Today simply sucked, and the only funny thing that happened was that I showed a complete and total stranger, a complete and total male stranger, my pussy.
Yes, that's right, I said pussy. And ok, he was a dermatologist, and I was actually showing him a mole on my pussy, but I still pulled down my underwear, moved one leg to the side, and fiddled with my very pink, and very sexual-looking, labia, right in front of his face. His face, which was attached to his head, which was resting a mere three inches away on the examining table so he could get a REALLY good look at my mole. And, by default, my pussy.
It was surreal. When you have a gynecological exam, your head is kept far away at the other end of the table, far from the action, and you can kind of pretend that you're not being poked and prodded with what clearly is a rusted torture device left over from the Middle Ages; you can lie there and take nice, deep, relaxing breaths, plan your day, chat amiably with the hairy-knuckled doctor while he slides a lubed finger into your most intimate places, whatever. It's all good, because there are two feet of torso separating you psychologically from the fact that a stranger is doing things to you that you definitely wouldn't let your husband get away with, not even if he was on his best behavior for ten years and put in a swimming pool and got you a horse for your birthday.
During a regular gynecological exam you can lie there and ponder those things, you can ruminate on the idiosyncracies of life, you can philosophize, because what is happening down there has nothing to do with you, really, at least not in an emotional sense. Sure, it's your vagina that white-coated person is breezily ratcheting up to the circumference of a tree limb, but it's not really your problem. It's not any more your problem than, say, figuring out how to make those collection agencies stop calling your house 840 times a day. If it is somewhat troublesome, if it creates a little snag in your sense that all is well and good--in your sense that no, of course you are not in danger in losing your car or being gouged in the uterus with a pointy object--well, you can just ignore the whole thing. You can gaze at the mauve-colored ceiling and think pleasant, philosophical thoughts. You can take a little nap. You can plan your day.
When you're forced to participate in the task at hand, when the presence of your head and the voicing of your thoughts are required elements of the transaction, it's a whole other story. Suddenly, the stranger (whose nose hairs, by the way, don't look that different, up close, from your pubic hairs) is not just a white-coated automaton but a very real human being. He is a very real male human being who, despite being kind of short, is not altogether bad-looking. He's a little bald, but he's not nearly old enough to fit into the "benign" category, so you can't help wondering, while pulling your rosy labia this way and that so you both can get a nice good look: Woah dude--what if he's TURNED ON BY THIS???
And while he explains to you afterwards--having straightened up so he is once again talking to you while looking at your face--that the mole is probably not cancerous, the burning sensation that woke you up two nights in a row was probably due to a skin tag or a wart, you try to avoid the sight of yourself in the mirror behind him, because if you don't you'll see that the corners of your mouth are twitching and you won't be able to keep from laughing. You'll start laughing in an embarrassed, obvious way, and the secret, the badly concealed secret that he is a man and you are a woman, and your pussy was just in his face, will come out of hiding and hover there, bright and undeniable, between the two of you. And then who knows what will happen.
P.S. Yes, I'm totally motherfucking pimping myself here. So be it. You want more? Please come to http://roniadarc.blogspot.com