At the dawn of my dim youth, when I had not yet had time to break up with my virginity, but had already had time to get out of school at a medical college (then it was called a medical school) in the specialty of a midwife, this story happened. I sit in the guest house of my sister, and here one of her friends invites me to say so on a t-a-tet to the bathroom. With his humble eyes, he says:

- You are studying at the gynecologist, and you can't look, or I have "there" some pimples, it's not syphilis?

So show me.

She pulls her shirt, then trousers, I look - there's really something, but the most that pulls her pimples - it's irritation after shaving. I look seriously, reassure about syphilis, but I advise, once so afraid to pass the analysis anonymously (just in those years they were allowed to do). Then I go out, I see my sister and two other friends standing in the hallway and looking, “Well, you’re a fool.”

After many years, having met this girlfriend heard the story - it turns out, my sister and friends decided to "check" me (just don't understand what), like I would use her, and they would break in and "save" her.

So why didn’t you react, you’re just a virgin?

- You are stupid, according to my situation, the doctor turned on, so I did not see the girl naked in you, but, sorry, the object of the examination, and the brains only in the direction of medicine worked. I had one practice mentor — the head of the town named Goliath (an epic character, I report to you, under two meters tall, with an underarm thick with my leg and a palm able to embrace a three-litre bowl), so he always said in response to the whispers of the young man who first went to the examination of a male gynecologist — where do you see the man? You think of me dress, no, it’s armor! As long as I am in it, I am not a man, but a function!