Don't the people who design them ever have a doctor's exam themselves?" She looked anxiously at the stirrups. She hadn't been to a gynecologist in a long time, but her mother and best friend had pestered her into it. They were right, of course. But doctors made her nervous. Everything about them seemed intimidating to Sandra: how much knowledge they have, their special authority over so many things, not to mention their demeanors, which were often quite commanding. They made her feel like a kid who had been called to the principal's office, or like a little girl talking to daddie when he was mad at her. Of course, when she vented to her husband about feeling intimidated by doctors, he always pointed out the other side of it: how she always seemed to find time to put on makeup whenever she knew she was going to see a doctor, and how she wore low-cut blouses whenever she took one of their kids to the pediatrician. She hadn't been conscious of doing that, but once she thought about it she had to admit that he was right.
The doctor walked in. It was a group practice, and Sandra had never met this one before. He said, "Good morning," but he was looking at her chart while he said it, and he didn't sound like he meant it. He seemed like a very serious man. He was in his early 40's, Sandra guessed. He wasn't a George Clooney, but he was good-looking in a severe, professional sort of way. "Good morning, doctor! How are you?" Sandra gushed, trying to be friendly. The doctor seemed to ignore her comments: "How long has it been since your last exam?"
"Well, you see, my girlfriend was telling me how I should come more often, and I --"
"It's been quite a while," the doctor cut her off, still looking at her chart. "You should come in more often." He sounded disapproving. Without another word, he commanded, "Take your robe off."
"Oh, but I thought I'd just have a gynocological exam."
"You need a breast exam too. Take it off." Sandra did as she was told. She was surprised to find herself blushing. She told herself, "He's a doctor. He does this for a living. You're a patient to him and that's all."
The doctor started to examine her breasts. Sandra found herself wishing her breasts were more perky. "But they still get stares from strange men," she reminded herself proudly. Sandra found that she was so self-conscious that she couldn't make eye contact with the doctor. But then she realized that he had not looked at her face once since he came into the room. After a while, she became concerned that he might have found something suspicious. His hands seemed to be lingering, like he was checking something carefully. "Did you find something?" she asked nervously. "Please don't distract me while I'm examining you," he said coldly, and continued touching her breasts. Sandra noticed that his style of examination was different from that of other doctors she had had. "It's gentler in some way," she thought. "It's, well, it's almost like ... caressing."
Sandra was puzzled when he started to inspect her nipples. "What are you checking for?" she asked. The doctor replied, matter of factly, "You nursed your children, didn't you?"
"Yes, but years ago," Sandra said. "It doesn't hurt to check anyway," he answered. Sandra was embarrassed that his inspection was making her nipples erect. He just kept on touching them and prodding them, though. He even pulled on them a little, but he did it all with the calm assurance of someone who did this every day and knew exactly what he was doing, so Sandra said nothing. He began to ask her a series of questions. "Were her nipples sensitive? ... Always or only sometimes? ... At what times? ... Did they easily become erect? ... Was friction required to make them erect? ... What about the areolas: were they highly sensitive?"
When the breast examination was finally over, Sandra felt an odd mix of feelings: flushed, slightly violated, but excited in a way that was strange but pleasant. Before she could think clearly about what had happened, she heard the doctor command, "Put your legs up in the stirrups." She reached over to pull the robe back over herself, but she noticed that the doctor had moved it out of the way, but also out of reach, on the other side of the room, so she was naked when she put her legs up. Being in this position always left her feeling awkward, exposed, and vulnerable. The doctor moved around the table and adjusted an overhead light so that it shined directly onto her vulva. He then pulled up a metal stool and sat down between her legs. She heard the authoritative SNAP as he slipped on some rubber gloves. She waited to feel his hands on her. He seemed to wait for a while.
"Why is he just looking at me down there?" Sandra wondered. His head was surprisingly low. "Is that his breath I feel on me?" Sandra asked herself. She finally felt his fingers spread her labia. Again there was a long pause during which he seemed to be doing nothing but staring.
Sandra almost jumped when he finally spoke: "You seem quite lubricated. Is that normal for you?" Sandra didn't know what to say: "Uhm, no, I mean, well, it depends, sometimes, I guess." She hadn't noticed how wet she was down there. It humiliated her to think that the exam was making her wet, and that the doctor was seeing and feeling it. "What is wrong with me?" she thought. His gloved fingers slid up and down her labia.
"How frequently do you have sexual intercourse?" he asked, dryly. If a man had asked her this in any other context, she would have slapped him.
But you had to tell your doctor the truth: "Uhm, I dunno, about once a week, maybe once every ten days." Sandra wouldn't have wanted to admit that even to her best friend. She was embarrassed that she and her husband didn't have sex more often. She felt that it made her seem less attractive, somehow. But her embarrassment quickly turned to anger: "It's my husband's fault," she thought. "I'm an attractive, sensual woman. He's just too repressed sexually." The doctor inserted his index finger into her well lubricated vagina.
"Try squeezing my finger with your vagina."
Sandra complied. It was difficult to flex the muscles at first, but she quickly realized that she knew how to do it.
"Good," the doctor said, as if he were instructing someone about how to operate a computer spreadsheet. "Now alternate squeezing and relaxing the muscle." Sandra did this several times. It felt good. But these muscles were not used to being worked, and they quickly tired. Sensing that she was wearing out, the doctor said, "These muscles will strengthen with practice. Try flexing them at random times during the day. You'll find that doing this during intercourse will increase both your own and your husband's pleasure." Sandra nodded obediently. The doctor then examined her with his finger, slipping it slowly and carefully up and down the walls of her vagina.
"How about your clitoris?" the doctor asked. "Does your husband stimulate it during foreplay or during intercourse itself?" He then moved the index finger on his other hand up to her clitoris and started gently caressing it, as if to show her how it should be done.
Sandra had to stifle a moan. She managed to mumble, "My husband, uh, yes, he, uhm, when I ask him to he does, yes." The doctor abruptly took his hands away and turned around on his stool, reaching for something in a cabinet against the wall. Sandra was surprised at how empty and bereft she suddenly felt. "Is the examine over?" she wondered. "Just like that?"
The doctor turned back toward her. He had a tube in his hand, and he was squeezing some cream onto his left index finger. "I'm so wet," Sandra thought. "Why does he need that?"
"Take your legs out of the stirrups and lift them straight into the air," the doctor told her. Sandra automatically obeyed. She felt the doctor spreading the cheeks of her buttocks as he said, "You should have a rectal exam as well."
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