Me and Nurse Irene

All my life, as a teenage boy, every time I went to our family doctor’s, I had an ambivalent fear of hearing the nurse say:

“I want to see you Stephen.

I want to see you…

naked....”

There was always a nurse, at our family doctor, who wanted to see me naked.

She would have loved to have seen me naked.

Nurse Irene would love to see me…with no clothes on…to see how I looked…without any of my clothes…

Every time she had to give me an injection, she told me she had to gave it to me in my hip, in my butt...

But she never got to see my penis.

She wanted to see my penis.

She would love to see my penis!

She wanted to say:

"OK, young man…

OK, Stephen…

You need to strip.

You have got to strip.

Strip naked.

Strip completely naked.

Take your clothes off. Take off all your clothes. Take off all of your clothes. Take all of your clothes off. Take off all your clothes. Take off your clothes…

You need to take your clothes off…

You need to take off your clothes…

You need to take all your clothes off…

You need to take off all your clothes…

You need to take all of your clothes off..,

You need to take off all of your clothes…

I want to see you in the nude Stephen,

I want to see you totally nude…

I want to see you nude…

I waited until I turned eighteen to contract the chickenpox.

I had just graduated from high school in May, when—I’m still self-conscious to admit—even now—I contracted chickenpox—a childhood illness—from my first boyfriend’s younger brother—when John and I, well—popped each other’s cherry.

(But that’s for another story, haha.

Though as They say, inquiries are always welcome, from, you know, inquiring minds, who want to know! Ha!)

The small, incredibly irritable blisters covered my entire body, and my temperature raged to 104, and Ma telephoned Doctor Stoler.

"Well, eighteen-years-old is pretty late in adolescence to contract chickenpox," our family doctor told my Ma, over the phone. "Stephen should be fine, but just to be on the safe side have him come into the office for an exam after they've run their course."

Late in June (I had even missed going to the premiere of Star Wars—with my first, haha, boyfriend and, haha, his younger brother) but soon after the last of the small red scabs had dropped off, and made the last mess in my bed, my Ma made me walk up to our family doctor’s for an examination.

I hated going to our family doctor.

I just knew I would get Nurse Irene.

Wendy—the nurse who always gave me any injections the doctor ordered in my arm--was stationed at the reception desk. Which meant that Irene would be in the back, assisting Doctor Stoler in the examining rooms.

Of course, what does that really matter? I thought. This is just a routine, you know, simple, check-up after the chickenpox. I mean, I had a few scars, but I really was feeling better; feeling, you know, fine.

"Hi, Tiger,” Wendy said, friendly enough, as I signed in. "Feeling better?"

"Yes, I am; I really am."

"Your Mom just called, and verified your appointment. Go right on back."

Nurse Irene greeted me at the half-door that opened onto the long hallway that led to the examining rooms.

"We've been expecting to see you Stephen.”

Nurse Irene was tall—a good six inches taller than me--and heavy, not fat; but heavy, musclebound for a young woman. She couldn't have been more than five years older than me.

In the wrong light, or in the right light, depending on my, or on Nurse Irene’s, perspective, reflections in Nurse Irene’s thick eyeglasses always blanked out Nurse Irene’s eyes. I hated that: I could never tell what part of my body Nurse Irene was looking at when Nurse Irene looked at me.

"Exam Room Two," Nurse Irene directed.

I followed Nurse Irene’s instructions, and went into Exam Room Two.

Nurse Irene followed me into my assigned examining room.

Doctor Stoler came in before Nurse Irene could even close my exam room door.

And I noticed that the doctor did not close my exam room door.

Boy, I reassured myself, this must be going to be a super routine examination, if the doctor isn’t even going to close the exam room door.

Our family doctor must have weighed two-hundred-and fifty pounds, his bulk pure bulldog.

"You’re feeling better," Doctor Stoler said, as if he had commanded me, four weeks ago, through my Ma, plus over the phone, to get well. "I see."

"Hop up on the exam table for Doctor," Nurse Irene directed.

I scooted up, and crinkled the waxpaper covering.

Doctor Stoler brushed my golden auburn bangs up off my forehead, and looked down at my face up from under his glasses. "Just a few scars, hmmm?" Doctor Stoler had about three chins. He flipped over the top page of my chart. "How high did his temperature get?”

"104 degrees, Doctor," Nurse Irene answered for me, not even bothering to need to read my chart.

I shuddered, concerned. Had Nurse Irene been reading, you know; checking out, my chart?

"Hmmm, well, that may not be dangerously high. But let's not take chances. We don't want our young man experiencing...repercussions...from a childhood illness. Not at some significant point later in a young man’s life, in his young married life, hmmm. Administer a standard motility test, Irene. Have him, or his Mother, call in a week. For results."

Motility?

Dimly, I recalled the word from my sophomore year Biology class.

The doctor left the room as abruptly as he had entered. "Call for results in a week Stephen. Nurse Irene will take care of your test."

I noticed that Doctor Stoler did not close the door as he exited my exam room either.

Though—right away now—Nurse Irene closed the door.

Now I was alone in my exam room with Nurse Irene.

At first, Nurse Irene said nothing, and neither did I; what was I supposed to say?

Nurse Irene went to the small cabinet that each exam room had, and brought out a small cloth and that she unfolded beside me on the exam table, and set a small, uncapped specimen jar in the center of the clean, white cloth.

Nurse took a long then a longer look at me.

Because of those reflections, I could not see whereabouts on me, Nurse Irene placed her eyes. I could feel her eyes on me though, warm as the June sunshine.

"Have you ever given a sample for a motility test?"

Nurse Irene smiled before I even said, "No, never."

Nurse Irene must be looking directly at me. Though I could only hotly imagine where.

"For this procedure Stephen, you need to strip."

“Um, uh…strip?” I asked in all small letters. I swallowed heat. "Down to… Down to my, uh, underpants?"

"No Stephen. Not to your underpants. Everything must be removed. Everything! You need to strip naked. Strip naked. Strip completely naked.”

For an eternally long hot-as-heck-below minute, I could not move.

Then, when I finally spoke, I stammered:

"In…in front of you?"

I sounded younger than my first boyfriend’s middle school brother, who sounded more grown-up, outside Rand’s Drugstore, where he was buying comic books, when John accosted me, to entice me to pop his cherry…and mine…than I sounded in Exam Room Two at eighteen, asking my dumbass question.

I mean, of course Nurse Irene…wanted me to strip naked in front of her!

"I have administered this procedure to adolescent boys—like you,” Nurse Irene told me. “Proper semen samples are best obtained from boys who have no clothes on. A boy—like you—must not have on any of his clothes.”

She never got to see my penis!

She wanted to see my penis!

And now Nurse Irene would get her chance.

Not only would Nurse Irene get to see my penis! Nurse Irene would get to see me naked! This nurse would get to see me totally nude! Nurse Irene would even get to watch me...take off my clothes…take off all my clothes…take off all of my clothes…! Nurse Irene would even get to watch me take off my underwear!

Slowly, I pried off my shoes without needing to undo the laces.

Clunk, clunk. My shoes bounced softly, off their rubber toes, one after the other, landing on the floor, under the examining table.

"I am not here to embarrass you Stephen.”

I wasted time over my socks. I bunched em up, how I bunched up my socks when I undressed...in private...with no one watching me undress...in my bedroom...at night...and stooped to stick ‘em inside my sneakers.

"Place your clothes on this chair, as you remove them. Stephen.”

And I noticed Nurse Irene placed that chair on the opposite side of the room.

I would need to walk across the exam room, and, um, uh, and, uh, put everything I had on on that chair, as I took everything off, then abandon everything that I took off on that chair, then, um, walk back to this examination table…without anything on…

I got up, uh, slowly, and barefoot, holding on to my socks, and went over to the chair Nurse Irene had, um, indicated, and deposited my sockroll on the chair.

"Now your shirt. Take off your shirt."

I could have wasted more time over my shirtbuttons, but maybe I should just get this whole undressing thing over with quick...

"Take your shirt off."

I tugged my Levi’s shirt over my head without unbuttoning, and pulled my arms out of the rolled-up sleeves.

"Did you go to Parcells?" Nurse Irene asked, catching sight of that name of Parcells Middle School on the heather-grey gym T-shirt that I had on under my madras Levi’s shirt.

I had been sleeping in this gym T—without allowing my Ma to launder my sleepwear—this T not recommended for sleepwear—since I, um, acquired, this gym T—in the spring—in the early spring. When green buds all were swelling. Like the color when the spring is born. When there’ll be crocuses to bring to school tomorrow. These T-pits were, well, now not just good-smelling—if you like how boys smell—when boys sweat—in a s-e-x-ual sweat—if you notice how boys smell—s-e-x-ually-sweaty—like oranges—if you notice how boys smell like oranges—how a boy sweats and spices his T with s-e-x—with an orange spice of a boy’s s-e-x-u-all sweat—when a boy sweats—doing s-e-x—how my boy always spells s-e-x—not ever even speaking that word aloud—s-e-x—when my boy does s-e-x—leaving that yellow ring around a boy’s T collar—around that stretched-out collar—where Champion placed that tag that warned about not intending this T to be used for sleepwear—sweatin’ into a boy’s seams and pits and sleeves and hem and tail of a boy’s T-shirt—because even a warning label can allow a boy to sure keep this gym T on to use how a boy smells like oranges to s-e-X-cite another boy s-e-x-u-all-ly when a boy does a boy doing s-e-x—

And boys smell like oranges,

Boys do smell like oranges…

“Um yeah,” I confirmed, for Nurse Irene.

And while I did go to Parcells…

“…for middle school…”

…this gym T does not belong to me…

…this gym T belonged to my first boyfriend’s younger brother. John left his gym T with me, in my bedroom, one early spring night, when we got a chance, to be alone, at my house, in my bedroom, on a scrumptious early green evening, green, just a little green, like, on Blue, just a little green, like the color when the spring is born; when I remarked, to John, in a whisper; in a bedroom whisper, boy-to-boy, for my first time, whispering to a boy; to another boy, whispering, boy-to-boy, how good a boy’s gym T smells. After doing sex. With another boy. And there’ll be crocuses to bring to school…tomorrow…

Heck! Heck-in-all! I probably contracted the chickenpox because John let me sniff his grubby gym T! Because John let me keep his gym T, all sweated-up, from doing sex!

"That’s right!” said Nurse Irene, “You’re in high school now.”

“Well, actually now, I’m graduated…”

"Ah, yes, of course! Well, how can you wear an undershirt in this hot weather?"

I popped open my mouth. Was I supposed to answer?

"Oh, well," she said. "Take it off."

I took off John’s gym T.

I could still not see her eyes, but I could feel the heat of her admiration.

How could she admire my skinny-bone chest?

I had grown a whole foot the summer before senior year, but my big hands and wrists and elbows looked bigger than the rest of me.

Well, maybe not bigger than all of me…

"Now. Let’s do your pants," said Nurse Irene. "Take your pants off."

I could feel the ghost of pleasure and heat about to become...an erection...behind my the zipper of my jeans.

Oh, please Goll, don't tell me my penis is going to...become an erection!

I should’ve never of remembered so vividly how John smelled—when spring was just a little green—doing sex—with me—in this, his Pacells gym T-shirt!

I could see her eyes from where I stood now.

Nurse Irene stared straight into my zipper!

Reluctantly,

I unbuckled my belt,

popped the stud,

and unzipped my zipper.

Immediately I felt my penis developing the erection I had been afraid my penis would develop!

My jeans sagged, my open zipper flapping open wide, weighted by my belt buckle, my Levi’s going loose around my hips, showing off the brand name of my snug, white, Hanes boy’s briefs.

Nurse Irene smiled at the pyramid tenting out through my grinning zipper.

And I knew she knew the shape of things to...come.

"You're wearing those rabbity briefs that school boys wear!"

"I’m sorry?!” I almost shouted, and I let my jeans fall down…

Nurse Irene ignored my fluster. “Nice hairy legs!"

"I am sorry!?" I twisted my jeans off my knees and off over my ankles.

"Just put your jeans with the rest of your clothes."

I tossed my jeans over the chair, and stood in front of Nurse Irene, nothing on but my underpants!

"Well. Well!” Nurse Irene told me. "You have got to be naked; you have got to be nude.

Take off your underpants."

And I didn't want to.

Because…because my penis had an erection!

And I didn't want Nurse Irene to see my erection!

I stuck both thumbs behind the = HANES = HANES = HANES = elastic of my briefs, my underwear, my underpants--and pulled my underpants, my underwear, my Hanes briefs down. From behind, from the back.

I took off my underpants—

—and Nurse Irene saw it all!

Nurse Irene always wanted to see my penis, and now Nurse Irene saw my penis!

And Nurse Irene saw my balls!

And Nurse Irene saw my pubic hair!

And Nurse Irene saw that my penis had an erection!

“Excellent!” Nurse Masterson exclaimed, “Your penis is already erect!”

Nurse Irene didn't take her eyes off my penis. Nurse Irene didn't even blink. "You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of Stephen!”

How could I be naked in front of Nurse Irene?

All of my body on total display?

I didn't know what to do with my underpants...

Could I really just drop em; simply abandon my underpants on that chair?

"Give me your underwear,” said Nurse Irene.

I obeyed.

I handed over my underwear to Nurse Irene.

“Now go hop back up on the examining table."

I could hardly believe myself--but I handed Nurse Irene my underpants.

Nurse Irene kept a hold of my underpants, and I walked back to the examination table—completely naked in front of Nurse Irene—and climbed back aboard that table.

I fidgeted.

The erection of my penis would not subside.

"All right. How long since you last ejaculated Stephen?"

I shocked! Huge!

I clamped my legs together around my penis.

“What!?”

"Climaxed.

When did you last achieve a sexual climax?"

"Why…Why do you have to know that!"

"I need to know how long since you had your last ejaculation."

"If you have climaxed sexually, and ejaculated, in the last thirty-six hours Stephen I may not get an accurate accounting of your sperm motility."

I could feel red pounding on my face. “My—my motility?”

“Your sperm count, Stephen.”

I cringed over my penis, crossing my legs and clutching my knees.

“Tell me. When was the last time you climaxed sexually Stephen? Tell me.”

“I guess, well; I suppose, um, maybe, last Friday?Night…”

“You were masturbating, of course, I assume…”

That line of Dylan struck me, in a lightning flush:

Crimson flames fall through my brain…

I made what my younger sister and me always called The Face, all the teeth in my jaw thrust out over my upper lip. “No-oh!” I grumbled, still humbled; still suddenly ashamed. “I was not, um, mas-tur-bat-ting…”

“Ooo!” Nurse Irene squealed, how Nurse Irene prolly squealed at boys, when Nurse Irene was a little girl; prolly playing Doctor, with a boy…”Stephen has a girlfriend.”

I was not in no way ever gonna tell Nurse Irene that John was sure no girl!

Crimson flames fall through my brain…blowin’ high and mighty stacks!

Nor was I gonna ever no way tell Nurse Irene that, during the first chance me and John, um, had to get together, since my chickenpox, last Friday, my last come—my last—ejaculation—Nurse Irene wanted to so desperately find out about—was from John…blowin’ me!

With no never mind (as John would say) of me not answering her insinuation, Nurse Irene pulled on a pair of latex exam gloves.

She picked up her uncapped specimen jar.

"Spread your legs Stephen; open your legs up wide."

With both hands still capping my knees, I forced open my legs.

My penis sprang up, surefire, and eager as flame. showing off its gleaming muskrose glans.

Nurse Irene reached one hand between my legs. “I will now take hold of your scrotum...” And Nurse Irene cupped my, um, scrotum; my balls.

I pumped my legs—involuntarily—and once—only one time—around the grip Nurse Irene took on my balls.

Nurse Irene giggled, at me, feral, almost male; and teased between my legs to clutch my big eggy teenage balls.

"If I hold Stephen’s testicles…like this…”

…it was as if Nurse Irene could hear me thinking; as if Nurse Irene just knew boys always refer, not to boy’s testicles, but to boy’s balls, in boy’s, um, private thoughts, you know, in the boy’s privacy of a boy’s own sex-life…

“…I will be able to judge when Stephen has come close to orgasm, and Stephen is about to ejaculate."

"You mean—you wanna feel when I'm about to—come?"

Oh my Goll! Did I just say that? Aloud? To Nurse Irene!?

"Yes, ejaculate…” she cheered. “I need to feel your testicles, to enable me to judge when you are about to shoot. Your semen, your sperm. Your cream…”

She rolled ‘em between her fingers and thumb.

"I need your penis to deliver your semen and your sperm fresh from your testicles."

I could not move, I could not think…

Was a nurse allowed to touch a boy--down there?

"Don't worry Stephen,” She cosseted ‘em, soothed ‘em, smiled, like the cat eating the catfish. “I won't squeeze."

Sweat trickled over my ribs, and wishboned my, um, uh, crotch; my pubes slick as morning grass.

"Masturbate for me Stephen! Masturbate! Bring yourself to orgasm! Climax Stephen! I need you to ejaculate Stephen! I need to see you—as you say—come! I need to witness your climax Stephen, I need to see you come!”

I lifted my right hand off my knee. Gently, with stupid caution, I opened my hand. Each finger shook. I set my hand on my penis, a fingertip by fingertip, not closing my fist. My penis welcomed the touch of each finger.

Could I do this?

Could I masturbate? To climax? In front of Nurse Irene?

She gave my balls a smart, quick tug.

"Do it!

Do it!

Do it!

I want to see you!

I want to see you do it!"

I wanted to close my eyes.

I did not close my eyes.

I gripped my erect penis in my right fist.

I took one pull.

I began to masturbate--in front of Nurse Irene!

Nurse Irene cupped my balls; Nurse Irene squeezed my balls. Nurse Irene dandled her thumb in a quick of my thigh, twisting a snarl of my pubic hair.

I yanked my penis, from tip to root.

Since—in front of Nurse Irene—I could never bring myself to use my usual lube—gobbing up a palmful of spit to slather myself—I burnished the glans of my penis with a sneaky quicksilver of clearwater bathwater pre—rubbing my boyzstuff—over—onto—into—my tip—

My little pee slit preened, twinkling kissy kisses, teeny lips purring open, the initiating rise of my white stuff putting a period, just a dot, just the sweetest speck of hand-wrought sweetness into the sparking smallest slim-stripped-adolescent mouth of my penis, welling up, from down deep in my balls, where my boyzstuff dwells, sweetly jotting my sweety whittle pee slit, as pleasant and as secret as the cupcake-frosting hole in just the bottom of a Twinkie, where, into the sponge cake, Hostess injects in sweet white cream. My penis drooled a milky trickle; half-and-half with creamy semen and sperm, half with my semen, half with my sperm, half with semen, half with sperm…

“Oh my Goll! My boyzstuff… !”

Boyzstuff?!

Nurse Irene took note of my unique name for a boy’s penis a boy’s balls a boy’s pubic hair a boy’s semen a boy’s sperm a boy’s squirt a boy’s orgasm, a boy’s come, that I learned from John and somehow stupidly shouted out loud…

How could I do this?

How could I be doing this?

How could I be masturbating in front of Nurse Irene?

"I can feel you; I'm feeling you. I am feeling you Stephen! I feel your penis Stephen! I’m feeling how your penis is feeling Stephen! I can feel your penis! You’re going to ejaculate! You’re about to climax! You are about to come!"

An explosion of hot feral wicked-boy sparks bullseyed my penis, smack in the joint between the head and the shaft—faster, freer, wildfire—free.

Nurse Irene watched me; watched my body closely, she watched my whole nude body, as if she could never she carefully looked closely at my naked penis. She saw every speck of me, as if she never wanted to forget getting to see me! GetGetting to see me naked! As she would never forget getting to see me masturbate! Seeing me! Watching me masturbate! Watching me masturbate my penis, the penis of a boy whose penis she had waited, Iike, forever, to see…

"Come creamy, Stevie! Come creamy!"

A thrill kindled in my coccyx, bickered my nape.

"You're almost at orgasm! You're about to climax! I can feel you! You're going to squirt!"

Nurse Irene turned her open specimen bottle upside down and capped the tip of my penis.

A loop of my sperm fired, jelly-lightning; a jolt felt like a fire that could have, would have, rocketed onto my chin--sputtered into her specimen jar.

Nurse Irene batted away my hand, and grabbed my penis; she took my penis away from me.

"Ulp!"

"C'mon Stephen, you've got one more spurt! You've got one more dose of sperm to squirt for me!"

Nurse Irene masturbated me herself now; she milked my penis until my softening sexually exhausted penis fired his very last drop.

She uncapped my penis, turning her bottle right-side-up.

Nurse Irene had one more indignity for her masturbated-boy!

She popped a sterile, disposable wipe from a little foil box on the cabinet, and nipped in to pinch the tip of my diminishing penis clean.

"Got to keep your boyzstuff clean if we want to maintain your topnotch sexual performance.”

I clamped my legs together, to try to hide myself.

"Soon as I see you put your clothes back on I will deliver your sperm sample to the lab. Call us in a week and we'll have your results.”

Nurse Irene handed me my underwear.

I looked up.

Nurse Irene swirled my sperm around the bottom of her bottle.

She looked dreamy and pleased to have the cream-of-some-young-guy sloshing around her lucky charm jar.

She grinned at me, watching me pull myself into my underwear.

"Good to the last drop, eh?"