My alarm went off at 6:00 AM sharp. The folder from yesterday’s meeting sat on my nightstand like a quiet challenge. I had read it front to back—twice. Fasting required, shower beforehand, no coffee, no breakfast. Just water.

I had followed everything to the letter. I took another quick shower that morning, trying not to overthink the details I’d read in the instructions. Still, the line “Full physical examination including genital and rectal assessments” kept replaying in my head like a skipped track.

I wasn’t unfamiliar with physicals. In high school and college sports, we had to get them every year. But they were always basic—quick, impersonal, done in five minutes by a local clinic nurse practitioner. This felt different. More official. More… invasive.

I chose my clothes carefully: black athletic shorts, a fitted T-shirt, and clean running shoes. Casual but presentable. As I looked in the mirror one last time, I tried to psych myself up: You're in great shape. You’re healthy. It’s just a medical exam. No big deal. But my stomach still fluttered.

I arrived at the company’s building at 7:20 AM. The same receptionist greeted me and directed me toward the “wellness wing.” That term sounded bright and cheery—but the hallway I entered felt more like a doctor’s office from a military base: sterile, cold, and a little too quiet.

“Name?” asked the woman at the check-in desk in navy scrubs.

“Caleb Thomas,” I said.

She barely glanced up. “Take a seat. You’ll be called shortly.”

After a few minutes, a tall man in a spotless white coat stepped into the doorway. “Caleb Thomas?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m Dr. Porter. Come in.”

His tone was calm but firm—professional, almost intimidating. He didn’t smile. I followed him into an exam room that was even colder than the hallway.

“Remove your shoes and shirt,” he instructed, still scribbling on a clipboard. “Place them on the chair.”

I hesitated just a second, then obeyed. I stood there shirtless, shifting my weight slightly as he began the routine checks: blood pressure, pulse, breathing with a stethoscope. He noted things quickly, made comments about my athletic build, and nodded with approval.

So far, so good.

After a blood draw and body composition check, things started to feel more… personal.

“Alright, now we move to the complete physical portion of the exam. Please remove your shorts and underwear. You may fold them and place them on the chair.”

That was the moment I had been quietly dreading. My heart rate, which had just been praised for being steady and strong, now felt like it was tapping a drum solo in my chest.

I nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Turning slightly away from him, I slipped my shorts and underwear off and laid them neatly on the chair. I stood there awkwardly, trying to focus on the wall tiles instead of the exposed reality I now stood in.

“You can step forward and stand with your feet shoulder-width apart,” he said.

I did as instructed, acutely aware of how vulnerable I felt. There was a tension in the room now—not from him, but from me. I was used to locker rooms, team showers, and even random checkups—but this was different. Clinical. Controlled. Every move was observed, noted.

Dr. Porter donned gloves and approached. “I’m going to examine your genitals now—checking for any abnormalities, hernias, or other concerns.”

His tone remained strictly professional, but nothing could fully ease the tension I felt. As he conducted the exam—palpating, lifting, checking each side—I tried to breathe slowly and focus on a neutral spot on the wall. Still, I couldn’t stop the self-consciousness creeping into my thoughts. I hated how aware I was of every second.

“You’re doing fine,” Dr. Porter said, sensing my stiffness—both physical and emotional.

“Thanks,” I muttered, embarrassed even to speak.

After finishing the testicular exam, he removed his gloves and made a few notes.

“Last part—rectal exam. This is a standard component of our baseline physical for male employees. It’s often overlooked in younger men, but our company policy includes it for early health screenings.”

My mouth went dry. I had never had one before. I knew it was coming—I had read the paperwork—but reading about it and experiencing it were two very different things.

Dr. Porter could tell. “It’s normal to feel a little uneasy, especially if it’s your first time,” he said. “It’s quick, I promise. But necessary.”

I gave a faint nod.

“I’ll have you step up here and lean forward on the exam table,” he instructed. “Arms resting, feet slightly apart.”

My hands were slightly shaky as I braced myself on the table. The paper crinkled loudly, amplifying the silence of the room. My face was flushed, even though I wasn’t cold. It was hard not to think about how exposed I felt—physically and emotionally. It wasn’t pain I feared. It was the intimacy. The lack of control.

“I’m going to use lubricant. You’ll feel some pressure, but it’ll be brief,” Dr. Porter said calmly.

I took a deep breath as he began. There was a sudden chill and pressure that made my whole body tense involuntarily. It was uncomfortable, sure—but it was more the idea of it that made my heart pound.

You’re 23. This is just a medical exam. Grown men get this done every day. Just breathe.

A few seconds passed. It really wasn’t as bad as my anxiety had made it out to be. And just like that—it was over.

“You did well,” Dr. Porter said. “No abnormalities. No signs of concern.”

I nodded, trying to keep my expression neutral as I stood up and quickly reached for my shorts.

“You can get dressed. Make sure to sign your wellness agreement and return the food log by Monday.”

I dressed quickly and thanked him. He offered a quick nod and a “Good luck in your new role,” then left the room.

Back in my car, I exhaled hard. It felt like I had just passed some rite of passage no one had warned me about.

Sure, it was uncomfortable. Sure, I felt more exposed than I ever had before. But I also felt strangely… respected. Like I had been taken seriously as an adult, as a man joining the professional world on a level that went beyond suits and job titles.

I looked down at the consent form and wellness goals sheet in my hand.

If this is what it takes to push myself—even in ways I hadn’t expected—I’m in.