Etiquette Black Hole

My urologist is a middle aged white guy with an air of serious wisdom about him. Exactly the kind of guy you want applying pressure to your balls with his middle and index fingers.
"I can feel it much better from this position," he remarked in a doctorly voice while expertly pressing into my right testicle.
"YUP!" I enthusiastically agreed.

Enthusiasm is especially easy to muster when your balls are the object of discussion. He began talking about what the lump on my testicle could be, how we could get rid of it, and what the next steps were, but all I could think of was, "does this conversation really require your fingers poking into my scrotum?"

You see, back in the beginning, testicular cancer was kinda funny. I mean, you're living a normal healthy existence and then, out of nowhere, the world takes on an immense fascination with your testicles. Suddenly you have doctors looking after your testicles, nurses caring for your testicles, insurance companies checking in on your testicles, coworkers praying for the health of your testicles. It was the first time in my life where I could talk about my testicles to complete strangers and not be breaking some unreasonable social taboo. My testicles were feeling quite special.

I remember going to get an ultrasound on them, after the above doctors appointment. I found myself surprisingly calm upon finding an attractive girl in the ultrasound room. She told me to take everything off from the waist down, and then get beneith a blanket on the bench next to the machine. Then she left the room while I got undressed and considered what was about to happen.

This attractive girl was going to touch my testicles. Okay, looking for cancer. AND she was going to be touching them with a metal scanning device. For some reason the whole thing wasn't very arousing. I'm going to take a guess, but I'm thinking it was probably the "looking for cancer" part which was the turn off.

Which was just as well. I imagine the medical staff aren't as comfortable dealing with erections. I wonder if there is a training seminar somewhere: "What to do in case of an erection." They probably have emergency measures they're trained to take.

I laid down on the bench and tried to get comfortable, giving a final adjustment to my penis-testicle arrangement before hearing her knock on the door.

She got right down to business.
"Which testicle is it?"
"The right one."
"Does it hurt?"
"No. Well, not before the doctor started squeezing it."
She giggled, and I realized I was instinctually trying to flirt with her. Not cool.
In her hand she had a metal device which vaguely reminded me of an electric shaver. Except this one had jell all over it.
She began softly pressing it into my balls, going up under the blanket, so all I could see was her arm extending between my legs.
I realized at this point that there was a very real risk of two things occurring.

First of all, I could get an erection, which as stated earlier, would make for a very awkward moment for both of us. I mean what is the socially appropriate response for that?
Do I say sorry? Oops?
I think that's pretty much a etiquette black hole right there.

Secondly, I could smile, which again would not be appropriate.
However, since I had already considered the possibility of getting an erection, the socially inappropriate smile was quickly surfacing. I had to think fast.

Immediately I brought out the mantra I had often used to keep from laughing while purchasing food while high. It's a simple, usually effective phrase, and I began repeating it to myself furiously:
Not cool. NOT cool. NOt Cool. NotCool! Not cool not cool... not cool. NOT. cool. not not cool. Not cool. Not cool not cool not cool not coolnotcoolnotcoolnotcoolnotcoolnOTCOOLNOTCOOL.
It wasn't quite working. In fact, the image of a guy lying on his back with a girl spreading jell on his balls, while he repeats "Not Cool" over and over again was too impossibly funny not to envision fully in my head. I was going to lose it.
But then, I had a moment of clarity.
What is the one thing that is sooo not funny, the one thing that would cease any potential erection, and would essentially be the only thing to restore control in this situation?
Cancer! Cancer. cancer. cancer. cancer. CANCER. cancer. Cancer.

After all that was what I was there for.

"I can't find anything unusual. Are you sure its there?"
"Um..." I was pretty damn sure.
"Have you lifted anything heavy lately?"
"With my testicles?" I raised my eyebrows for emphasis.
She laughed again, and excused herself to go look at enlarged pictures of my balls. For a minute I was hopeful that the whole thing had been a false alarm. Like the bump was just a small swelling, that would go away over time.
I watched her leave, and then began the unpleasant task of wiping the clear jell off my genitals with the provided rag. It was all over the place, like after a particularly intense wet dream. Maybe that's all this whole ordeal was. She was certainly cute enough to be in one.
Suddenly it struck me. "I should ask her out.." I liked this idea instantly. It would be hilarious, even if she said no. I had to do it.
But when she walked back in, her eyes weren't looking at me.
"We found something."
Shit. Well that's that. Who wants to date a guy who has a lump on his testicles?
I sighed as she closed the door behind her and finished cleaning myself up.