December 07, 2006

The best I ever had

Oh, hello, ex-boyfriends of the world. Sorry to dissapoint -- this blog is not about your sexual prowress.

[Did you hear that? The browsers of... both... my ex-boyfriends closing in disgust? Me too.]

Thanks all for your well-wishes for my full recovery, though regardless of whether I do, in fact, heal completely and with full range of motion, none of you will be getting a handjob. Sorry to dissapoint... again.

Which brings me to my next story of medical discomfort: the gynecologist.

[I know what you're thinking, and yes -- this IS just another cliche post from a female blogger talking about the **eeewww** gyno. The reason this formula is cliche is because it works. Sorry, true. Cliches are cliches for a reason. Just like stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason. For example, I saw yesterday a cop walking into a Dunkin' Donuts. See? It's science. Don't fight it.]

I'd better get to the point of the story first, as after that paragraph I'm lucky if you're still with me:

I recently went to the gynecologist and got a Pap Smear (is that capitalized?) so good, my friends worried I was a lesbian for a week.

[See? It will be a moderately bad story, I promise.]

At first, it was a normal Pap.

Go in, try not to breathe in the waiting room for fear of contracting an airborne illness, be led back to the doctor's office, where you're weighed, rated, listened to and poked before you're told to strip down, put on a gown that doesn't close in the back, and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait more, while envisioning the Pap -- awful, violating, and that cold metal "duck". On a cold, noisy paper-lined bench that makes you feel like an old person in a hospital.

It's like torture, honestly.

And then: the doctor enters, like royalty.

I ended up in Dr. Price's office on the strong recommendation of a family member who urged me to see her for reasons she did not go into detail about. But she seemed certain Dr. Price was good, and I trust her opinion, so there I was.

Dr. Price is about a 5 foot 6 female. Shortish sandyish hair, a plain but pleasant face, a lowish voice and a soothingish personality. Basically, if she wasn't a doctor in a lab coat, you would probably never notice her at all.

Dr. P went about her business exactly that way, too. Sneaky, almost, how comfortable she got you. After a bit, I suddenly found myself on my back, talking about all sorts of personal things, half-naked, with a manly woman who was touching my woman parts. As you can imagine, it was a very confusing encounter.

As she did the breast exam part (for men, a mental picture: imagine the first time you groped a girl. Now imagine that same action, only minus the squeezing -- same motion, just with stiff fingers. That's it...), we continued our chit-chatting.

I had been caught off-guard, unprepared for the doctor to ask me all sorts of personal questions (not medically personal, more sexually and intimately personal) and was, therefore, feeling a bit put on the spot. And when I wasn't responding to her, I was doing a lot silent commentary on how bizarre the situation felt, and how if I didn't know she was a female, I might mistake her (via personality, conversation, etc.) for a man. I felt like I was hypnotized -- hyper self-conscous and self-critical, a constant stream of inner dialogue, but also so comfortable I almost couldn't control my bizarre behavior or turn off the commentary in my head.

"So, not married yet?"

"Me?" (Inner self: No, moron... the other half-naked unmarried woman in the room.)
"Oh, nah." (I was focusing on being nonchalant about that -- you know, trying not to get defensive, even though pretty much everyone I know is married and 26 and single is starting to lose its appeal).

"Why's that?"

"Gosh, you know, I guess it's just not a priority right now," I said, cool as a cucumber. "I'm, you know, married to my job." (Inner self: WHAT? Did I really just say I'm MARRIED to my JOB? Nice one. Fuck, you're retarded.)

"Oh, come on. Married to your job?" I started to sweat. She was on to me. "You're young, and in great shape," she continued. Inner self: Why, thank you sir--err--ma'am. "I'm glad you enjoy your work, but so do I and I still think it's important to nurture more... personal relationships." Inner self: Okay, weird. Personal like how? "...At least to relieve some of the stress in my life. It gives me perspective. And you want kids, right?" she concluded, from somewhere below my tormented head and between my legs.

I had no idea how she got there or what she was doing, and I didn't care. Suddenly I had been propelled into some sort of bizarre couch conversation -- and I couldn't figure out if the good doc was trying to be my psychlogist or my boyfriend. Either way, I was so preoccupied by my running inner dialogue about the weirdness of the situation that I continued to be... weird.

"Oh, kids? Sure. Absolutely. Eventually."

"Good. Well, you're fertile now, but you will be for some time, so that's nothing to rush in to."


It was like she was a manipulative man, and she wanted to be my baby's daddy.

I can't explain it now, and I couldn't explain it to my girlfriends, either, later on that night during drinks.

"You guys? I think my gyno is a lesbian, and I think she was maybe hitting on me during my Pap."

This elicited a wide range of responses. By wide range I mean a shrill cackling to a full-on silent-gasping-for-air laugh.

"Liz, c'mon," they said, more or less. "First of all, every gyno isn't a lesbian. Second of all, every lesbian isn't going to hit on you, you crazy narcissist. Third of all, did you like it?"

I was stuck between a lesbian encounter and liking a lesbian encounter.

Oh, and being a narcissistic lesbian-encounter lover.

To be clear, I'm cool with lesbianism, [You guessed it: the PC disclaimer one must include in any blog rubbing up against, proverbially, controversial topics including homosexuality, black nail polish-wearers, Hello Kitty, racism and hot dog ingredients.]

Hey, I can appreciate that women are a lot prettier to look at than stinky, hairy, fat, scary men. But as much as I can sort of see where lesbianism is an attractive concept, I could just never ever go through with it. I would have to be a celibate lesbian in order for that whole prospect to work.

But the point is that in this context of my conversation with the girls, after two martinis each, and facing the "did you like it?" question, I had nowhere to go. Backpedaling was futile.

So I was honest.

"It was the best Pap I've ever had."

A week later, after the "Do you think she's secretly considering lesbianism?" whispers reached a deafening roar, by which I mean I was constantly and publicly the butt of jokes about my apparent sexual confusion post-Pap, I finally had to make the phone calls -- to ALL of them -- confirming once and for all that I was, in fact, NOT a lesbian, and that although the Pap was a good one, the goodness of said pap is relative to the typical badness of them. Meaning a good pap is just not a bad pap. And also that my confusion was mostly focused around the fact that while I was busy analyzing the conversation in the exam room, she was sneakily busy analyzing my.. ahem... and I was so preoccupied I didn't even feel it.

The harder I try to explain, the worse it gets. So I will leave you with this in an effort to get out before it's far, far too late:

For a Pap so good it will temporarily convince your friends you are gay, call Dr Price: (425) 555-7662.


Chuckles said...

Yeah, I don't know if I can ever get preoccupied during the turn your head and cough test.

One doctor once told me that I was clearly a strong young man because my testicles were so damn big. I wanted to crawl into the cabinets in that doctor's office and hide for a while.

Anonymous said...

I came once during the "lesbian scene" in a so called straight porn film. My ex husband swore that I must be lesbian or at least bi in order to come.

I explained that good sex is the turn on and that I'm not attracted to women. He insists that's one of the reasons I left him.

Trebuchet said...

Chuckles: Congrats!
Jali: Wow.

Chuckles said...

Wow is right.