Bum

My mouth is full of tooth paste foam as I brush furiously, desperately trying to get out of the house by 8am. It’s a very small bathroom, which we have to share as we both leave for work at about the same time each morning. I continue brushing, and I'm staring at the pale frosted glass; unable to tell what the weather outside is doing, when I feel my girlfriend step quietly into the bathroom behind me. “Have you ever had your prostrate checked?” The question comes from her out of the blue, and with my mouth still full of toothbrush, I mumble something that’s meant to mean no, but which probably sounds more like a cow giving birth, “Ugooooooo.”
     “They're talking about it on the Breakfast News, and I just wondered if you’d ever had yours checked.”  The sarcastic side of me wants to question why they were talking about my prostate on the BBC News, without my permission. Surely the Beeb should have consulted me before it got to this stage.  

     I spit out the horrible foam which always makes me feel slightly sick, and watch as it makes a quick circuit round the plug hole and then is gone forever. “They gave a list of symptoms which could mean that you have a problem with your prostate — “
     “Like what for instance?“ I ask, now in the bedroom and trying to do up my tie whilst looking in the mirror.
     “Apparently if you wee in short bursts it could be a sign, but they also said long bursts that also spray on the floor—“
     “Don’t most men spray on the floor?”
     “Or if you go for short wee’s during the day, or if you have to get up during the night to go.”
     “F**k, that sounds like me for most of my life—“ 

     She walks into the bedroom laughing - I hope - at my comments, puts her arms around the back of my neck and says, “Yea that’s what I thought when they were reading the list out, but you should get it checked anyway at your age.” I wrap my arms around the middle of her back, pausing for a moment; her beautiful green eyes, perfume, and warm skin make me wish we weren’t rushing straight off to work.  

   “Remind me please; how would - if I were going - the doctor check my prostrate?” She leans back a little into my arms, and looks up into my eyes: “He’ll put his finger up your bum, honey.” 

     The brief moment of early morning magic is broken, as I consider the implications of having another human being, rummaging around in my nether regions. A few years ago I had a “potential” problem in the same area of the body, which led me to pay a visit the doctors. As I lay, on my side, on that roll of paper that they put on the coach, I felt something cold and alien enter my bum hole – yes I was being probed. This is not so bad I thought as she pushed the Vaseline greased object in a bit further. “You may feel a slight discomfort,” said the lady doctor as she worked behind me. The thing that she had inserted into me made a noise as it opened that’s difficult to describe. 

     SHHHHHHHHHTUUMMMFFFFTING! 

     My eyebrows arched, and my eyes opened wide, as she expanded my bumhole to the size of a waste paper basket. For a moment neither of us said a word. The silence was nearly total, apart from a slight whistle as a draft blew across my hole, which I suspect resembled the opening to a large cave. At any moment a team of pot-holing cavers might have arrived to explore, or maybe even a base jumper, ready to parachute in.

     “Sorry, my torch has packed in - I’ll just get another,” announced the doctor, and I heard the sound of a chair on wheels slide across the floor. A huge bright light was switched on from somewhere behind, silhouetting the curve of my hips onto the wall I was facing. I desperately tried to find my “happy place,” to take my mind off it, but it was lost, as she rummaged around behind me "umming” and “ahhing" to herself. Finally after what can only have been about four and a half hours, she declared that I had nothing to worry about “down there,” and removed the torture device from my bum hole, leaving it a saggy and stretched shadow of its former self. As I swung my legs down off the couch, feeling slightly wider than ever before, I couldn’t help noticing the angle-poise lamp on her desk, pointing towards me, which she had obviously used to light me up.

     We break apart, and my girlfriend starts to gather up the empty cups from the side of the bed; used for our morning cuppa.  “So what they are saying is: most of the ways a bloke goes to toilet are the potential signs of prostrate cancer?” 

     “Yep, seems that way according to them.”
     “And so, the choices for me are: risk getting cancer-“   She looks over at me as she leaves the room, and says, “Or have a doctor finger your bum hole.” 

     I consider this for a few moments, and come to this conclusion: Getting old is just no fun at all, and the future scares the pants off me (no pun intended).