“When was your last sexual encounter?” she asked directly. [Wow. That's so forward....Take me to dinner first, at least.]
Question: Remember the good old days when you talked about your vagina after some pie and coffee?
“Over a year ago,” I said jokingly. “I am working on regaining my virginity.” I have no issues with talking about sex/lack thereof or my body – unless there is a nun or OPC [other people's children] present.
But this definitely seems like the right place to talk “vagina.” [So bring it on, lady.]
It is my opinion that people don’t talk about sex or their bodies or the sheer weirdness and absurdity that both encounter on a daily basis enough.
I remember travelling through New York – and because I can’t count – I didn’t know it was menses time. [Menses time is like Miller time, except not really.]
So I made a mad dash to a drug store to purchase tampons. I casually bring them to register. Suddenly, I am in a 007 movie. A spy on a secret mission.
She grabs the box pulls it behind the counter. Charges me. Puts them in a paper bag. Staples it three times.
And then, put the stapled brown bag in another brown paper bag before she gave it to me. [What? No secret code word? Fingerprint test? Eye scan? These tampons were safer the President.]
For the life of me I can’t figure out why everything concerning vaginas is so hush, hush. I literally stopped a conversation once by saying the word “tampon.” I wanted to see if he would shut up, and he did.
That is called magic. [Take that, Harry Potter.]
And it worked every time. [Feel free to borrow this.]
Repeat after me.
No more vagina shame. It’s just not cool.
So that’s where this blog is going. If it’s not your thang. Exit now [though I should've given the heads up - before the tampon story. My bad.]
Otherwise, grab some popcorn. Let’s talk vagina.
And with that welcome to my first weekly blog for Tales from My Vagina Fridays. [Look, I know it's no longer Friday. Whatever.]
I just didn’t get to it. Last week was rough…
This is how Friday went.
I sent a throng [like 3] of super-harsh emails at work to the some dude who was driving me nuts.
I said stuff like, “If you are going to change your mind every 3 days, causing throngs of people to re-do all of their work – you can at least be considerate of other people’s time and schedules.” [No, I don't have my period. I was just being bitchy.]
I ended the last email with – “As it stands now, I will not get to your request because I actually have other things to do.”
ONSD [Oh, no she didn't.]
My boss called me into her office. I gave her some lame story about stress [which was a little true, but mostly I just want to metaphorically slap that dude.]
She’s soooooo nice. And she said, “Let’s forget this week happened. It sucked.”
That was sweet. Right? [Because I was totally being a douchebag.]
Note to self: I think I am becoming an asshole. Not for sending the emails. But because if felt so good. And if I’m being honest, I still don’t give a shit.
So I left work early and I came home to my bat cave. For some reason I hermetically-seal of all the curtains before I leave for work [because of serial killers and such.]
But I was dying to fling my bra to Timbuktu and I was frantically disrobing while chatting on the phone with my friend, Chloe – in the dark, even though it’s still daylight outside.
Suddenly, I step in cat puke as I am walking quickly and my feet fly up in the air.
The phone, my arms, my bra and my mammoth breasts all launched in different directions.
And now there was a skid of gelatinous cat puke across my floor. [Nice.]
Why is my cat so frakking huge if he always pukes up half his food? He is not fat, just freakishly tall and muscular. Even the vet said, “Geez, I’ve never seen a cat this big?” [Look, dude - don't talk about my cat family. Only I can talk about the little bastard.]
I hop in the shower so fast like the cat puke on my foot was acid.
When the shower was done, I was so tired I just wanted to sit down.
Just one tiny second.
And I went to the living room.
All I remember was waking up hours later, still naked – barely covered with a wet towel with one leg thrown over the back of the couch.
And this is why being single rocks.
Laying naked on the couch, legs akimbo.
Cat puke and bitchiness sums up my week. In fact, the highlight was going to the gynecologist. [And you know damn well that ain't right?]
She’s still asking vagina questions. So let’s chat, shall we?
“God, your skin is so beautiful it’s distracting,” I – Queen of the Non Sequitur – said. [It was. I just like to vocalize things so people "know" they are doing something awesome.]
I guess I should say “now.”
I like to vocalize now.
But there was a time when being naked and honest certainly didn’t go hand-in-hand.
Kissing him was like licking an ashtray – disgusting. Of course, I still kissed him anyway because I was doing the whole nice girl who “didn’t actually talk” and was smiling-and-going-along-for-the-ride thing.
One day, we are having sex in the afternoon in his parent’s house. I am pretty sure they hated it – and me – but didn’t say anything.
[Hm... I am trying to remember how old I was when this happened. Let's just call these years - My Dim Years. I'll guess 27. Anyway...]
After a few seconds of deep thought [for him], he looked down at my naked body and spits on my vagina to lubricate it.
Let me say it again. He spit on my fucking vagina.
Look, I am no doctor.
Well, okay I am a Google doctor [that's when you look up all of your ailments on Google and convince yourself you are dying every time you have some weird lump or headache. And yes, I have my MD. So it's official...]
But here is how this works.
Cars come with tires.
Bananas come with peels.
Shoes come with soles.
And VAGINAS COME WITH LUBRICANT!
This is not a BYOL [Bring your own lubricant] situation um… necessarily.
Question: Remember the good old days when people said “Hey, can I spit on you?” before they spit on you?!
If I had even an ounce of self-esteem then, I would have said, “Hey dude, what the hell are you doing?!”
I don’t generally moralize – because really, who the hell am I?
But the moral of this vagina tale – Is don’t friggin’ spit on people. Okay? It’s bizarre.
The doctor also wants to test for HPV, which I also think is quite bizarre. “Dont’cha think I am little old for that?”
She said no and blah blah blah. I am generally of the opinion that if my benefits pay for it and you want to test me. Knock yourself out.
I try to catch her up on my fibroid history since this our first conversation.
I have two the size of grapefruits in the uterus lining. I would have never have known they were there without a gynecologist – because you can’t see or feel them from the outside. I am asymptomatic, but it’s good to know why I have to pee every two seconds.
My fibroids are just there.
Taking up space.
Like the magic flame box in the magic kitchen place that I will never, ever use, collecting a shitload of dust which I have to deal with…
Honestly, she is seriously beautiful. It’s like she’s floating around the room with her perfect alabaster skin and white coat. And then, she tells me she was an army doctor for 10 years and I feel compelled to start carving a statue in her image or something.
[Okay, I love her. Whatever.]
I have looked for a gynecologist that I haven’t vehemently hated instantaneously for 6 years. And she’s floating through room [it's just weird, dude.]
Every single doctor my friend, Chloe, has recommended to me has been soap opera beautiful and the best doctor in their field. She says she just researches their credentials and they just happen to be stunning.
Talk about your weird talents.
“Should I be worried about the drops of urine in my underwear?” I ask.
“No, it’s the fibroids sitting on the bladder. It’s quite normal?” I kind of knew the answer because I am a Google doctor afterall [but I wanted a second opinion.]
So we get down to business.
I hop on the table. She prepares her vagina tools and does the breast exam. “Do give yourself breast exams?” she says, as she is tenderizing my breasts.
I gotta admit that I don’t.
I just don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
Add to that, that the breasts are naturally lumpy. Honestly, it’s like an IQ test or something. I am faithful about my yearly exams and mammograms though…
In the effort of full disclosure, I confide to her, “I am not sure if there will be droplets of urine while you are down there, but I just want you to know that I cannot control it.”
So looks at me with her creamy alabaster skin and smiles in a motherly way, “I think I can handle it. Does the urine bother you?”
“Only when there is a head in my vagina,” I reply.
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