Sometimes, lying next to my boyfriend in bed, my fingers brushing up and down his chest, I feel a break in the smooth path of his skin. A little firmness, a raise in the plane. A bump. A pimple. He has them scattered on his chest, back and neck. And I want to pop them.
Dr. Sandra Lee, whose professional name is Dr. Pimple Popper, has shown me how it’s done. I’ll need latex gloves, “numbing” to prevent any pain, a metal extractor with a loop at the head, and maybe a tiny spoon. My boyfriend’s pimples are not big enough to require a scalpel or surgical scissors, certainly not serious enough to need stitching thread. I wouldn’t operate on him even if he did. I’m not a professional like Dr. Lee, after all.
I ask him if it’s ok for me to work on him. Consent is absolutely necessary. And, like Dr. Lee, I ask him again and again if he’s ok. I don’t have any of the tools that I listed above, and work with just my two index fingers. I’ve only ever gotten a few good ones: he has a tiny dilated pore above his left nipple that I keep my eye on.
For the most part, I leave him alone. I never see Dr. Lee touch anything red or inflamed, so I gather I shouldn’t either. Dr. Lee’s chatter with her geriatric clients is so engaging and sweet that I’d rather watch her videos than bother my poor boyfriend, anyway. Even though he thinks it’s disgusting, I think he is happy Dr. Pimple Popper exists so that he can nap in peace. And I wish he had just a few more discreet blackheads.
La Giraffa 