When I was 22, I bought a life insurance policy that required a physical examination. When I asked the agent where I should go for the physical, he said to come to their office: they used a mobile nurse service for physicals.
When I came to the office, I was escorted to a conference room about ten feet square. In a little while, the nurse arrived, carrying an aluminum case marked “PortaMed,” from which she began to unpack equipment. She was about 35, and not particularly pretty, but had large, nicely shaped breasts with nipples visible through her tight and sheer uniform. Her underpants, which were very brief, were also well displayed, especially when she bent over to get things out of the case. I made a point of not studying her much, to avoid an erection. I looked at a magazine (“Insurance Life”) while she unpacked the equipment. She then said, “Hi, I’m Eleanor, and I’ll be doing your exam today. It’s is just a brief health check. Sit here, while I ask you some questions,” indicating a chair next to hers across a corner of the table.
After a long series of questions came temperature, pulse, respirations, and blood pressure. She then told me, “Now please remove your clothing, except for your socks and underpants.” I was surprised that no privacy was offered, but I hadn’t had many adult exams, and didn’t really know what to expect. While I disrobed, putting my clothes on the table, Eleanor wrote on her clipboard, occasionally glancing at me, with no apparent interest.
She then measured my height and waist, using a cloth tape measure, and sat to record the results. Swiveling her chair away from the table, she said, “Come over here in front of me.” I stopped about two feet from her. “Closer,” she said, pulling me toward her until our toes were almost touching, with her seated and me standing. Placing one hand on my hip, and the other in my groin, alongside the crotch of the underpants, she told me to turn my head and cough several times. She then switched to my other side, and repeated the hernia routine. While she was completely businesslike, I still found this extremely erotic, and felt the initial stirrings of an erection.
Eleanor handed me a tiny paper cup, and said, “Now please go behind the screen and give me a urine specimen.”
I had not noticed a screen, and looked around for one. What I saw looked like the walkers that elderly people use: a three sided aluminum frame about four feet tall, with a canvas curtain extending from the top, which was at waist height, down about a foot. I think it really was a walker, pressed into service as a privacy screen. But the curtain didn’t provide much privacy, extending only from the waist to the well above the knees.
I went behind the “screen,” which was about five feet from Eleanor’s chair, pulled the crotch of my underpants aside, and tried to urinate. I couldn’t get started, probably due to the combination of embarrassment and a slight erection. Eleanor was writing on her clipboard. Finally she looked at me. She must have seen my red face, because she said, “Relax, there’s no hurry.” She continued to look in my direction, while I looked everywhere, trying to get started. Finally I managed to fill the little cup.
I looked for somewhere to set the specimen while I put myself away, but there was no horizontal surface in reach. Eleanor apparently recognized my quandary, and came over to me, saying, “I’ll take that.” I thought she glanced at my genitals as she took the cup.
Now I had another problem. Having worked so hard to produce an ounce of urine, I really needed to finish emptying my bladder, immediately. Very embarrassed, I said, “Is there somewhere I can go to finish ?”
She said, “Yes, there’s a restroom right through that door.” I hurried to the indicated door, dribbling a little urine in my underpants, to add to my embarrassment. The little restroom didn’t provide much acoustical privacy from the conference room, but my need was too great for me to worry about Eleanor hearing me. I wondered why I couldn’t have used the restroom to give the specimen, and later asked the agent about this. He said that the urinalysis was partly a drug test, and the nurse needed to be present to make sure there was no substitution of specimens.
When I came out of the restroom, with a spot in the front of my underpants, Eleanor was packing away her equipment. “You can get dressed,” she said. “You did a good job. Some men get very embarrassed, but you did fine.” I wondered how anyone could be more embarrassed than I had been. As I put my clothes back on, I now felt free to watch Eleanor bending over to pack the PortaMed case.
