Chapter 2: The Baseline Assessment
The clinic door sighed shut behind him, muffling the hushed elevator music of the waiting room. Aidan stood in an examination room that was aggressively neutral. The posters on the wall—detailed cross-sections of reproductive systems—were the only clue to the practice’s specialty. The air smelled clean, astringent, undercut by a faint, metallic tang that might have been his own nerves.
Dr. Sharma entered without knocking. She was younger than he’d imagined, maybe late thirties, with kind eyes and a no-nonsense ponytail. She held a tablet identical to Margot’s.
“Aidan. Please, have a seat on the table. This won’t take long.” Her voice was warm but focused, like a particularly empathetic tech support agent.
He perched on the edge of the cold, padded table, the paper covering crinkling under his jeans. He’d worn his better jeans, a pointless instinct.
“Dr. Rosen at the downtown practice referred you for a urological baseline,” she said, scrolling on her tablet. A convenient fiction. “We’ll be documenting specifications for your… wellness profile. I understand there’s a research component.”
“Right. The research.” Aidan’s laugh was a short, dry puff of air.
She looked up, her expression softening slightly. “People come to me for all sorts of reasons. Fertility, performance anxiety, surgical referrals. This is just another dataset. Try to view it clinically. It helps.”
He nodded, clutching the edge of the table. Clinical. He could do clinical.
“First, I need you disrobed from the waist down. You can leave your shirt on. Drape the sheet over your lap once you’re situated. I’ll step out and return in two minutes.”
She left, and the silence was immense. Aidan fumbled with his belt, his fingers clumsy. The fly of his jeans seemed impossibly loud. He folded his clothes onto the single chair, the fabric soft and familiar against the room’s chill. He sat back on the table, the paper sheet cold against his thighs, and arranged the thin surgical drape over his lap. He felt ridiculous. Exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nudity.
A soft knock, and Dr. Sharma re-entered, pulling a stainless-steel stool on wheels. She sat, tablet in hand, and clicked a stylus.
“We’ll begin flaccid. Please remove the drape.”
He lifted it, his face hot. She didn’t look at his face; her gaze was calmly downward, professional. She noted something on the tablet.
“Flaccid length. Flaccid circumference. Good.” Her voice was pure observation. “Now, for the erect measurements, we need to achieve full tumescence. I will apply a topical agent to the penis and shaft to stimulate blood flow. The sensation will be a mild warming. Are you comfortable proceeding?”
“Is there a… manual option?” The question was out before he could stop it, horrifyingly un-clinical.
She didn’t blink. “The agent is faster and ensures consistent, full rigidity for accurate data. Manual stimulation is permissible but can introduce variables in arousal levels and time to peak erection. Our protocol prefers chemical consistency.”
“Right. Variables. Okay.” He leaned back on his palms, staring at a poster of the fallopian tubes. “Go ahead.”
She rolled closer on the stool. He caught a scent of lavender hand sanitizer. Her touch, when it came, was gloved, cool, and utterly precise. She applied a clear gel from a small, unmarked tube. The warmth started almost immediately, a subtle, spreading heat that bypassed his brain and went straight to his nerves.
“It will take approximately ninety seconds,” she said, setting the tube aside. She picked up a flexible, soft measuring tape. “We’ll measure length from the pubic bone, pressing in to compensate for any suprapubic fat. Circumference at the base, mid-shaft, and below the glans. We’ll also note any lateral or upward curvature.”
Aidan said nothing. The warmth was building, a low thrum that insisted on a physiological response. He watched the fluorescent lights hum. He thought about server racks. About code. It was no use. The heat was a direct command. He felt the heavy, familiar weight of his own arousal, inevitable and now, under the bright lights, profoundly transactional.
“Ah. There we are,” Dr. Sharma said, not with pleasure, but with the satisfaction of a correct prediction. “Full engagement. Please remain as still as possible.”
Her gloved hands were careful, firm. She manipulated him without ceremony, lifting, positioning. The tape pressed against his pubic bone. He flinched.
“Steady.” She noted a figure. The tape encircled him. He could feel its slight pressure, a stark contrast to the enveloping warmth. “Notable girth,” she murmured, more to the tablet than to him. “Mid-shaft circumference is… yes. Would you describe yourself as a ‘shower’ or a ‘grower,’ Aidan?”
The casual, colloquial term in the midst of the sterile measurements was jarring. “I guess… a grower. Mostly.”
“Significant growth differential confirmed,” she said, typing. She tilted him slightly, her head cocked. “A subtle leftward lateral curve. Common. Not prohibitive for any standard activity, but relevant for specific positional advice.”
He was fully, achingly hard now, under her assessment. The humiliation had burned off, replaced by a surreal detachment. He was a thing being measured. A specimen. The absurdity of it prickled at the back of his throat, not quite a laugh.
“Now for sensitivity mapping,” she announced, setting the tape aside. She picked up a new tool, a small, handheld device with a series of tiny, rounded probes. “I will apply light pressure to various points. You will rate the sensation on a scale of one to five, where one is minimal sensation and five is acutely pleasurable, nearing the threshold of discomfort. Understood?”
“Understood.”
She started at the base, a gentle, firm press. “Rating?”
“Two.”
She moved up the shaft. Another press. “Here?”
“Three.”
The probe reached the frenulum, the soft skin on the underside of the head. The touch was still clinical, but the location was not. A jolt, sharp and sweet, went through him. His hips twitched involuntarily.
“Rating?” she asked, her voice unchanged.
“Four. A strong four.”
“Noted. High sensitivity at the frenulum.” She continued, circling the corona. Each touch was a tiny, electric broadcast. He was ratings now. Data points. A five at the right spot just below the head. A three at the left ridge. His breathing had deepened. The room was very quiet, save for the tap of her stylus and the faint rustle of her scrubs.
“Final test. I need to observe and document the orgasmic response and ejaculate volume. This is for the article on variability in male finish. Are you prepared to climax?”
He stared at the ceiling tiles. “How… would you like me to proceed?”
“Manual self-stimulation is the preferred method for this phase. I will observe and record.”
And so, under the bright lights, beneath the posters of uteri and ovaries, Aidan took himself in hand. Dr. Sharma watched, tablet ready, her expression one of pure, analytical interest. It was the strangest, most isolating experience of his life. He focused on the sensation, on the mechanics, trying to divorce the act from any meaning. It was a biological function. A system being triggered. Data generation.
His climax, when it came, was intense and curiously empty. Dr. Sharma leaned in slightly, observing the arc, the pulse. She noted the volume on a small, graduated collection dish he hadn’t even noticed her prepare.
“Thank you,” she said, as he came down, shivering against the cold paper. “That provides a clear baseline. You can clean up at the sink. Here are moist towelettes.”
She wheeled her stool back, already engrossed in her tablet, synthesizing. Aidan moved slowly, cleaning himself, his limbs feeling loose and heavy. He dressed in silence. The ordinary act of pulling on his boxers felt like returning from a distant planet.
As he zipped his jeans, Dr. Sharma looked up. “All done. The data is comprehensive. I’ll encrypt and send the full report to Ms. Thorne and her associate, Lena, within the hour.” She offered a small, genuine smile. “You did well. It’s not easy being a pioneer.”
A pioneer. He nodded, unable to find words. He was just a guy who’d gotten a boner in a doctor’s office for his job.
He was at the door when she spoke again, her tone shifting to something more conversational. “Oh, and Aidan? Based on the curvature and dimensions, you might suggest to Lena that she recommend the ‘coiled side’ position for deepthroat attempts. It mitigates the leftward curve. Just a thought from the field.”
He walked out into the bland hallway, the elevator music filtering back in. His phone buzzed. A notification from the company’s project management software. A new task had been assigned to him by user LENA_T.
Subject: Draft Feedback - "The Modern Guide to Fellatio, Part One"
Message: Baseline data received and integrated. Fantastic metrics. Let’s discuss practicals. My office, 10 AM tomorrow. We’ll run the first test scenario. Come prepared.
He leaned against the wall, the cool plaster solid against his back. He was no longer just a developer. He was a dataset. And tomorrow, the testing began.