For quite some time now, I've had various issues with my "down there".
Some of the issues have since been resolved, but there were a few that were lingering, that I was afraid to investigate..smart, I know. I mean, why stop the possible cancer that could be growing in the depths of my loins, when instead I could just drop dead from it one day without ever knowing I had it?
I never said I was a RATIONAL woman.
I finally grew some balls and got myself to 83rd Street Radiology to get a sonogram. I figured it was pretty harmless--how hard could it be? I get undressed, they rub a thingie over my stomach, look at some pictures, and they give me a week to live it up before they deliver the a) bad news: I'm completely barren; and b) good news: it doesn't matter, because I've only got 4 weeks to live!
Piece of cake!
A lesbianic looking woman named Jean took me up to the radiology area, and showed me the dressing room. Waiting for me was a paper gown, and some blue shower caps. "What do I do with the shower caps?" I asked, novice that I am.
"Oh, those are for your feet. Keep your socks on."
So I made my way to the radiology room in my paper gown and my sexy new slippers, and Jean informed me that not only was I getting a pelvic sonogram, but they were gonna do a vaginal one as well, to "get a better look."
Huh? I never signed up for that! What did they need a better look for? Couldn't they just tell me I was dying from a good look at the pelvic?
Jean pulled out the hoochie-reading apparatus, and I relaxed a little...it looked like a slightly larger vibrator. I can handle this. Until it actually goes in...and I realize that I am being totally felt up and fondled by a lesbianic woman named Jean. Was she SUPPOSED to be moving it around like that? And, wait, why is she rubbing my clit with the damn giant vibrator? Is this really supposed to take this long? Methinks Jean was getting WAY to into it.
Just when I am about to tell her that she could have at least bought me dinner first...she announces that it's time to call the doctor in so he can take a look as well, and give me my prognosis.
So, I don't even get a week to live it up. I'm going to find out, right here, right now, that I'm dying. And I'm not even wearing fucking underwear.
This is when I started to get really nervous.
Dr. Mr Man walked in and smiled warmly at me, as I lay there, feet in stirrups, cooch exposed to the world. Jesus Christ why didn't I use VEET this morning?
The bigger than normal vibrator remained in my hoo ha, and he jiggled it around and around as he examined the monitor. In, out, around, no one was talking. I wanted to scream at the both of them, "Would someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?" I bit my tongue to keep quiet...and just when I decided I didn't want to keep quiet anymore, Dr. Mr Man smiled again and said, "You look Mahvelous."
I'm not dying?
"You're perfect. There's nothing wrong with you."
Tears came to my eyes and, oblvious to my naked nether regions, I sat up and shook his hand. "Thank you, Dr Mr Man!"
"My pleasure," he replied.
Yea, I'll BET!
PS Dear Beehive, I apologize for having yet ANOTHER almost girl-on-girl moment without you.