Six Shot Shacklett
A mild, soap suppository was commonly used as a laxative in the rural areas of the south, and recently enough so that I can remember it. I guess whoever might need relief of this sort could grab a knife, head to the sink, slice off a piece of Ivory and, well, do what you do with a suppository. I can't remember if I personally was ever treated with this regimen. Even if I had been, it would not have prepared me for the highly educated and well lubricated finger of a Flight Surgeon who gave me the second flight physical of my life, way back in 1990. (I'm using the term "Flight Surgeon" generically here; his true role was FAA Designated Medical Examiner. He actually was a retired Navy Flight Surgeon.)
Dr. Shacklett had a modest little office on Memorial Drive in Murfreesboro, TN, spitting distance from MTSU's campus. He was known as "Six Shot Shacklett" because if you showed up there with any signs of an infection, he ordered you back for repeated injections of antibiotics. Thankfully, I remember only once visiting him for an infection: strep throat my first semester in college. (And this protocol of antibiotic treatment has since been discredited.)
It was natural, since I was already a patient, that he would be my choice of physician for replacing my medical certificate that expired the last day of August in 1990. As well, he was affordable and convenient.
Because I was already a patient, I had no reservation when he told me to, "pull my pants down, get on the exam table on all fours, and stick my butt way up in the air." In my mind, I figured he was just checking for a hernia in a different fashion. My back door had always been "exit only" until that hot, August morning. I didn't see it coming; I didn't imagine it coming; I was shocked when it did: an unseen digit of my doctor's hand ramming into my rectum at what felt like Mach 3.
I felt so confused and scared and speechless that I could manage no more than a "yes, sir" or "no, sir," in response to the rest of his questions and instructions.
Subsequent, discreet inquiries to people wiser than I allowed me to conclude that the good doc was examining my prostate. Perhaps ahead of his time, but still NOT REQUIRED for a flight physical candidate of my age--too young to drink, even!--and certainly not required for my class of flight physical exam.
At the tender age of 19, I knew already what I might enjoy in the sack. In none of my fantasies about the opposite gender did any of my secret desires involve *surprise!* penetration by the finger of a doctor old enough to be my grandfather. Sure, my fantasies were about the love that "dare not speak its name," mostly involving the fellas on Fraternity Row and on the intramural teams where I played basketball and softball and football, but I was in denial and I was still (shamefully and in vain) engaged in too-frequent sexcapades with females. (Oddly enough, I imagined that my heterosexual sexcapades might impress some of those fellas inhabiting my imagination. In retrospect, I now realize how my behavior would certainly have discouraged any fella who might be where I was on my journey, and who might be a much-welcome confidant. Unintended consequences and all that...)
My first willing and knowing experience with a guy was not to come for a few more years. But this experience with the doctor went way beyond anything that "dare not speak its name." All the way into the category of "WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?"
Dr. Shacklett had a modest little office on Memorial Drive in Murfreesboro, TN, spitting distance from MTSU's campus. He was known as "Six Shot Shacklett" because if you showed up there with any signs of an infection, he ordered you back for repeated injections of antibiotics. Thankfully, I remember only once visiting him for an infection: strep throat my first semester in college. (And this protocol of antibiotic treatment has since been discredited.)
It was natural, since I was already a patient, that he would be my choice of physician for replacing my medical certificate that expired the last day of August in 1990. As well, he was affordable and convenient.
Because I was already a patient, I had no reservation when he told me to, "pull my pants down, get on the exam table on all fours, and stick my butt way up in the air." In my mind, I figured he was just checking for a hernia in a different fashion. My back door had always been "exit only" until that hot, August morning. I didn't see it coming; I didn't imagine it coming; I was shocked when it did: an unseen digit of my doctor's hand ramming into my rectum at what felt like Mach 3.
I felt so confused and scared and speechless that I could manage no more than a "yes, sir" or "no, sir," in response to the rest of his questions and instructions.
Subsequent, discreet inquiries to people wiser than I allowed me to conclude that the good doc was examining my prostate. Perhaps ahead of his time, but still NOT REQUIRED for a flight physical candidate of my age--too young to drink, even!--and certainly not required for my class of flight physical exam.
At the tender age of 19, I knew already what I might enjoy in the sack. In none of my fantasies about the opposite gender did any of my secret desires involve *surprise!* penetration by the finger of a doctor old enough to be my grandfather. Sure, my fantasies were about the love that "dare not speak its name," mostly involving the fellas on Fraternity Row and on the intramural teams where I played basketball and softball and football, but I was in denial and I was still (shamefully and in vain) engaged in too-frequent sexcapades with females. (Oddly enough, I imagined that my heterosexual sexcapades might impress some of those fellas inhabiting my imagination. In retrospect, I now realize how my behavior would certainly have discouraged any fella who might be where I was on my journey, and who might be a much-welcome confidant. Unintended consequences and all that...)
My first willing and knowing experience with a guy was not to come for a few more years. But this experience with the doctor went way beyond anything that "dare not speak its name." All the way into the category of "WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?"
posted by Michael Vernon at Sunday, May 03, 2009
1 Comments:
Your reaction sounds much like someone else's reaction when the doctor goes exploring down there. No, not me or Marc. Rather, I was thinking of Dodger. :) When the vet pokes around there, Dodger gets a look on his face that clearly says, "What the hell!"
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