The Gyno Chronicles: Double P, Discharge and Decadence

Why is it that every gynecologist I’ve ever had is intent on making me feel uncomfortable? It’s truly their mission in life.

I stopped going to my regular gyno because of this miserable little fact.

I had him for several years and liked him well enough. He knew all about

my sex life and everything about my relationship with my ex (who was not “my ex” at the time, but my real bona fide boyfriend), which is normal for your regular gyno to know. Four years ago I told him I wasn’t happy in my relationship and things were getting bad with us and I was very upset. The following year at my visit, he asked the standard questions, “Are you still only sleeping with [the ex] and are you still using your birth control regularly?”

“Oh, yes, still using birth control. No, not sleeping with [the ex], he broke up with me.”

I said this while my gyno was between my legs, looking deep into my body, and he abruptly looked up at me and said:

“He broke up with THIS?”

I looked at the nurse and she blushed. And then I blushed. And then he blushed.

I honestly didn’t know whether to be completely flattered, because that guy sees lots and lots of vagina, or to be completely horrified.

I ended up choosing both.

I got dressed and never returned, but brag about the comment to this very day.

Now I go to Planned Parenthood. This is no fun, believe me. It’s bad enough having to spread your legs for a nurse that’s comparable to your high school girls’ gym teacher, but when entering the “Double P,” you get to walk through an angry mob of sign-holders, screaming things such as, “Murderer!” and “You’ll pay for your sins” and my personal favorite, “It’s not your unborn child’s fault that you’re a slut!” Do I really need that at 9:00, Saturday morning? No. I’m hung-over, I’m tired, I’m annoyed. And who are these righteous idiots to judge me? And, oh, yeah, I’m not there to get an abortion.

I like to walk up to the first male I see and whisper this in his ear:

“When I’m done with this little… visit, why don’t you leave this shit-show and we’ll go get myself into this mess again?”

And then I wink slyly and lick my lips, as I trace his face lightly with my finger. It’s fucking rad. I’m sure to swish my hips just so, as I saunter off.

My first experience with the Double P was last year. My “gyno” was a woman that looked like a dude and was madly in love with me, as all lesbians are for some unknown reason. Her 1995 feathered haircut and shoulder-padded blazer under her white doctor’s coat, allowed her lesbianism no room to be debated. She was sweet, but had a terrible cold.

I’ve never had anyone work on my vagina, while under the weather. Not a good experience. For one, even though she had gloves on, she kept wiping her runny nose and then touching my body and/or touching tools that were going to be touching, not to mention, in, my body. That’s not something I want to see while already in the most vulnerable position I can physically be in. But then, while she was head-between-legs, tools inside, she started coughing in a frenzy. Do you have any idea what it’s like to have someone cough into your vagina? I didn’t love it. After sex, my ex sometimes blows on and in me and it feels really nice, this wasn’t like that.

So, this year, while walking into the Double P, I thought to myself, “It can’t be any worse than last year.”  I’ve come to learn that one should really never think that.

About anything.

Part 2 of the Gyno Chronicles continues tomorrow!