I successfully prolonged going to the gynecologist until I turned 21. I would’ve waited longer but my birth control made me nauseous and apparently to get a new brand you had to see the gynecologist. Fairly confident that my sister’s cries of warning were exaggerated, I coolly booked an appointment at my University’s health center. When I got there, Dr. T, a kind elderly woman, greeted me and I thought to myself how much of wuss my sister was. This wasn’t bad at all. Then Dr. T asked me to take off all my clothes. “All of them?” I was kind of hoping you only had to take off your pants and underwear. “Yes, all of them. Well, you don’t have to take off your socks.” She gave me time to undress and put on the gown that successfully covers everythi—oh wait, it covers nothing. I decided to keep my socks on because I didn’t want to get completely naked, which, looking back, was even weirder to be entirely naked with the exception of socks.
I mounted the chair, put my feet in the stirrups, and instantly felt vulnerable. Here I was, naked (except for socks) in front of a complete stranger who was about to get up close and personal with my vagina. “Okay, go ahead and open your legs.” I parted my knees an inch. “A little more.” I opened them another centimeter. Dr. T grabbed my knees and had to pry them apart as I fought to keep my legs closed and my vagina protected. Finally, Dr. T managed to force my legs open and all I could think about was why I didn’t take off my goddamn socks. Also, I probably should have done a better job shaving. With an optimal view of my entire vajajay, Dr. T snapped on the gloves. “Are you sexually active?” I turned red. “Like, right now? Because I’m not now, but I have been.” “So you’re sad and alone?” She didn’t say that. But she might as well have. “Yes. Sad and alone. Just masturbation for this one.” (When I returned three months later and she asked the same question, I smugly answered, “Why yes, this v is getting some d.” Well, not in those exact words. But you get the point.) Dr. T then pulled out a tray of instruments that looked like torture devices from The Pit of Despair. She must have seen the look of absolute horror on my face because she reassured me, “I’m going to walk you through this, okay?” She then proceeded to describe each instrument and its purpose for my vagina in great detail. Unfortunately, I’m not a fainter, so I was unbearably conscious for the whole spiel and everything that came after.
First, these plastic tong-like things were shoved up in my hoo-ha and cranked open until I wanted to give up all of America’s secrets. After that came more pain and suffering. I’m not quite sure what she was doing down there because I was busy staring at the ceiling questioning my life decisions. All I know is her fingers got real deep. Like, I’m not even sure if that was necessary or she was just curious to see how far she could get up there, as if the farther she ventured the more likely it was for her to find Narnia. Mercifully, she finally finished (and while she claims that only lasted two minutes and thirty seconds, I beg to differ). She left the room to allow me to get changed and, slightly shaking, I sat paralyzed in the chair for three minutes, afraid that if I stood up everything would just fall out through my vagina. When I eventually got up, it felt as if someone had stuck a hand mixer in my uterus and tried to make scrambled eggs. Which, in a way, someone did. I limped the rest of the way home and called my sister to apologize for ever making fun of her intolerance to pain.