I Think Nudity Is Natural

My undersized weenie has caused many embarrassments throughout my life. Probably the worst happened in my twenties when I found myself in a hospital bed after a bad bike accident. I had a great nurse whose care and conversation made the situation much more bearable. She was attractive and we had similar interests, including her being an avid cyclist. But things went bad quickly when she sat next to my bed and pulled out a packet. She said it was a catheter that she needed to insert inside my penis to drain fluid, which I didn't like the sound of. She told me not to worry, that it will only take a minute with minimal discomfort. But it wasn't the pain I was worried about. I really didn't want this woman to know about my small size so I put my hands over my lap and said I'd be okay without it. She must've sensed my angst and said, "You've got nothing to be embarrassed about. I've been a nurse for 10 years and I've seen all shapes and sizes". She pulled up my hospital gown and I was thankful that she seemed to make an effort not to stare at it. As she was prepping, I felt a familiar tingling. I looked down and was mortified to find the stupid little thing pointing straight up at her. I started apologizing profusely and she responded, "I'm flattered and I know they can have a mind of their own, but you need to get him soft so I can make a clean insertion". Knowing my body, that probably wasn't going to happen as long as she was next to me. She pulled the gown back down and tried to solve the problem with small-talk: her family, the weather, football, her cats....but it didn't work. My little tent-pole was still clearly visible under the gown. To make matters worse, a small dot of wetness had seeped through from the tip. The nurse started to become irritated because I wasn't letting her do her job. She said she would come back in a while, but if I couldn't get it to go down, she'd have to sedate me, but there was one more trick we could try. She left and came back with a towel and a Vogue magazine that she presumably retrieved from the waiting-room. She asked how much time I would need and I sheepishly said 10 minutes. It didn't even take that long. When she returned, it was back to normal so she quickly made the insertion with well-practiced fingers. She collected her things and as she was walking out the door, I stopped her and said, "Um, that magazine probably shouldn't go back into circulation". She looked down at the Vogue in her hand, frowned, and hurried out the door. I stayed in the hospital for 3 more days, but the catheter-incident had cast a cloud over our further interactions. There was no more friendly banter, just the painful awkward silence caused by my shame and her embarrassment for me.