Hot Doctor

Wait…. What underwear should I wear for this?

I have usually always had a “hot teacher” rather than a hot doctor… that is until the past few years, when my dermatology office added a younger, very hot doctor with bright blue eyes and a bright blue BMW to match. Of course, I primarily see him for botox and ugly skin things that he has to burn off, or send away for science — so he probably thinks I’m a festering pool of bacteria that grows weird unexplainable lumps and bumps that he finds completely repulsive. Or at the very least, an obsessive compulsive extremely vain neurotic woman who spends too much time looking in her magnification mirror. 

Before Hot Doctor, I had Old Doctor who liked to literally steal moles off of me. I’m talking like, pulls-out-a-scalpel-and-peels-a-mole-off mid-conversation. He would wear those giant magnification goggles on his forehead with some sort of mining light bulb that he can turn off and on with a switch. He takes moles very seriously. He once tried to get me to understand his political views while removing an “age spot” from right above my Vagitariaus (*this is not a star sign). And while it was completely awkward, and I still refuse to believe it was an “age” spot like how dare he, it was better to have a man you aren’t attracted to whatsoever removing all the nasty things from your body…because you know, if I’m gonna be a festering pool of bacteria in front of somebody, might as well be somebody who literally actually loves moles. 

I guess this goes along with never letting a man you date know you fart or something. Like, putting up the charade that you — as a lady — don’t do anything nasty. 

After my age spot incident, I was switched to Hot Doctor. He at first was basically just in charge of my botox and obsessive episodes where I begged for him to burn off tiny pores that he swore no one could see. I would whine to him about how he needed to fix the texture of my skin, and he would just stand there, arms crossed, telling me I needed to throw away the magnification mirror ASAP. 

I never thought about Hot Doctor like THAT believe it or not, until this one time we started talking about dating apps and how much we both hated them. My appointment had ended, and for whatever reason he was lingering in the room sorta just shootin’ the sh*t. I will admit I am very bad at noticing or understanding body language and cues from men that might possibly be interested in me. Usually if I think they are possibly into me, they sure as shit aren’t — which is probably how I missed the cues that Rockstar wasn’t into me. That, or I totally miss my window if they actually are into me. 

It is my experience that men seemingly bring up dating apps as a way to see if you have a boyfriend or if you are married, or if you “hate dating apps” which basically translates to “I’m single and looking.” Hot Doctor said he “hated dating apps,” which I of course translated to “I’m Single” (which may or may not be true.) He says he hates them not because of the quality of women, but because apparently some of his soccer MILF patients would slide into his DMs after an appointment. As in, they would steal his name off of their prescription-grade retinol, look him up, and then ask him out. I’m not sure if that’s creepy or just like, how the world works now. When I asked if his account was “private” he just shook his head and said he doesn’t even HAVE an account. I could not have been more millennial in this moment, because I’m pretty sure I had a look of “how do you function without an Instagram account” poorly hidden on my face. But instead I went with a solid performance of, “wow, that must be SO hard.” 

There was an awkward moment of silence after I said that. Maybe because I made it sound like he found out he was dying of cancer and not just trying to dodge crazy MILFs who wanted a free skin care consultation from their bed? But, because I am an idiot when it comes to reading signals, I almost wonder if I was supposed to like, offer him my phone number or something. I didn’t. And after a few more beats of awkward silence, he opened the door and told me to make sure to schedule my follow up in a few weeks… a follow up that would include a FULL BODY EXAM. 

So whether I was supposed to give him my number or not — I took this still as an invitation for me to possibly end up naked. 

No, it’s not THAT kind of exam — but it is equally traumatizing. It’s the kind where you are left standing in the middle of a brightly lit room in just your panties so he can search your skin for skin cancer. When Old Doctor did this, he would lay me down and put the mining light on with his big magnification goggles and would slowly stretch out my skin like Hannibal Lecter with his gloved hands, and call out weird dermal glossary words to a nurse who would furiously type into an iPad. He would occasionally take a scalpel and carve out little sections of skin, saving them in testing tubes like a mad man. When I started to imagine Hot Doctor stretching out my skin with his hands, I immediately started panicking…he would surely know I am definitely just an amoeba of weird broken capillaries and hormonal acne if he sees me that close. 

But more importantly, the thing I was most panicked over…. What underwear should I wear for this?

I am a child on the inside and my underwear tends to have rainbow unicorns, mini martinis and charcuterie all over them. I literally have a pair with dancing wine and cheeses. Hot Doctor seemed like the kind of man that only liked women that wore black lace panties and matching bras. I hadn’t bought lingerie in years after I figured out that a set like that is basically worn for like, five minutes and that it's bound to give you some sort of rash that’ll stay around much longer. But honestly, I could NOT show up in Storm Trooper panties and a sports bra like I actually wear IRL. I needed to be mysterious… a black lace underwear wearin’ woman who could be seen in a bright blue BMW lookin’ like she belongs there. A woman who does no nasty things and doesn’t need her pores soldering off. 

So, onto the internet I went…. researching underwear with laces on the ass, and frilly things around the legs, even the neon crotchless ones. I didn’t wanna look like I was trying too hard, but also have you ever worked on a lingerie Pinterest board two weeks ahead of a mole exam? Me neither. I finally settled on a matching pastel seamless set from Fenty Savage, a set that sorta said, “My underwear and bra match? Oh I didn’t even notice, how cute…” 

When the day of my appointment came, I was ready to seduce… I mean, have him thoroughly examine me for skin cancer as you should do at least once a year. There I stood, in the middle of the room, proudly in my matching set… pretending I was the fancy girl in the blue BMW. But the exam could not have been more awkward… Hot Doctor could not have stood further away from me. I mean, this dude probably needed a telescope to see if I was even in the same room. He quickly had me do a spin, said “looks all clear to me” and exited faster than any doctor I’d ever seen. 

It was disappointing to say the least, I had even paid for rush shipping. 

But also, he literally looked like he just came out of seeing a horror film. If you’ve ever watched Doctor Pimple Popper deal with a cyst, you have to know that certainly this guy sees much worse than a matching underwear set that Rihanna herself recommended for me. Like, I didn’t have anything nasty for him at this appointment even… but I was back to thinking lingerie is really only good for five minutes. I had that deflated moment that Cher has in Clueless when Christian would rather watch Spartucus and she asks herself, “Did my hair get flat?” 

But maybe it was better this way? I could just lean in to my amoeba-ness, let my bacteria grow at will, and wear my weirdly printed panties in peace. At least Old Doctor would keep me from dying of skin cancer — he may want to look at every inch of me through 1000x magnification, but he probably would just say he likes Star Wars and has them on his underwear too. 

As for Hot Doctor, I still wonder what he must have seen from his perspective? Like, was there a “Great MILF attack of 2013” that he has PTSD from? Maybe he saw the matching underwear, and like, blacked out from the trauma of it all? 

Just hope this doesn’t affect his ability to still be able to do my botox… like fine, I’ll stay clothed, geez. 

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