I’ve just counted back on my calendar that it has been 9 months and 4 days since I last had sex. If I’d known that this drought was going to last so long, I would’ve made more of an effort to enjoy myself back in September, rather than settling for the drunken fumble it ended up being. Mark my words, people, live every shag as if it’s your last.
Whilst it feels like a hardship, I’m ok with it really – thank god for Literotica, and if I’m honest the rather spectacular weight gain I’ve managed since last year means I don’t want to get my kecks off in front of anyone, let alone someone I want to have sex with.
What’s worrying me however, is that I have to go for a trans-vaginal ultrasound next week: according to the letter I got from the hospital explaining it, and for those that don’t know, they are basically taking a great big dildo/camera, covering it a condom, squeezing a tube of KY over it, and then shoving it up my hoo-ha. Sounds great, doesn’t it?
The problem is, it actually is sounding great. I’m not saying I get off on medical procedures, far from it, but what if I get turned on by it? The last person I spoke to about vaginal ultrasounds said she was so horny afterwards that she went home and demanded sex from her husband. I have no husband. I don’t even have my Rabbit anymore. I’ll probably get arrested for jumping on the man operating the camera and demanding he finish me off.
Which would be embarrassing.
And then -THEN! – I’ll have to go to the doctors to discuss the results. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to talk to the lady doctor (Dr Payne …. I bet she has a sidekick called Nurse De’Ath). If I’m less lucky, I’ll get one of the male junior doctors, none of whom look like they’ve started puberty yet, let alone know what a vagina is. If I’m really unlucky, I’ll get the older male doctor: the one I have the most barnstorming crush on. The day I had to talk to him about IBS was one of THE MOST humiliating days of my life – I really don’t want to go and talk to him about my lady bits. I might get the giggles again like I did when we were discussing my poo.
It’s a cliché, I know, but I can’t help having a thing for certain doctors: I think I watched too much Peak Practice as a student. When I was growing up, my GP was the divine Dr Rob – both my sister and I adooooored him, as did every other female under the age of 70 in the village. He’s still there now, I’m just hoping I never get sick when I’m visiting the parentals, because some teenage fantasies should never be shattered: in my head he’s still tall, faintly muscular and gorgeous; according to my mum, he’s lost most of his hair, and has spent the last 15 years enjoying the local ale a little too much. Shame.
But back to the ultrasound next week. I’m like a walking hormone at the moment, chances are they’re not going to need that tube of KY. What’s the best way to approach these things? Lie back and think of England? Chat away as if you have someone poking a camera up your chuffer everyday? Perhaps I’ll resort to the same tactics as when I’m getting a smear done – eyes shut and desperately wishing the person poking around in my fanny knew what they were doing.
Which is also what I used to do with one of my ex-boyfriends.
There’s no dignity at all when it comes to spreading your legs in the name of medicine. I can’t say I’m looking forward to finding out whether I’ve got polycystic ovaries, or whether I’m just a hairy lardarse with irregular periods, but I guess it’s better to know than not know. And if nothing else, at least the dildo camera will break through the hymen that appears to have regrown itself since last year.
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