The Pesky Prostate

With persistent symptoms around the cock,
the drugs prescribed hadn’t improved my luck.

The Doc told me to see a pro in urology,
so tail between my legs, I agreed ruefully.

Upon arrival, it were only ladies at reception,
I felt ashamed to tell them of my affliction.

“Go through” they said, after a minute of wait,
my ego rattled, did they know my state?

Mr urology said “sit”, I duly obliged.
“Tell me your qualms, my man, do confide.”

And confide I did regarding my sack,
him nodding away as the sky behind him turned black.

After a minute or two, I’d finished my line,
then he pulled out a cock model, much larger than mine.

“The cock and the sack are not the cause at any rate,
your problem lies farther in – it’s actually your prostate.”

“My prostate?” I asked, “but how can this be?”
“We do not know for sure, but probably bacteria in your willy.”

“So now what we’ll do is perform an inspection,
where I’ll be inserting my fingers into your rectum.”

A shiver coursed my skin, the sky turned darker still,
“Your fingers in my rectum? Sir, am I that ill?”

“If all is well, you’ll just wriggle uncomfortably,
but if said prostate’s infected, you’ll want to punch me.”

I now knew the scale ranged from agony to annoyed,
a wriggle I longed for, a fistfight I’d rather avoid.

“Make your way to the bed and pull down your boxers,”
I had not had such an offer since 2009 Freshers.

I made my way over, walking the green mile,
telling myself it would last only a short while.

I lowered my pants and assumed the fetal position,
I didn’t even need to be told, an innate predisposition?

He slipped on a glove, then slipped on another,
he could tell I was nervous as he tightened his rubber.

He dipped his fingers in a tub and lubricated his fingers,
while I turned to face the wall, hoping he wouldn’t linger.

He asked me a question, “how long you been in Singapore?”
then shoved his fingers inside me, I was reduced to a whore.

“Two years,” I yelped, as he rummaged inside,
‘That’s good,” he muttered, unsure he was speaking to I.

I made it clear that it was more than uncomfortable,
“Ow, ow, ow,” I cried at regular intervals.

After a millennium, he said, “OK,”
I thought it was over, but no, nay.

“I’ve located your prostate, now I’m going to press.”
It hadn’t even started! I was already a mess!

He pushed on the prostate, which lit a fire in my arse,
I was begging for a quick end, I was seeing stars.

After what felt like an hour, he took his foot off the gas,
It was finally over, he would exit my ass.

But unbeknownst to I, there was a second section,
the sequel no one wanted, to my frustration.

He pressed down hard, and I wanted to die,
but I was too cowardly for that, so I just had a cry.

But here is the rub, the crème de la prostate,
he needed to see if there was any blood in my man spray.

He had passed me a tissue to cup under my penis,
and catch any sperm with precision eagerness.

Like a magician he pressed and I felt semen passing through,
I was screaming “ow” over and over; my insides felt like a scolding brew.

My penis was flaccid, representative of my fear,
but somehow he managed to make semen appear!

“Sperm! Sperm!” I shouted, never more grateful to see cum,
and just like releasing a plug, he pulled his fingers out of my bum.

He slipped off his rubbers, to him it was job done.
I lay there still fetal, cupping my globule of cum.

“Get yourself dressed and come back to the desk,”
I needed a moment, just a moment to digest.

I had liquid from three orifices: my eyes, my shaft, my arse,
I had never achieved that before, was this a victory? I hear you ask.

No it wasn’t, I answer you, I had been abused,
And as I wiped myself clean, I wondered if this would make the news.

“Expat in Singapore makes Doctor finger him!”
I could see the headline now, better to forget the incident and listen to him.

I sat back down, leaning on one cheek,
“It’s definitely infected, I’ll see you in two weeks.

Take some antibiotics and we’ll keep an eye on your progress,
and I’ll need you to ejaculate 6-8 times a week. That OK, yes?

If you’d prefer to not do it yourself, I can help you to cum,”
“No thanks Doctor, I can do that myself, I’ve got this one.”

When I left his room and reentered the reception,
the silence was deafening, they girls surely heard my insertion.

As I left the building, I tried to process the event,
it’s the closest I’d ever been to a young man for rent.

But the tables had been turned, as I had paid for the privilege,
at least it was a good story, though the experience purely sacrilege.

--- END ---

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