Dr. Samson

After puberty, Dr. Samson always stuck his finger in my butt. I can’t remember him using a glove. If I had a cold, his finger was in my ass like a thermometer. I sprained my knee and he probed my anus. Leaving his office, my steps were irregular and my crack was moist. Samson was in his mid fifties and practiced in Orem, fifteen minutes from my home. He delivered my brother and me and was our trusted family physician. Samson had dinner with my family and after my parents divorce he asked out my mom. She told him no.

His fingers were short and bulging like his body. “Get those pants off,” he said, washing his hands in cool water. I exhaled, dropped my pants, and placed my palms on the butcher paper lining the bench.  I was sixteen years old. Dr. Samson dipped his finger in a jug of Vaseline. He paused, glossy finger pointing up, squatting on a small aluminum stool with small black wheels. He waddled forward, chubby legs giving his pants creases. The wheels squeaked closer. He lowered his face inches from my cheeks.

Samson rested his un-lubed forearm on my right cheek and asked if I was dating anyone. I told him maybe.

He thrust his chubby cold finger into my ass and I tore the white paper.  The finger got wider and it felt like a tuna can was inside of me. He hooked the knuckle placing pressure. My penis was on fire. His finger had been in my ass over twenty times and it was always discomforting, but this time it was miserable. I squirmed.

 He asked if the discomfort was more than simply his finger in my rear. My hips thrust forward and side-to-side, but his finger followed my hole like a fishing hook.

“Yes, it hurts,” I said. “Bad.”

He removed his finger and wiped it on a paper towel. He handed me a wet wipe and said, “Tell me about this girl?”

 “She’s just some girl,” I said.

Samson inhaled deeply and asked if I’d been laying pipe, going to the submarine races, digging ditch. “You know what I mean,” he said. I didn’t know, but I assumed he was talking about sex. The first time he stuck his finger in my ass, he asked me about masturbation. I said, “No, I would never do that.” I was lying, but he checked my ass and nodded.  In the past two visits he asked about girls right before insertion.

Urinating burned and I needed to pee constantly. This was why I had gone to the doctor. “You’ve got a prostate infection,” Dr. Samson said. “Do you know how you get those?” He didn’t wait for a response. “From having sex.”

He washed his hands in the sink, his back to me. The room was quiet. Sunlight shined through the drawn shade. He’d been waiting for this. He’d been using his finger like a lie detector to probe my anus for honesty. Samson served a two-year Mormon mission and later received his MD from Brigham Young University. His waiting room had copies of The Ensign, a Mormon publication, and several copies of the Book of Mormon.

He asked if my grandmother was taking me to church and I nodded. “Every Sunday,” I said.

Samson rubbed his stubby hands together and drew in his cheeks. He leaned back a little and his gut stretched the buttons of his shirt. He ripped a sheet from a green prescription pad and handed it to me. I tugged the paper but he held it for a moment staring at me. I wondered if he was planning to tell my grandmother. “Hold on, he said. I need to give you one more thing.”

Again he wrote on the green pad, folded the slip of paper in half, and handed it to me. I opened the slip in the waiting room. “Let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly. D&C 121:45.” 

Recent Posts
Comments
  • Kara Garbe

    Best. First. Line. Ever!

    I really like this piece, Clint. One comment: When you say "cheeks" I'm not sure which kind you're talking about.