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.
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