OOPS! WRONG HOLE!

Peek-a-boo!

So Tarty Farty Tequila Party posted something witty about a visit to the gynaechiatrist, and I unfortunately responded by saying I was infinitely grateful that I would never have to go through that clearly dreadful experience. Now, long story short, I have to write a piece on it...

Not that I haven't woken in sweaty night terrors at the prospect of having my prostate checked. I believe I am almost at the age when I get the relive the sheer hell of the school nurse curtly telling me to "cough". It's very similar. Little did I know back then that I'd spend virtually every waking moment of my life dedicated to getting a female to cradle my balls in a similar fashion. It was only weird in the army physical...

Then someone told me that they no longer give you the Polsmoor Probe to determine whether or not your prostate is healthy - they now rely merely on blood work - a fact met with much rejoicing! Which brings me back the the stirrup demon. It's easy to joke about it, but I'm sure that for most women it's rather an unpleasant gedoente. And in the light of my only comparable experience now being a thing of the past, it left me wondering just how kak it must be and how I'd manage a trip to the dreaded Uterus Mechanic. Right now all I can think of is how I'd react to being pants-down in a room resembling a doctor's surgery and all I can come up with is "Happy ending, please!" seconds before the physio threw me out on my ass.

So let's pretend I'm a lady and I do lady's things, and for a few minutes at least resist the overwhelming temptation to point out that I'm a little bitch anyway. You call up and make your check-up appointment. What is the protocol vis a vis grooming? Does one present a neatly trimmed patient for inspection in the same way you brush your teeth before gaping open your maw at the dentist? I bet you there are a few gynies who could tell you some stories. But never mind all that, from what I'm led to believe (I've seen movies like 'Knocked Up' and so forth...) it's fairly unpleasant, if only for the invasive nature of the visit. I would imagine that even for the most aggressively sexual among us that this is invasive and most would rather not have to go through it.
So there I am with my heels in the stirrups, doing my best not to speculate as to the possible problems that could be found and, at the same time, praying that it'll all be over soon and I'll be stamped with a clean bill of health. Bits dangling in the breeze waiting for the bearer of lube and probes. No, we're not in Amsterdam. And with the theatrical thwack of a rubber glove we're away! I don't know what you're looking for, but like I keep telling my husband, it's a little to the left!

You see, it's hard not to sexualise or trivialise these things, as a guy. And I am trying my best not to be too flippant about this subject / ordeal. But with every word I type I have to be honest and admit that the only phrase bouncing around my big dumb head is "don't work where other people play". You see?

Anyway, I have attempted to think what it would be like to deal with this experience, and have come up short, not only in terms of completing the narrative, but also in being able to remain calm and rational. Perhaps I AM a woman after all. I have failed to remain composed and to offer a reasonable or fair portrayal of the terror inherent in a visit to the gynaechiatrist. For this I apologise. But I just cannot get my head around it sufficiently. Let's not even get me started on the obvious confines of trying to keep my language in check.

NGDG: Energy-saving bulbs! Enjoy a glimmer of stone-age ambience in your home today!

Spread The Love. You Got A Shoe-horn Or Something!?!?