For Your Own Good

Are you ready?

The doctor carefully picks up a sterile glove, unfolding it with precision. He slides his left hand into the glove, the smooth, shiny surface of the latex gliding easily over his skin.

He wriggles his fingers as they sink into the glove, snug and tight. Each finger conforms perfectly, the material stretching slightly to fit, accentuating his fleshy palm and fingers.

He rubs his fingertips together, feeling the smoothness and ensuring the glove sits firmly, without any folds or discomfort.

He repeats the process with the right hand, the glove sliding over his skin like silk, the tight fit making his fingers look sleek and polished.

Once fully gloved, the doctor smooths his hands, the latex now perfectly molded to his fingers and palms, full and taut. The gloves glisten under the surgical lights.

He sits down on the stool, between your legs, spread wide by the stirrups. He picks up the tube of lubricant and squirts a dollop onto his index and middle fingers. With his thumb, he rubs the lubricant over his fingers, coating them generously.

He turns his attention to you. He rests his other hand on your inner thigh. It feels smooth and cool, sending tingles up your spine.

Things are accessed. Visible body parts: eyes and fingers and kneecaps. Faces and throats are meant to be touched. The exam table makes this possible. Once you're on it, it's not a negotiation anymore. It was until then. You were under a spell, the doctor's demeanour and disarming smile, or their insistence through those surgical words they like to use that imply something bad might happen to you if you don't get onto the table. Not because of him, per se, just the way our bodies work. Chest pains, invisible erosions. You need to sit still. The doctor will work around you for now. But even a visual inspection can feel searing and invasive. The doctor has gotten pretty good at telling when he is being lied to.

Hard to see places are accessed. Turn your head, please. Lift this out of the way. Open your mouth. Bend over for me. The world of medicine is the uncovering of secrets. Secret histories, secret evidence, secret recesses unknown even to ourselves, accessed through orifices. Evidence of last night is still inside you. Doctors want to put every piece of you under their bright lights, on screens and printed out. Accessed only by medical professionals. They want to document you, understand you.

On the operating table. Engineered for the purpose of access. Buckles and straps, arm rests and leg rests that separate with a wider range of motion than physically possible but this table beats its closest competitor by mere degrees and that's dollars in your pocket if you think about it. Can the doctor see okay? More light. Angle it this way. It's about clarity. Get rid of this, the surgeon's gloved fingers point between the patient's legs. What's the hold up? The nurses remove the offending piece of clothing. Underwear. They tug it down jerkily and hand it off to somebody. It'll be turned inside out and held under a light, learned from, looked at and touched by more strangers before it returns to its rightful owner. The gloved fingers motion again. Still no good. Shaving cream and disposable razors strip the patient of the last shred of dignity they had.

That's better, the surgeon remarks. There you are. The patient is reduced to their genitals which are smooth and soft. Doesn't matter who. But always exciting to look at, and as unique as a face. The patient is reduced to whatever part is being worked on, bare skin an electric contrast to whatever blue or green surgical drapes they have chosen for the procedure. It covers their limbs and their face, hiding any resemblance to a human being. (The surgeons too are shapeless in their gowns, faceless behind their masks, the only thing with any real definition, and connection to the human form, are those hands in their tight, pristine rubber gloves. In rubber they are again unfamiliar, transformed into bright white tools of the trade.) The work area defines scope, boundaries and off-limits. It helps the doctors concentrate and compartmentalize. For the next little while all that exists on the table is just flesh, tissue, ligaments and muscles. It reacts and tightens. The doctor's fingers spread pussylips and the opening yields completely to one, possibly two. Nobody will say anything if there are two inside it. It is a simple check, visual and digital, for obstruction or anything alarming. The doctor feels for the g-spot. Just to check. There isn't much to be done until he can see.

Even the most willing body fights back in its own way. Gravity. Natural tightness. Nervousness. Never been fuckedness. Knees need to be pried apart and set in place with restraints. Hands kept from covering up, tied down too. It's for your own good. The speculum or other vaginal instrumentation locks in place and provides the surgeons access and visualization. That's better. You're in discomfort and that's better. Cranked wide open, all stretched out. Access to the womb not far away, through another orifice.