Wearing a mask while a GP examined my gentleman's area last week made me feel positively coquettish.
There's a lot to be said for maintaining a sense of mystery. It's good to keep a little something back. Not your scrotum though, as that's public property, and should take the role of the face as a man's most identifying feature in a mask-wearing pandemic (though less of the "little something", thank you very much).
It's just a more extreme version of the many awkward micro-moments provoked by the current circumstances (like your glasses steaming up because you're wearing a mask writ large). The doctor and I were the only two attendees of the world's most demeaning masquerade ball with the ball in question the most out-in-the-open part. The fact the doctor was a junior one at least leant a sense of learning to proceedings with me proud to assist their education, though I'm not sure if the chaperone also in the room was there for the GP or me.
It's strangely the most comfortable I've felt during an intimate examination, of which I've now had a handful (to coin a phrase) as the mask made me feel less on show. Though opting for my rubber Ronald Reagan one was probably a misstep.