Squats are a Girl's Best Friend

Both during college and for the two years after I graduated, I put in some time working at a midtown construction company. I wound up quitting for a variety of reasons, including ridiculous invasions of my personal life and a band of women with a vendetta against me. But through pain comes payoff, since I walked away with a handful of amazing stories. Which is always a plus, but even more so when they are about the very same things that led you to quit. I managed to find a new job, working as an office manager for a marketing firm, also in midtown. My job title may have been office manager, but the only thing I had to manage was my mental health thanks to my boss. Or better know to mankind as Satan Incarnated, founder and CEO. I didn't so much as “work” there, as I was more of a “slave” to my boss, who practically got off on making people cry. I know, I know, we all have horror stories from our places of employ, but that’s not what this story is about. This is about the actual single funny moment that I had happened to experience in the short two months I lasted there before I was fired. So, this marketing firm / my new hell, was the polar opposite from the construction company in terms of size; I went from working at a 500+ employee, six-billion-dollar a year corporation to a 12-person, 3-year old private business. So naturally, along with the supplies budget, the office size was correspondingly smaller. Most relevant to know for this story was that my new job locale was snuggled into a single, 5-room suite in a floor with other firms, and all the suites shared a community bathroom. The bathrooms were located all the way on the opposite end of the hallway, past the elevators and other suites. I actually didn’t mind it as much as I thought I would. It at least gave me the chance to escape the never-blinking Sauron-type eye of boss that seemed to stretch even into the elevators when I was heading home.

I was walking back through the empty hallway one day, back from the bathroom. It happened to me one of my better-looking days (rare as they are in the humid summer months.) I was looking all cute in my short flowing summer dress and hot heels. So, obviously, I switched into Fierce Mode, complete with club music thumping in my head and me sashaying like all the world was my catwalk. Then, as if from an echo-y distance, I head the men’s bathroom door open and shut from behind me, causing the DJ’s record to come to a scratching halt. I quickly came crashing back down into my fluorescent-lit reality, and without turning around I reverted to walking like a normal person back to my office. It wasn’t until I sat down and felt the cool leather of my desk chair hit my bare ass that I realized my dress had been tucked very neatly into my thong underwear.

Honestly, this didn’t immediately strike me as that big of a deal. In fact my initial reaction was laughter. Like my friends always say, this sort of thing always happens to me, so I’m used to it and wasn’t even terribly surprised by this latest event. But then it dawned on me: this wasn’t some private moment of hilarity. The replay of my walk back to the office started up in my mind and I remembered the men’s bathroom door. Oh crap. Some guy had just gotten a free show and I had no idea who it was, or which office he blonged to, or if he even worked in an office in the building at all. He could’ve been a janitor, a delivery guy, a caterer, who the hell knows. For the next two days, I became a walking tomato with legs. No matter where I was- the lobby, elevator, my floor- I would turn bright red and avert my eyes at the sight of every guy I saw.

Later that same week, however, I was walking down the hall, once again, to use the bathroom. When I opened my office door I saw a bunch of the law guys standing around outside their office, which was next door to ours. The only reason I could’ve been happy to see them, and not feel my stomach lurch upon discovering their presence, was the “Hot Guy” who worked there. I would occasionally catch glimpses of him, like a unicorn or other beautiful mythical beast, entering/leaving the office. I found myself praying we would serendipitously find ourselves sharing an elevator ride one day. But alas, this was not that day, as he was nowhere to be found. All to be seen blocking my pathway to the ladies room was this sad bunch of nerdy-looking miscreants standing around talking, and who knows, playing hackey-sack. I was still feeling incredibly awkward and self-concious, even minus-Hot Guy, because in the back of my mind all I was thinking about was the thong/ass-showing incident (I had never figured out who was walking behind me.) Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I tried to walk past them as quickly as possible without being noticed, even going so far as to practically suck my stomach in as I inched my way around their sewing circle. My attempts proved futile as this clearly didn’t make me invisible, especially when one of the guys stopped me. He said, “Hi! Listen, I know I look like shit; I haven’t slept in 36 hours. But you! You are gorgeous, I mean… wow!” I felt ill. I don’t dislike getting compliments but why do they always have to come from guys like this? He was like Fred Flinstone in a suit, with blonde hair and blue eyes. His huge lantern-jaw was only more obvious thanks to his odd way of talking like he had marbles and too much spit in his mouth.

Since that time of my life, I’ve become a hostess at a nightclub and have learned to deal with these sorts of situations. Namely, the incredibly unattractive men who seem to think I will not only interested but a proud recipient of their lines and other assorted hit-on attempts. I’ve grown up a bit too, so when I find myself in these painfully awkward and potentially horrendous moments I don’t freak out about turning them down, or being truthful and upfront. For instance, two years ago I may have even given him my number just to get out of there but then never answer his calls. Had I met him today it would have ended very differently. I would’ve agreed with him that yes, you look like a hot mess and I would never give you my number in a million years. Because let’s be honest here; I would never want to ride what you’ve got and I have zero curiosity in finding out what magic that giant jaw could work on my lady parts.

Sadly, back then I was not able to voice these thoughts which unfortunately stayed within the confines of my brain. So instead of being rude (honest?) to him to get him to leave me alone, I said, “Well, thanks, excuse me though…” I tried to continue down the hallway as if I was in a rush, but he stopped me again and wouldn’t stop talking to me so I patiently made small talk and pretended to be fascinated by what he had to say. My interest, already at zero, was rapidly hitting the negative quadruple digits but then I came rushing to the surface when I heard him utter, “I saw you a couple of days ago,” (oh noooo) “Right here in this hallway actually; but you were walking ahead of me and I didn’t get a chance to say anything. You were wearing a great blue dress though.” Oh mother of god. Why? Just… why, of all the men on this earth, was he the one to see me? To see my ass? Why him, and not The Hot Guy? Is it my fate to have these types of men, with comb-overs in their 30's, see me at my best while hot guys always seem to see me at my worst? It’s times like these that make me convinced I am destined to wind up with a man I don’t really want to be with, a man like this, named Dwayne and from goddamn New Jersey. Dwayne? Really? Are we in 1993 Oklahoma? If we went out on a date, you’d probably show up in acid wash Jordache jeans and sneakers that strap shut with velcro.

My only consolation here was that the mystery as to who had seen my bare booty was finally solved, however unhappy the result that closed the case was. He even got to shake my hand. Although I never did let him take me out, at least I felt good about knowing that my bare ass, even under fluorescent lighting, is considered gorgeous.

Why There Aren't Porn Site Categories Dedicated to College Boys, I: Slob & Knob

Impulsive I am; it’s quite, quite true. In fact, I don’t know if anything else in this world is truer than that single-word self-description. I've often wondered, is this impulsiveness the culprit responsible for getting me into more trouble than anything else? That has so many times left me asking myself, often on the train home, or two minutes later in the bedroom, “What is wrong with me?” or “How did I wind up here, again?” or simply, “Why?” I've had to come to terms with the fact that, yes. I am an impulsive fool that acts in the moment, despite being blessed with instinct strong enough to counteract this foolhardiness. So pretty much, me on my own can, and does, lead to tragic ends and things that are the opposite of deserving bragging rights. But combine me, with boys, a little alcohol, and bam. We have hit the trifecta, better known as Elena's Theory of Shame. A memorable test of this hypothesis was an impromptu threesome. In fact, it was my first threesome, and it occurred the summer I graduated college, with two male college juniors. None of us went to the same college, but the two of them had gone to high school together, and I grew up with one of them. Clearly, our destinies had aligned, so that on the night of this story the three of us, joined by alcohol, a touch of mary J, and heat-seeking genitalia, would come together (no pun intended.) Then, well, since it is an Elena story after all, it would all go downhill from there. And I mean all the way down, probably as far down as three kids who just complete a menage could go: to the emergency room. Yes. My first threesome, not only completely unplanned, wound up in the emergency room, at 3:30 a.m. The same summer morning I had to be up at 9 a.m. to leave for my first professional music gig, a summer-long musical festival. So clearly the financial investment of a 4-year college had paid off, since I had matured and grown into a sensible adult who had her priorities straight and was totally capable of being responsible and thinking before she acted. Not.

Let us call these two boys “Slob” and “Knob”, which despite being only slightly obnoxiously obvious, and not that funny of a joke, are actually quite fitting aliases. You see, Slob was, well, a slob during the general kissing/foreplay/intercourse, and sweated a lot. So to avoid face time, lip action, or anything except his thankfully very nice dick inside me, I wound up with Knob, mostly, well, slobbing his knob. Names explained, now moving on. It all started out at a neighboring girl’s house, "Ashmo", who actually grew up next door to me, and both of us down the block from Knob. Her house was the usual meeting place for our block's little crew (“WRC” is what we dubbed ourselves), since it was the most central of all our houses, but more for her fully stocked bar and/or her parents being the most lax of all our moms and dads. So this night it was just the four of us, drinking, hanging in her kitchen and acting silly, taking pictures and toasting my sendoff, since I would be leaving for over two months the very next day. The conversation varied, as always, and at one point drifted towards Slob and Knob mentioning something called, “Penis puppets.” Neither I nor Ashmo had any idea what they were talking about, but whereas Ashmo wasn’t interested in exploring this particular topic, I wanted to know more. Not just because of the stupid and provocative name, but also because I generally have a curious and inquisitive nature. You know, like a scientist. But the boys, instead of revealing the secret behind this oh-so-fascinating alliterated pair of words, acted very mysterious and said they would only tell me later, “if I wanted to have some fun.” Ashmo paid them no mind, ignoring everything that was happening and just continued to pour us all drinks as fast as we finished them. But I, known-sufferer of middle child i.e., "don't leave me out" syndrome, can be persistent with the dumbest of things. This was one of those times. So I continued to ask, and they continued to not tell me. Still wanting to know but realizing they really weren’t going to explain it, I begrudgingly dropped my requests that they explain it, and the conversation moved on.

Eventually, the energy of our little foursome died down and Ashmo, around midnight or so, kicked us out so she could go to sleep. The boys left while I was in the other room getting my shoes on. While Ashmo was walking me to the door, I asked where they'd gone and she said to Knob’s house, to smoke. I wasn’t interested in smoking, but I wasn’t tired yet either. So I went to my house to grab a sweater, and then headed over to Knob’s to hang out for a little longer. They were outside when I was walking down the block, and as I approached them, it was clear from the droopiness and redness of their eyes they had just smoked a shit ton of something good. We hung out a little in front of Knob’s house, and I, figuring they would be in more open of a mindset to explain it now, I brought up the Penis Puppets thing. The boys exchanged glances, and Knob said, “Well, if you’re down to have some fun, we can show you.” I had no idea what he was talking about or why a physical demonstration was necessary but, undeterred, I said, “Sure, let’s go,” I said, and off the three of us went into Knob’s house.

We went into his living room, which was a decent sized, rug-lined room, with two couches along two walls and a couple of armchairs. I sat on the couch in front of the windows, and Knob closed all curtains / doors / possible means of entrance into the room. I was starting to feel a real sense of anticipation here, with all this preparation and things happening, like moving the coffee table out of the way. The boys, stoned off their asses, seemed to be collecting themselves for the big moment where all my questions would be apparently get answered. Next thing I know, they were naked, and folding their dicks into a hamburger shape. I guess it was from some "after dark" TV show, where guys would take their dicks and mold them into different things, like a clown does with balloon animals. How interesting. Although, I guess if I had a penis, and was bored on a random Tuesday, it may have been something I would have tried in the course of my lifetime. Anyway, the show was over and even though I hadn’t signed up to be the headliner, somehow I turned into the main event. I forget how it was initiated. But next thing I know I was stripping my own clothes off and lying on the living room floor rug. The two boys were all over my body, devouring me with their kisses. Sounds almost romantic when it’s written that way, doesn’t it? Sadly, it was not a sweet and tender Danielle Steele book come to life as much as it was a semi-drunken, horny grope-fest. No, that’s not fair of me to say. It wasn’t that bad really, all things considered. Both boys were flying high in the erect department. Slob’s dick felt pretty damn good, and it was comfortable and almost fun. I don’t know if they were as surprised as I was that it was happening, but in the moment, I didn’t really think about any of that. It was happening, and honestly, my biggest concern was how to avoid kissing Slob, who was just awful.

Finally, the real big moment was about to "come", so to speak. Slob was getting pretty close, and for some reason, perhaps maybe my annunciation wasn’t that clear with Knob’s dick in my mouth, he apparently thought I told him to take the condom off. Because while Slob WAS wearing a condom the whole time, he, for some reason, thought I told him to remove it at the fast-apporaching moment that condoms are pretty much made for. Okay, a) in what world could that possibly be dirty talk and b) it makes zero sense. I know sex feels better without a condom, but, coming without a condom? Weed is apparently a hell of a drug, because that conclusion would have no place in a sober, logical brain. Lack of good sense long gone, next thing I know, he comes. When I turn around, or rather, peer back from my still-on-all-fours position, I see the condom on the floor. But he was still inside me. So naturally, I freaked the fuck out. This must have set off the paranoia side-effect of the THC in the boys' systems, because then they started freaking out, too. At 3 a.m. In the living room of Knob’s parent’s house. Who were home. This continued for a good five minutes, all three of us simultaneously shouting and trying to figure out what the hell just happened and what to do. Finally, Knob, the voice of reason, cleared the noise in the air by saying the only thing to do now was get the morning-after pill. Unfortunately, nothing around us was open, and we had no idea where to go. So Knob called his twin sister, one of our crew who was away for the weekend, for her advice. She suggested the hospital (of course, naturally), so within ten minutes we had rallied together, piled into Knob’s car, and driving out to the Brooklyn neighborhood of Park Slope, the closest hospital we knew of.

We rolled into that emergency room (which was completely empty, except for two male cracky homeless types talking to each other in one corner) like your token teen movie good kids who know they did something bad, and whose guilty facial expressions give it away. Granted, in our case, we hadn’t simply been drinking or smoking pot, but had also indulged in a 2-hour long threesome in one of our parent’s houses, not used a condom at the most critical moment, and drove to the ER while still intoxicated. You can see why we’d be a little nervous, although at the time I was definitely more nervous at the prospect of having Slob’s lovechild, than anything else. But unwanted babies aside, there was the whole embarrassing prospect of it being completely obvious as to what the three of us had just done. None of us were too thrilled at the idea of the hospital nurses / doctors giving us smirks or headshakes of all-too-knowing understanding. But, sucking up our pride as hard as I had done to Knob less than an hour before, we made our way up to the reception desk to ask for the pill. There was really no subtle way to do that, nor any way to make it sound classy, so we just laid it out flat. We were told to wait until there was a doctor available to see us. Amazing, an empty emergency room and still told to wait. Hospitals are such a fucking scam.

We sat and waited until the throes and masses of people ahead of us, a.k.a. nobody, were seen by the doctors on duty. Our nerves mounting, we were casually trying to shoot the shit and make light of the situation. Finally, we were called in to go see the doctor. She closed the door behind us, and we briefly explained why we were there. She seemed shocked that pregnancy was our main concern here, asking us, “Well what about disease?! When was the last time any of you got tested for STDs? Have any of you EVER been tested?” The three of us looked at each other, and it was like a scene out of a comedy where we all simultaneously read each other’s minds and lied in unison, “Yeah, we’ve been tested.” Myself, it had been about a year so I wasn’t being entirely untruthful but as for the boys, I could tell by their expressions they were telling a lie, a whole lie, and nothing but a lie (so help them god.) We proceeded to get lectured for about a century about STDs and the importance of getting tested, our lovely caring doctor doing everything to terrify us aside from whipping out a Clockwork Orange-style slideshow, with eye-machines to prevent us from blinking. Fear now indelibly etched into our souls and minds, she wrapped up her quarter of an hour long tirade of terror with the question, “So you wanted the pill? You do know there is a 24-hour pharmacy three blocks away, right?” Speechless and dumbfounded by the past 15 minutes we shared in that little room, and that it could’ve been avoided entirely, the three of us mumbled thanks and got the hell out of that fluorescent lit, windowless dungeon of an examination room. Knob said he’d drive over to the pharmacy, pick up the anti-baby maker, and pick us up outside on the way back.

Slob and I decided to wait outside, it being a nice summer night (er, early morning) and the awkward fest continued. First off, Slob, like a gallant prince decided it was the perfect time to ask me about my sexual history. Apparently the doctor's STD speech had made him positive that he was now positive. He started accusing me of having something, and that he must have caught it. He even stood a few feet away from me, since he seemed disgusted by my presence, and because I guess he still believes that girls have cooties. What a jackass. But before I could punch him in the face, Knob pulled up in his car and revealed yet another thickener of the evening’s plotline: the pharmacy wouldn’t sell him the pill because I had to be there. So the three of us got into his car, drove to the pharmacy, and to make everything even better they wouldn’t sell it to me because I didn’t have ID to prove I was over 18. Not bad, considering I was 22. Naturally I had left my wallet at home, I mean, I didn’t think I would need it at all. So we had to drive all the way back to our block. I had to quietly sneak back into my house, Mission Impossible style so as to not wake anyone up, and grab my ID. Then we had to drive all the way back to the pharmacy where finally, my uterine lining and mind could both be put at ease. Slob refused to let me pay and whipped out his own plastic to foot the pill, which didn’t completely erase my current standpoint that he was an asshole. We drove home, either making jokes or in silence, I can't recall. Once again we pulled up onto the block where Slob's neglect to pull out started all this trouble. We exited the car and left to go to our corresponding homes, to pass out and try to forget about the entire experience.

It was about 5 a.m. by the time the whole affair ended and I crept quietly into my house. I crawled into bed and attempted to get four hours of sleep in before I had to be up at 9 a.m. to leave for my first professional music job. Well, if anything could kill stage fright or nerves that I sometimes suffered from, it was the distraction only that last night in Brooklyn could have provided.

The Joe Years: Elena Exposed

I've done some pretty crazy things in my life. I use the term "crazy" rather loosely, of course. There are those who might instead choose to describe with words such as "stupid", "foolhardy", "slutty". And of course, there are those who might think my actions are not even close to any of those adjectives. For instance, to a meth-addicted prostitute reading my blog, my stories are probably tepid and tame in comparison to their lifetime of drugs, humiliation, and smorgasbord of STDs. But thanks to a college friend who recently reminded me of one of the most ridiculous things I’d done (well, during my freshman year of college, anyway), I have decided to write about it- and hope that my Jewish mother will never read this story.

This story is of particular importance because it truly marked the beginning of the Era of Insanity that was Elena and Joe.

We met on the first day of orientation, at the freshman opera majors meeting, and then bumped into each later that night. Naturally this second meet-cute occurred just as I was jumping into the arms of another opera major, named Duke. I apparently was too busy to notice Joe amidst my enthusiastic straddling of Duke's waist, and my request for him to "Do me!" (Grace Kelly, please pass over those white gloves to yours truly. So I can get spanked with them, obviously.) Despite witnessing this, you know, me at my classiest hour, Joe and I quickly became inseparable.

We spent day and night together, and so intense was our connection that the next obvious step to take in our relationship was all too clear: we shared to a dream of filming a sex tape (who says romance is dead?) Nevermind that we hadn't actually had sex at that point. We had this glorious idea that we seemed destined to fulfill, but alas, la mouche dans l'ointment was we couldn't technically HAVE sex, him being too big and me being too small (that's what I get for only having sex with Jewish men up until college. #ThanksObama.) Not that we hadn’t tried. In fact, he repeatedly asked me, “Are you SURE you’ve had sex before?” But mismatched genitalia aside, everything else seemed to be falling right into place. One of his suitemates, Kenny, even agreed to be our cameraman / director. It was going to be fun; we had, in our excitement, got all into pre-production details quickly settled and written out a little storyline. Joe was going to be "the student" and I was going to be "the tutor" coming over after school. Oh, and lest I forget to mention this later, we were joined by a real live studio audience: Joe's 6 suitemates (including, of course, Kenny the Cameraman) some random guys in neighboring dorm rooms of Joe’s hallway, and Madio, a bisexual opera major (who no one really knew quite well yet.)

Um, this probably goes without saying, but everybody was pret-ty drunk once filming started.

Joe was in his room, with everyone, giving a little intro to the camera. He wore his glasses to appear more student-like, and had his school books out. Costumes, props- clearly no expense was too much to make this film quality that of a bigtime porn studio. At my cue, I would knock and come in, and...action!

My cue came, I knocked on the door and slinked in, wearing a miniskirt and teeny shirt, doing my absolute best to do justice to the slutty tutor that my character was. (That’s the perfectionist in my performer self, always striving to reach new heights.) At that time in my life I had never watched a porno, but I have since then, and when I look back on it the end result was impressive on my part. My acting was truly that of a porn star, complete with the bad acting, breathy voice, giggling, and sexy glances at the camera - oh, and lots of hair flipping. I strode and strutted into the bedroom and walked right up to Joe, who was sitting in a chair in the middle of the small dorm room double. After saying a few of our scripted lines, which I don’t exactly remember now and I doubt we remembered them even then, I started to stroke his hair, run my hands over his body, etc. Joe, playing the diligent student, tried to stay focused and in character: namely, ponder his schoolbooks and the non-sexual task at hand. I think the plot was along the lines of him having major test to pass or he was going to fail the whole course. Ah, backstory. Even as amateur porn writers, we knew how vital subplots are for a peak performance. After a few seconds of "tutoring", I, the tutor, started to get all hot and bothered by the mere presence of this hoodie-wearing, glasses-donning, Jew-fro-minus-the-Jew topped boy. I said something along the lines of how sexy he was, how turned on I was, that now it was time to let the real instruction begin, and proceeded to toss his books to the floor. Joe and I started making out and then I threw him onto the bed.

My clothes were in the way, so, while standing on the bed, I pulled my shirt and skirt off, followed by my underwear. Then Joe and I fooled around for a bit, but since we couldn't have sex-sex, the "script" called for me to go down on him. He started to get really nervous so I kept whispering things in his ear like, "Don't worry, just pretend no one else is here" and, "It's just me, it's ok" etc. Kenny, the ever-dedicated and focused man-behind-the-camera, heard me and commented, "Damn, this girl is like a professional!" Which, sadly, I took pride in at the time.

So for the next 10 minutes I went down on Joe. Meanwhile, Kenny was getting all excited about the special effects that Joe’s high-tech camera provided; namely, the "night vision" button. You know, to take the production quality standard from 8 to 10. Aside from announcing in his outside voice the effects he was using, he was also as doing a banner job of making me feel self-conscious by repeatedly zooming in on my ass so closely he might have been giving me a colonoscopy exam. So in between having Joe's dick in my mouth, I had to keep telling Kenny to get the camera the hell away from my butt. Madio, whom today I love dearly but at the time barely knew, was so drunk and getting so horny that he kept crawling across the room trying to sneak a grab or touch of Joe's dick, and saying over and over how beautiful it was, "Oh my god, Joe, jour deeck is so bootiful." And, kindly soul that he is in making sure everyone feels the love, Madio took great care to compliment me as well and mentioned how nice my ass was. No, wait, actually I think he said it was my asshole that was nice. Regardless, coming from a sometimes-gay man, it was flattering. However, as much as I may have been flattered and amused by Madio, he was making Joe increasingly nervous so finally we all told Madio, in unison, to stop trying to give Joe head. He did so very agreeably, but that was probably because within seconds he decided to switch to hitting on Mark, Joe's roommate, who was not used to gay men and felt incredibly uncomfortable.

It was at this point I happened to look up out of the window at the head of the bed and saw one of Joe's suitemates, Jack (a dramatic writing major) just... standing outside the window and staring at us, face devoid of any expression and ghostly lit by the track field's fluorescents. To say this creeped me out is an understatement, and once everyone else noticed him, it creeped us all out. However, the filming continued, now with the lights off (we were really going all out here.) Joe and I continued to fool around, with our characters and plot line as long gone as our clothing, and with different people drifting in and out. All of a sudden there was loud pounding at the door: girl's voices. Ah crap, it was my roommates.

I, despite my drunken state, instantly felt a sensation similar to being caught by your parents or the school principal, but I was too horny and naked to really care. Apparently, word had spread and my suitemates rushed over to my "rescue", thinking I had been forced into it or made some drunken foolish mistake (who was I, a college girl???) After they made the guys tell me to get dressed and leave Joe's room, they marched me down to our suite like Secret Service escorting JFK away from Marilyn. Even when I sobered up, I still felt no regret or shame but they convinced me at the least, to destroy the tape, and scolded me for doing something so rash during the first week of school. Did I really want to be known as "that girl", the one who made a sex tape during the first week freshman year with a group of guys watching?

Funny thing is, no one that was there really talked about it much either then or afterwards; it was sort of an unspoken bonding experience for that little group. So while afterwards I did not become known around campus for filming an infamous sex tape, I was known to many people for having sex (with Joe.) So much time did I spend abed with him that I don't think I spent more than a combined two months of freshman year wearing clothes. But, in that little hour or so, giving Joe a BJ, it was definitely one of the more memorable moments I spent naked.

Not Your Typical Doctor-Patient Fantasy Come to Life... But Close

The summer I turned 20 brought much change to my life, mainly caused by what I now dub “the worst break-up ever.” Eve-ry-thing about it sucked. Everything. The boy involved was my first real love, had given me my first real orgasm, and had been my best friend. And then, a month after an incredibly painful split, he started dating a girl from our class. She had also been a close friend, but that didn't stop her from turning out to be a complete piece of shit. They stayed together for the next two years. This stupid, stupid ho-bag had also managed to simultaneously steal away my best girlfriend. And then the three of them spent all their time together, smoking weed and sucking each others dicks.

I (clearly not bitter in the slightest) threw myself into my summer job, improving my singing, discovering NYC, and most notably, exercising. The latter immediately became the best medicine for my heartache. My instincts hummed at me to start running. I hit the pavement every night and switched up my diet. When I wound up dropping a decent amount of weight, I enjoyed this unexpected hot bod bonus so much I continued to bust my ass even harder. Of course, this morphed into an unnaturally overactive lifestyle, and while I may have looked and felt awesome, my lady parts were not pleased: my periods stopped. So, now I was skinny, and free from the burden of hormones and monthly enslavement-by-tampon. I didn't want to admit anything could be seriously wrong. However, once summer ended and my period-absence was continuing well into the fall, I started to think maybe I should get checked out. So I went to see the school nurses. That was my first mistake. Word of advice: just go see your primary physician.

These ladies spent my appointment dropping words like "anorexia" and "bulimia" with grave concern. In between my inner eye rolls, they loaded me up with piles upon piles of body image brochures. My 20-year-old self was certainly not bulimic, but sure did feel ready to vomit when they told me I needed to gain 25lbs. In short, I'd need to either stop working out as much or I'd have to eat my way there. Purposely put on gut-chub? Woohoo! That plan sounds super awesome! Just let me get this straight. So first, my PMS will return with a vengeance to ensure I become an insane person one week out of every month. Then, I'll get my 7-day cycle of inconvenience and tears regularly, and not only that, but then you're telling me I'll also gain so much weight that I'll no longer fit into my jeans?? Yes! Nothing about that sounds terrible. In fact, that’s exactly what every 20-year-old white girl dreams of at night! Where do I sign? Ugh. Suffice to say, I mentally flipped off these instructions. So of course at my follow-up nothing had changed. And I was shipped off to a specialist to check for ovarian cysts. It was the only other theory that the nurses had to possibly explain the "mystery" behind my malfunctioning uterus.

If this "ovarian cyst" examination is one that is completely foreign to you, because it definitely was for me, it’s probably the most uncomfortable examination... ever. For starters, there's the pre-game show. Generally speaking, most doctors simply keep you in the waiting room forever reading yellowing issues of Highlights magazines, from circa 1971. Dust flies into your face with every page turn, and after only minutes you already hate life. But you're stuck there for hours, with your thumb up your ass, while diseased people cough in your face. This exam has the added perk of having to chug down as much water as humanly possible, until you are at the brink of having to pee. Really, really badly. And as much as it sucks, it is an actual requirement. They won't let you see the doctor until you feel your torso is going to burst and spew out liquid like opening the floodgates to the bowels of hell. You see, a full bladder swells up and adds pressure to the uterine area, allowing the examiner to get the clearest possible picture of your lovely ovaries. Well, that's the explanation I got, but in actuality I was starting to feel like I was one of the captives in a "Saw" film.

After being detained for a seemingly endless amount of time which brought new meaning to the term "Chinese water torture", I thought I was seriously about to explode from the bottom out. I could barely inhale for fear of involuntarily leaking into my pretty little panties. But even if I wanted to breathe, I had so much liquid all up in there that my diaphragm couldn't even properly expand anyway. Like a suicide bomber, I was ready to blow, and also die, so massive was the discomfort. And while I wouldn't be killing anybody, I had the feeling everyone else in this waiting room would be equally displeased if I projectile-urinated all over them. I waddled slowly and carefully over to the nurses and, somehow managed to calmly, and without crying, tell them that my urethra and lower abdomen had reached their breaking point. Amazingly that was all it took to grant me passage to the next level of this sick, twisted real-life game.

Within minutes, I was in the exam room. I peeled off my clothes and threw on the hospital gown as quickly as possible. I wanted to get this stupidness over with already. I felt delirium set in as the mere thought of experiencing heaven with an impending bathroom trip took over my brain. I lay myself down on the exam table and fantasized about porcelain seats while I waited some more for the doctor. You’d think that being horizontal would provide relief from the pressure gravity adds when you're upright. But when you're this far down the road, there is no position on earth that could alleviate the inner discomfort of a held-in gallon of water. I glanced down at my body to make sure the gown was shut, and caught a glimpse of my balloon of a water belly. Greeeat. Now not only was I enduring the mother of all pee-holds, but I was naked, covered with only a tissue paper-thin layer, lying right underneath a blasting AC vent, and my stomach looked like I was 6 months pregnant. I was in fact at the precipice of birthing out all that H2O, when finally I heard the doctor come in. I looked up, and was horribly surprised to see he was male. Which normally would be fine, but he wasn't just male. No, of course not. He was an ultra-young, in-training, just-started-this-gig-a-week-ago, guy. And to top it all off, he was an Orthodox Jew. Kipah and all. Fabulous.

When I first found out I was going in for this exam, I had talked to my mother about it and she explained that it’s a pretty simple procedure. The doctor covers your lower abdomen with a cold jelly for a sonogram of your uterus, does the sonogram, and...that’s it. However, she had also said she had had hers a long time ago. Well, it must have been when she was a developing fetus getting sonogrammed in my grandma's belly, because she forgot that there is a second half. I only found this out as I was wiping the jelly off my stomach, thinking joyously of toilets and freedom. But I was told to come back when I finished peeing (uhhh...?). I was a little thrown, but my number one priority lay with releasing a massive number one, so I just nodded. I returned from the bathroom without concern or inquiry, but had I known what lay ahead, I wouldn't have even bothered coming back for my clothes. I would have ran. Or started a fire so the building would be evacuated. But I didn't know then what I know now. Life, eh? So, without any trepidation, I re-entered the now infamous exam room and lay back down on the table.

The doctor explained that the second half of this exam is an insertion (or penetration, if you will) of a dildo-shaped metal tube (though minus any decorative veins) up your vagina for an internal inspection. While the doc explained this to me (in a shaking, tremulous voice that resonated fear), I (despite a gaping and incredulous open-mouthed expression) kept almost cracking up. I couldn't help it. I was about to get penetrated by a metal rod, and have it called an examination. And for ease of getting it inside me, dude just placed a triangular sex-pillow under my butt. How could people not see the sexual side of this? And worse, what if it felt good??? Knowing me and my off-the-charts libido, it probably would, and then what? Do I exchange numbers with the doctor after we’re done, on his prescription pad? Thank him for the good time? Leave an additional $20, on top of my co-pay, for excellent "patient care", a.k.a., a happy ending? Tell the doc, "The money's on the exam table, baby", and wink? Is he even really affiliated with this hospital? My mind would not shut up, and I felt the laughter about to tumble out. But I knew I had to control myself. My vaginal examiner with the youthful glow (or maybe it was sweat) looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I turned my head to the wall, bit my lip, and forced myself to pull a “guy trick” and think of baseball.

The doctor looked at me as he finished explaining what he was going to, you know, do: stick a heat-conducive phallus up my twat. Then it got weird. Well, weirder. He asked, "Would you like to put it in... or should I?” Um, what? Was this guy for real? I mean, how many times since I lost my virginity have dudes asked me that in reference to their penis entering my sacred temple?? Brain reeling, I heard myself replying that it was fine, he could do it.

“Okay, relax. I’m just going to dim the lights.”

What? Uh, cue the porn music? Where am I right now? Is this planet earth?
WHAT IS HAPPENING???

He walked to the light switch by the door (though possibly trying to escape, not create mood lighting) and slowly lowered the lights. No sweet synth sounds started playing in the background, although at this point I honestly wouldn't have been surprised. Besides, between trying to avoid laughing, and to comprehend that what was going right now, in this room, was real, I was way too mentally preoccupied.

Now it becomes necessary to get some background info on my lady parts. I have what I call an “elastic vagina” that can stretch to accommodate any man’s member, as long as I am consistently sexually active. However, right afterwards it always snaps back, and will shrink even more the longer I abstain. After just a week of no sex, I’ve had guys tell me "it's like fucking a brick wall." Which, albeit not the the most charming and delightful description, is an accurate one. At the time of this exam, I had not had any sex for about three or four months, maybe longer. I didn’t realize when I woke up that morning, so innocent to the ways of the world, that this would pose a problem at my doctor's appointment that afternoon. But alas, my tricksey little vagina was responsible for creating the only issue that could possibly make this situation even more awkward. As you might have guessed by now, the tension in the room went up by like a million when he tried to “put it in.” Because, well… he couldn’t. The freaking rod didn't fit. I found myself saying a phrase to him that I’ve used so often with men, “Umm… you just have to take it slowly...”

Doctor: (pausing, working it in) Like that?
Me: (holding my hand to my forehead, not believing this is my life) Yeah, just a little slower…sorry about this… (pause) Um, yeah, like that... that's good.

Sigh. At least in a colonoscopy they put you under anesthesia. Here, I was awake for every brutally embarrassing attempted thrust, every bead of sweat that rolled down my doc's face. I suppose being conscious did allow me to do more than lie there- I rocked my hips around, and did some deep breathing to help slide it in. I thought he was going to have to bust out some lube, or need to stick it in my mouth to get some spit on it. I was thankful for the dimmed lights, which while not exactly successful in creating a relaxed and sexy ambiance, did provide coverage for my magenta face and his now entirely bright-red dermis. I don't ever have issues with my vagina; like, we don't get into fights, we're generally BFF. But this day, I found myself growing resentful towards my tight little pipeline. Because after several attempts akin only to a de-virginizing arranged-marriage wedding night for both my examiner and I, reinforcements were called in.

My doctor legit called for backup.

An A-team gang-busted in a few minutes later with an intimidating air that knocked any laughter out of me. At the helm was my child doctor's no-nonsense replacement. This new pussy prodder burst into the room with an ice-cold demeanor and even colder eyes. If there had been porn music playing, it would've scratched to a halt. Without any pretense (or foreplay), this terrifying vaginal drill sergeant sat down and proceeded to, quite literally, drill me. I was totally confused, and in disbelief that I was seriously being tagged-teamed by medical care professionals. Does my insurance cover this? Screw giving them a co-pay. I felt like I should be the one getting paid here. But before I could do or say or ask a single thing, I was being stoked and poked like a dying fire. This Dr. Strangelove got the procedure done all right, even with one gloved hand, but left me crying on the inside like a bitch soldier that just got chewed the fuck out. Bedside manner? What bedside manner? As his Nazi namesake might imply, I don't think this guy was even human on the inside. Don't get me wrong, Kubrick was the man, but when it comes to my exposed vagina the last thing I want to be thinking about are his war films. Sadly, this day had quickly dissolved into Full Metal Jacket, except this was Full Metal Medical Dildo Penetrates Small, Shivering Jewish Girl. All I could think, aside from the feelings of violation, was...but... my Orthodox Jewish doctor man-child friend! We're both of the tribe! How could you betray me like this? Haven't we, as a people, suffered enough? After the shock of the now-humorless exam wore off, I realized (in typical neurotic-Jew fashion) that the blame lay entirely on my lady parts. I never realized being too tight was a bad thing, unless maybe I ever decided to date a black guy. I was left alone in the room with my thoughts, and wishing I could put my vagina in the opposite corner so she could be in time-out to think about what she'd done. Ugh. The bitch. I got dressed, the two of us not on speaking terms, but after a few hours we made up and all was right with the world. In fact, as in most traumatic events, it wound up strengthening our bond and bringing the two of us closer together.

Postscript: I did not have any cysts. But I did pay a visit to a sex toy store, just in case I had a follow-up.