Uncut

DISCLAIMER: I realize I had acquired a number of younger followers lately, I am glad you may have read my article concerning School Boy Humor. However most of my writing is of a more adult nature, I will not be offended if you choose to unfollow me. But if you are up for the challenge read away, it is always appreciated!

I’m sure many will agree with me on the fact that going to the gynecologist has to be one of the most awkward encounters in life, especially when that doctor happens to be of the opposite sex. Most females dread these trips so much they put them off indefinitely and only go when they know something is wrong. As for me I am aware I’ve gone less than I should, about four times in the nine years I’ve been “sexually active.” This coined term seems to be their favorite topic to ask about, naturally it is the premise of their work, since the day we are “activated” like battery-operated toys we are expected to have our parts maintained. But with each visit the occurrences got more and more bizarre, terrifying a girl into not wanting to answer their hounding questions or be prodded with their uncomfortable instruments. Here are my Gyno woes.

The first time I set foot in an OBYGN office I suppose was the least excruciating, all I really had to do was get over the fact that I’d had the sex, the deed that warrants trips to the vag doctor. I was fourteen at the time, clearly not old enough to fully understand what I was doing, but old enough to know I liked boys and wanted to explore boundaries with them.  When I let the news slip to my mother, she was calm and merely insisted I see a doctor to get checked. I found this request to be a valid one and complied without resistance, little did I know what I was getting myself into. Of course nothing was wrong with me, I confidently answered their questions, I may have been young but I knew my slate was clean, I was sexually active with exactly one partner.

The second time I came around to the lady bits doctor was far less pleasant. It had been about four years since my first visit, that nubile fourteen-year-old not long after her first encounter had gone through a penis phobia phase. Eventually I recovered, and then fully came out to embrace the world of men, a few too many times…

At eighteen I found myself in a completely different boat all together. I hadn’t really dated anyone in that time; most of my exploration was done with sporadic partners, and not all together cautiously. I was unprepared for the questions that the first time seemed so innocent, part of the procedure. This time my responses were instantly judged, vigorously critiqued, as if it was this person’s job description to change my ways using scare tactics. When I answered the questions honestly, as I saw no reason to hold back, I was alarmed by the retorting question, asking if I wanted to die. Forget the risk of pregnancy, infection or a serious STD; she was pulling out the big guns, jumping right to the big finish. I was horrified, of course I did not want to die, was there some chapter I’d missed in health class? The instant death disease?

I understood her point, unprotected sex is dangerous and should not be practiced, but phrasing it like the gym teacher from Mean Girls did seem rather dramatic. I left that office shaken and not entirely thrilled on the prospect of returning, but still nothing had been found wrong with me, I continued my life, repressing the memory.

After another long absence, this time about 3 years I returned to a new doctor for the regular maintenance and check up. This woman was jolly, friendly even, she asked many of the same questions, responded disapprovingly to some of my answers, but never once suggested my life would be in some imminent danger. I left the office thinking, was that really so bad? Perhaps I should get checked up more often. However this ease would soon be disrupted at the phone call that something was wrong, an infection, relatively harmless and easily cured but a product none the less of my own carelessness. It was a wake up call.

Most recently I returned to yet another gynecologist office at 23, at this age I’d come to think I generally knew what I was in store for, the examinations, the questions, I’d experienced what bad news was like. To my surprise I found this time to have a male doctor, an older balding man whom I did not want to have the hands of in my vagina. He opened up the conversation with more unusual questions than I was use to, such as if I’d had any major surgeries, specifically if I’d had breast implants, which I thought to be a bit unprofessional, but calmly answered no. Following the examination he informed me that he thought I was cute, not the first words I wanted to hear from the medical professional I had just trusted with viewing my lady parts. I was then forced to return to this doctor for a headache of appointments, the likes of which I hope never to experience again.

So the moral of the story is, practice abstinence…

Well since we know that won’t happen, just be safe. Gynecologists are miserable places to be, don’t ever give yourself reason to worry and visit these terrible people who get paid to touch you in the nude.