Co będzie Twoją przygodą?: In My Own Skin
IN MY OWN SKIN
“Jude?” He read off a clipboard.
“Hi, yes, hey,” I said, getting up from my spot in the waiting room.
“I’m Dr. Bradley. It’s nice to meet you.” His hand was stretched out, and I took it, though our eyes never met. “Come on back.”
“It’s my first time at a dermatologist,” I admitted upon my instruction to sit.
“And what brings you here?” he asked.
“Alllllllllllllll this…” I swirled an index finger around my forehead, which had been breaking out worse and worse as the weather got better and better.
“Looks like heat acne. Are you using any product?”
“Take this,” he said, giving me a Neutrogena sample. “Start using a face wash with salicylic acid.” I stopped using face wash once I realized it was turning my eyebrows and facial hair an unnatural tinge of copper.
I paid a $40 co-pay and checked my email for almost an hour in the waiting room to get a fucking Neutrogena sample?
“I’ll write you a prescription, too. It’s a cream I’d like you to put on every night before bed. Only at night. Exposure to sunlight after you apply this can be very dangerous,” he advised.
“Like Gizmo in Gremlins,” I recalled.
“Sort of. Was there anything else?”
“Really? That’s it? You’re sure? My doctor had told me it could be some kind of infection of the hair follicle, which is why he referred me…”
“It’s just heat acne. Should clear up in a few weeks.”
“And so now I’ll have to use this all the time, this prescription?”
“See how it goes next summer. Okay?”
“Okay… ’kay.” It seemed like a waste of an appointment. I thought of any other reason I would need to see a dermatologist. “Hey, what about skin tags—are they easy to remove?” I asked, as if I hadn’t Googled it before.
“Yes, usually. But since removal isn’t covered by insurance, it can cost around $100 for each skin tag. Where is it? Your arm pit? Your groin? Your—“
“That’s pretty common. Is it in the folds?” he asked. I shuddered thinking about the word folds, before owning up.
“The… shaft.” It wasn’t really a question, though it may have sounded like one.
“Well, that could be something else entirely. We could remove it for biopsy, which is covered by insurance. Let me take a look, if you don’t mind.” I knew exactly what it was. It had been there for as long as I remember, before I was even sexual enough to get transmitted diseases. Nothing anyone else had noticed, but for me it was like a swastika tattooed between the Mona Lisa’s eyebrows.
“Sure,” I said, and stood up to undo my belt. He adjusted his glasses and rolled himself toward me, eye-level with my crotch.
Within what felt like milliseconds, a man I didn’t even know five minutes earlier that day was injecting a needle directly into my penis.
“So, what is it you do for a living?”
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