“Relax,” I said.
“I… I…” The boy in front of me, around 18 years old, had soft black hair and a delicate face. His whole body was tense, his face flushed red, and he was stammering as he tried to speak.
I let go of the waistband of his pants, moved my other hand away from his crotch area, sighed, and tossed aside the broken cotton swab that had snapped during our earlier tussle.
The boy muttered softly, “Doctor, s-sorry…”
“It’s fine. Relax,” I reassured him, picking up another swab. “Just think of me as a robot, alright?”
As I spoke, I couldn’t help but marvel at how young he was.
Back in my own teenage years, I could already steal glances at my crush’s crotch without blushing or batting an eye.
Ah, my dream of becoming a specialist in men’s health—it all started because of my crush.
—
I realized early on that I liked boys, but from elementary school to high school, I never met anyone I truly fancied. Who would have thought that, during such a critical year as senior high, a dashing and handsome transfer student would join our class?
I remember that summer day clearly. A refreshing breeze swept through the room, sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating his face—one word: stunning! Though, I must admit, he seemed a little cold.
And as if fate wasn’t already having fun with me, he ended up becoming my deskmate.
From then on, I spent my days alternating between studying and stealing glances at him. Study a bit, look at him a bit. It became a habit.
But since it was our final year and our futures were on the line, I refrained from bothering him too much.
Not that he seemed interested in me anyway—he wasn’t exactly warm or talkative. So, I buried myself in my studies.
If someone as aloof as him didn’t think much of me, at least I could impress him with my stellar grades compared to his lousy ones!
That routine carried on for quite some time.
—
During the grueling senior year cramming sessions, we once had three classes in a row. Yet, I still diligently took notes and maintained my hard working attitude.
But I’m only human—I needed to use the restroom.
I finished quickly, but my deskmate still hadn’t returned.
Two minutes before class started—he still wasn’t back.
So, I got up and went to the restroom again, even as the bell signaling the end of the break had already rung.
Inside, there was only my deskmate left.
And then, I noticed something.
“Your… down there looks a bit red,” I said.
His face instantly turned beet red, and he glared at me. “You saw wrong.”
“I didn’t see wrong. I have 5.2 vision.”
“You’re fucking blind!” He cursed at me before storming out of the restroom.
I watched him leave, his steps unsteady, almost staggering.
—
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I was sure I hadn’t seen wrong. Something was wrong with my deskmate’s body.
So, I turned to the internet, poring over countless medical articles. I underlined passages, bookmarked pages, and pieced it all together. My conclusion?
My deskmate might have prostatitis, scrotal eczema, or perhaps balanitis…
