Getting the Finger

A friend and I were talking about hating gyno visits. Her first doctor visit was a horror, and mine wasn’t much better. Actually, my first three could make up an SNL sketch.

I was 15 when I went the first time. It was already horrible because my mother had to work, so my father took me to the appointment. (No offense, Dad, it was just really embarrassing, and you did do a great job pretending it was the ENT, not the OB/GYN.) It only got worse once I was in the stirrups.

The doctor started the exam and then exclaimed suddenly. She sent her nurse to go fetch the girl from the front desk, and the office manager. Once the three of them were reassembled, me wondering wtf was going on, she stood them in front of my wide open thighs and said, presenting my youngladybits with a wave of her hand, “Ladies, this is what an in-tact hymen looks like.” My jaw dropped, much like my panties had only moments before.

Then, she made quick work of that in-tact hymen with her speculum, saying she was doing me a favor. It would be another five years before I would brave the lady-doctor again.

My next visit was to the physician at the university quack-shack. I went in for a sore throat–kid you not–and ended up in the stirrups. I was still pure as the driven snow, but this doctor was unimpressed. She stared intently at my crotchal regions and proclaimed in heavily accented English, “You have an STD.”

I was as upset as you might expect, asking how in the world I might have come by such a thing, having never put anything remotely diseased near my hooha. The doctor narrowed her eyes at me. “Your boyfriend touchy you down there?”

“No,” I squeaked out honestly, because it would still be a few months before I got up that courage.

“You touchy yourself down there?” It was an accusation more than a question, and she even grabbed my hands to look at them.

I was even more emphatic about that answer. I let her do the STD workup, which came back SURPRISINGLY NEGATIVE, then stormed out of her office with her telling me that the test was clearly wrong, and I was up to my eyeballs with filth. I was nearly hysterical when I called my mother, who set me up with an appointment with her doctor.

The next week, I was in the stirrups for the third time in my life, being examined by a man for the first time. He was in his 60s and had a wonderful bedside manner, and I was feeling very comfortable and thinking, “This is the way these appointments should be. Whew!”

Then, while he had a digit inserted in my person, he said these words, “You know, I have a son about your age. He’s a really good boy. Plays violin. Loves to read.” He smiled and looked me in the eye, a second digit inserted into another orifice. “I think you two would get along very well. Would you mind if I gave him your number?”

I didn’t go back to the lady doctor until the month before I got married, and then only so I could get on the Pill. Fortunately, I’ve had much better luck since then.