I’ve been recovering from a stomach virus. It’s taken me five days to be able to convince my stomach it’s okay to keep food down, but that hasn’t stopped it from protesting by issuing disturbingly loud noises. So disturbingly loud, I haven’t gone out anywhere because I’m afraid someone will call the cops on me.
To top off my wonderful week of vomiting and subsequent negotiation with my stomach to have some soup, I went to an appointment to see my gynecologist. I should’ve re-scheduled but since I haven’t had a date in… well, never mind how long, I figured I’d just go and get fingered.
I’ve never seen this particular gynecologist before because I just got new insurance, and because insurance companies dictate who and when you can see a health care provider, I had to choose someone I’ve never met or heard of before. I chose a woman because a male gynecologist is an oxymoron. Or, just moron. Anyway, we did the usual question and answer routine and sized each other up. She seemed knowledgeable enough and had a pleasant manner, so I felt comfortable in working with her to address my issues.
Never mind about my issues
Ask any woman, of any age, what it’s like to go to the gynecologist for a check up, and you’ll get the same response: Ugh, which always denotes trepidation and a quiet dread. Not only because you don’t want any bad news, but because of the contraptions used for the exam. I’m talking a pap smear, people… which is an awful phrase. Couldn’t they come up with a more appealing term, like flower inspection? I don’t even know what a pap is.
So I climbed up onto the saddle and planted my feet firmly into the stirrups. Ladies will know exactly what I’m referring to, and men… well, you’ll have to ask your wives or girlfriends for an explanation if you don’t already know… you dumb fucks. Oh, you didn’t realize I was gonna walk you through my appointment and it’s making you uncomfortable, huh? Welcome to the jungle, baby! (I haven’t had a bikini wax in a couple years either).
Aaaanyway… after the soothing sound of the snapping of latex gloves, she started with the speculum, which is Latin for “this is gonna be awkward”. The speculum is a contraption that spreads the vagina open, much wider than if it was about to invite a hot guy’s bulge inside of her… or something to that effect. One of the reasons I like to see women gynecologists is because they know how to use them, taking into consideration how it feels, whereas men have no fucking clue. Most of the time they can’t even find the vagina’s most precious jewel, so how are they supposed to be a fucking gynecologist, for fuck’s sake?! (please see paragraph three).
After that uncomfortable part of the exam, this gyno (shortened from the word gynecologist to save time and effort) had to feel around inside my uterus, and she got a little rough. I get that she wanted to be thorough, but after a minute of this, it started to feel like I never gave her permission in the first place, if you know what I mean. To give credit where credit is due, men can generally be more, um… caring, when it comes to feeling around up there, but she was just going to the rodeo! She shoved her fingers so high up inside me, at one point she mentioned I needed a filling in my upper molar.
How the fuck?
After her exam was completed, she said I might have some spotting later in the day and I thought to myself: Spotting? I’m probably going to have a full on period… and I’m in menopause. If there was anything good to come out of my visit, it’s that I definitely want to start dating immediately. She awakened a passion in me… a desire of something that’s been dormant for a long time: