The morning of the appointment, Alex nearly talked herself into canceling three separate times.

She sat in her car in the parking garage of the Gastrointestinal Diagnostic Center, hands clenched around the steering wheel, repeating Dr. Endicott words like a broken record: perfectly routine, light sedation, you won’t remember much.

She did remember, though. She remembered everything that had happened in her own bathroom with nothing more than a tiny glycerin bullet and her own shaking finger. The idea that a stranger (with actual medical instruments) would see the evidence of how her body had learned to betray her made her want to drive straight off a bridge.

But the faint pink streaks on the toilet paper hadn’t stopped, and the thought of something worse growing inside her was finally stronger than the humiliation.

So she went inside.

The receptionist was kind, the nurse who took her back was kind, the anesthesiology nurse who started the IV in her hand was kind. Everyone was so kind it felt like a conspiracy.

Then the nurse said, “Dr. Reyes had a family emergency and had to fly out last night. Dr. Carter is covering her list today. He’s excellent; top of his class at Hopkins, very gentle hands. Any concerns?”

Alex opened her mouth. Closed it. A male doctor. Of course. The universe wasn’t done punishing her.

She managed a strangled, “It’s fine,” and followed the nurse into the procedure room on legs that didn’t feel connected to her body.

The room was colder than she expected. A padded table with adjustable knee crutches. A cart covered in a sterile blue drape. A monitor. A light on a flexible arm. And, God help her, what looked like a row of gleaming metal specula and scopes in increasing sizes.

“Gown opens in the back, panties off, lie on your left side please,” the nurse said cheerfully. “Dr. Carter will be in in just a minute.”

Alex changed like a robot. The paper gown barely reached mid-thigh. She climbed onto the table, curled into the fetal position, and stared at the wall, trying to disappear.

The door opened.

“Miss Thompson? I’m Dr. Carter.”

His voice was low, calm, a little rough around the edges. She didn’t look up at first. When she finally did, she saw a tall man in his late thirties, dark hair, wire-rimmed glasses, the kind of face that belonged on a doctor in a medical drama. He was already reviewing her chart on a tablet.

“I’m sorry Dr. Reyes isn’t here,” he said, meeting her eyes with a small, reassuring smile. “I’ve read her notes and spoken with Dr. Endicott. We’re going to take very good care of you. Any questions before we start?”

Alex shook her head so hard the paper crinkled.

“Okay. The sedation will feel like a margarita on an empty stomach (relaxed, floaty, but you’ll still be able to answer me if I ask you something). We’ll do the anoscope first, then the rigid sigmoidoscope. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Sound good?”

She nodded, throat dry.

The anesthesiologist pushed the propofol. The room softened at the edges almost instantly. Alex felt her limbs go heavy, her panic muffled under a warm blanket.

She was vaguely aware of the knee crutches being adjusted, her hips tilted, the gown lifted and folded neatly at her waist. Cool air on skin that had never seen daylight in front of another person.

Dr. Carter’s voice, gentle and close to her ear: “Deep breath, Alex. You’re doing great.”

A gloved finger, slick with lube, circled once, twice, then pressed inside. She felt herself open easily (too easily), felt the shameful rush of warmth between her legs that the sedation only dulled, not erased.

“Very relaxed,” he murmured, clinical but not unkind. “That makes this much easier.”

The anoscope slid in (short, cold, wider than a finger). A subtle stretch, then pressure as he angled it. Light flooded her rectum; she could see the glow through her closed eyelids.

“Small residual internal hemorrhoid,” he said, half to himself, half to the nurse. “No active bleeding. Mucosa looks mostly healthy… hold on.”

A pause. The instrument rotated slightly.

“There’s a polypoid lesion about six centimeters in, pedunculated, maybe eight millimeters. We’ll need the sigmoidoscope to snare it.”

Alex floated, mortified even through the drugs, because she could feel herself getting wetter. The stretch, the fullness, the helpless exposure (her body was responding exactly the way she’d dreaded).

She heard the soft clink of metal. The anoscope withdrew. Then something longer, smoother, unmistakably thicker pressed against her.

“Breathe out for me, Alex.”

The rigid sigmoidoscope slid home in one slow, controlled push. The sensation was huge (not painful, but undeniable). She felt every inch as it traveled deeper than anything ever had, the cold metal warming inside her, the subtle ridges pressing against sensitive walls.

A tiny, involuntary moan escaped her throat.

She froze in horror.

Dr. Carter’s hand settled lightly on her hip again, steadying. “You’re okay. Totally normal reaction to the scope. Happens all the time.”

His voice was matter-of-fact, but there was a trace of warmth that made her want to die.

On the monitor she could hear the faint click of photographs being taken, the soft whir of the snare loop closing around the polyp. A brief tug deep inside her, then release.

“Got it. Benign-looking, but we’ll send it to pathology of course.”

The scope eased out slowly, inch by inch, the drag maddeningly intimate. When the tip finally slipped free, Alex’s anus fluttered closed around nothing, and she felt a trickle of lube (and worse) slide down toward her vulva.

A warm cloth wiped her gently, clinically. The nurse covered her with a blanket.

Dr. Carter’s voice again, closer now. “All done. You did beautifully. We’ll have results in a few days, but I’m not worried. Take your time waking up.”

Alex lay there, face burning beneath the oxygen mask, the ghost pressure of the scope still inside her, her clit throbbing in time with her pulse.

She had never been more mortified in her life.

And she had never, ever been more turned on.

When the nurse finally helped her sit up twenty minutes later, legs wobbly, Dr. Carter was gone. There was only a handwritten note on the discharge papers:

Polyp removed – likely harmless. Call if you have any questions at all. You were an excellent patient. —N. Carter, MD

Alex stared at the note until the letters blurred, then stuffed it into her purse like contraband.

She wasn’t sure whether she wanted the floor to swallow her… or whether she was already counting the days until the follow-up visit.