So twitter has been awash with VAGINA today, which for me was topical as I also had my two-yearly cervical smear test. Some twitter random was rather disturbed by my admission that I was in the doctors waiting room tweeting the word smear. He soon deleted the tweet so I have no screenshot or name to offer. I dedicate this blog to him.
Now Vaginagate came about as there was some degree of disgust or offence at the use of the word ‘vagina’ by an American politician in discussing the Abortion Bill. There has been plenty of commentary on the ridiculousness of this that I wont reiterate, and if you’re reading this and don’t get how absurd an abortion debate is without using the word vagina, I suggest you turn away now as you will soon be offended by my upcoming graphic descriptions.
There’s irony somewhere that on the same day the word vagina causes such an uproar in an official debate that wouldn’t exist without vaginas, a random man takes offence at someone using the word smear with reference to a test that would be an entirely inefficient process and quite difficult to undertake without a vagina. No? maybe its just me who finds that funny.
So in honour of the great vagina and the potentially life saving smear test, I thought I’d give you a lovely description of my experience. Just so, y’know, I can turn your stomachs at the reality of owning an offensive vagina and being responsible with it.
From the age of 20, women in Scotland are invited to attend a cervical screening test, delicately referred to as a smear among those in the know. When you book the appointment, you get the ‘knowing look’ from the lady receptionist also known as the clerk of clunge. The smear is an unspoken bond among all women, even before sticky discharge is discussed. It’s not a pleasant experience but it’s not the horror ‘the look’ would suggest. Don’t let the look put you off.
A few days before the smear, one refrains from gloopy sex. Everyone has heard the fishy fragrance inducing urban myths of week old, stale spaff making an unceremonious resurgence at the hands of the medical practitioner undertaking the procedure. No one wants to be the next topic of a gossipy smear campaign at the local GP surgery. Can you imagine it?
“There’s that grumpyhatlady, the one with the geriatric gash-gloop, had been up there weeks before it tried to escape all over poor Dr Dourface”
As you enter the room you get another kind of ‘knowing look’. In my case it was from the dourface GP who obviously drew the short straw for flap-dragon duty today. This second ‘knowing look’ is one of a lady, weary of wizard sleeve watching and given the depth her arm went in, wearing too. It’s only 11am and she’s already been shoulder deep in multiple mimsies. She’s gone off lunch as today’s selection was either beans, burgers, beef, kebab, oysters, clams or taco’s. She’s in a bad mood, this affects her delicate touch.
We both know that in the space of a few minutes we’re about to become more intimately acquainted than a Tory’s head and arse at the moment of successful election result. And so I am told “take off your trousers and pants but keep your jumper and socks on.” I’m not sure if this is to make a quick but slightly warm escape in case of fire, or because she finds the fragrance of feet and armpits more offensive than smelly snatch.
So there I am, lying on a medical examination table designed for a single twiglet fallen from the packet, arse pointing at a window from which I can see the Glasgow to Edinburgh trains pass by and conversely they are likely able to see me lying there in my full hoody and socks glory. At least my socks were matching, even if they said Sunday on them.
It is at this point I am relieved to have coiffed my camel toe just before leaving the house, to ensure the GP doesn’t have to fight her way through my usual discharge dreadlocks to access the tunnel of love. It also helped to ensure my pubes don’t also reek of the rest of the camel’s body, which would just add to the surgery gossip,
“Not only did that Grumpyhatlady have past its prime pecker snot up there but the aroma of dromedary filled the room”
Of course there is still no hiding from the mortification of a) having missed a huge clump of protruding pubic hair, highlighting the rush with which I undertook the twat trim and b) not having efficiently hoovered up said rug remnants afterwards. The sharp shocking intake of breath as the GP is stabbed by a selection of rogue pubic pins that weren’t properly swept away after cutting the foof fringe, is only matched by the embarrassment of no longer being able to look the woman in the eye at the shame of such poor hatchet wound housekeeping.
I’m lying there with a token kleenex covering my not so carefully clipped cunt, legs akimbo, matching socks, morning commuters can see my breakfast through the window and the GP turns on the little blinding lamp to inspect my snatch secretions before diving on into my muff with her plastic penis shaped speculum.
There are many uses for old lollypop sticks, and I could invent many more, scraping my quivering mound of love pudding until it bleeds is not one I would have voluntarily come up with. Regardless, this is the climax of the event. If climax is indeed the most appropriate word to use.
The moment of truth has come. It’s over with in a few seconds. But I don’t get to move immediately. Oh no, time for the pinching pubic pins revenge has come and I’m left lying there with speculum firmly inserted in my chuff, going nowhere as the GP crosses the room. Slowly. As she returns, she decides to have another wee peek up my punani. I’m not entirely sure of the purpose of this growler gazing but if I thought this was the end, I was to be sorely mistaken. Emphasis on sore.
Having dispensed with the instruments she decides to poke my parts with her entire fist, forearm and quite possibly shoulder, but approaching from the moose knuckle was not her only plan of attack. No! She decided to pummel my pelvis from above. I think she was trying to clap her hands through my abdomen. This is what years of medical school teaches you. Entertain yourself when you’ve seen more pussy than a whiskers factory at feeding time.
And then she was done. Told me there would be spotting and wandered off without so much as a handshake or how do you do. As the blood flowed freely (now that was a first) I asked what to do with my kleenex square and was told to place it in the yellow bin, whereupon I discovered the evidence of the carnage of the previous smears of the day staring me in the face. Yup the bloody Kleenex of the multiple mimsy massacres were staring me in the face. Nice.