Between the routine gotta-do-it visits to the gynecologist, and various sadistic treatments for infertility before and after LG’s arrival, I have spent more than my fair share of time butt-nekkid in the stirrups. I have shared (with another audience) a few short vignettes, which I call “My Life in the Stirrups.” This is one of the stories from that “collection.”
WARNING: The following is for mature audiences only (no, wait, no one who comes here could read it)… what I mean to say is, the following is the one and only post on this blog that contains the words, “my” and “vagina” adjacent to one another in the same sentence. If that troubles you, go read something else and come back later in the week.
Booty Flies
I’ve had a long and wide-ranging career in the stirrups. The best, most beloved gynecologist I ever had was a 50-something, Colombian-born doctor named Joaquin. I didn’t call him by his first name, but that’s how I always thought of him, because I’d never known a Joaquin, and because I was pretty sure he looked just like one. He was happily married, as was demonstrated by the photos of his pretty, smiling wife with their 8 or 10 or 15 beautiful, smiling children, which were allovertheplace in his office. He was kind and gentle, and explained everything he did. “This is just my finger. This is just the speculum.”
My sister-in-law, who recommended him, told me how gentle and thorough and explanatory he was. One time he said to her, “This is just my foot . . .” We figured it must have been a language thing. English was clearly at least a second language, if not a third or fourth, and his Colombian accent was quite thick, albeit thoroughly charming.
I liked him first because he asked me, as part of his get-acquainted interview, whether I had any trouble reaching orgasm. Well, no I don’t, Joaquin, but I thank you very kindly for asking. No other doc has ever asked that (before or since). And shouldn’t they all? So many women do have trouble, but don’t say anything, and wouldn’t it just help so much if someone would just flat-out ask? So I liked him, because he cared about women’s sexual happiness.
So I’m there in Joaquin’s stirrups. He’s examining me prior to my wedding, when I’ve come to be fitted for the diaphragm that I will never ever use even once in my life, but I’m going to be grown up and responsible now, so I’ll have proper adult contraception. While he’s doing his thing, and I’m looking for a pattern in the holes in the ceiling tiles, he says very sweetly, “Susie, you have booty flies.” I am stunned. He says it again. “Just booty flies.” Ohmygod. How can this be happening to me? I am a good girl. I am so clean. I am so careful. How will I tell Jif? Did I get them from Jif? Wait. What are booty flies? And how do you get them, and deargod how do you get rid of them before the wedding?
I am panicking. I am sweating, trying to control my breathing. My eyes fill up with tears. I am frightened and embarrassed. Something off to the right catches my eye. It is the nurse, there to witness, to chaperone, and she is frantically waving a hand to get my attention. She wants me to look at her face. She’s been watching me deteriorate into a frightened, shamed, booty flies carrier. I can’t look at her.
I look at her. She points to her eye and then she silently mouths, very slowly and deliberately: “BEE-YOO-TEE-FULL EYES.” Over and over, she does this. OH!!!! I don’t have booty flies!!! I have beautiful eyes! I have beautiful eyes! I have beautiful eyes! Thank you, Jesus!! Thank you, Joaquin. And now I’m laughing. The gathered tears spill out and run earward, and I shake with laughter, and then I shout it, loudly and happily, “Thank you!! Thank you!!” Joaquin suddenly stops what he’s doing, is still for a long moment, while I laugh out loud and repeat thankyouthankyouthankyou. Then he leans sideways on his stool to look at me, smiles a small smile and nods. It’s been several minutes since he diagnosed the booty flies. He has no idea for what I am thanking him so enthusiastically. Did he just discover a happy new spot, to be named later with a letter of the alphabet and a hyphen? The J-spot, for Joaquin. The nurse has turned away so he can’t see her laughing. I smile at her back – her bouncy hair shakes, her shoulders shake, her hips shake with silent laughter.
I like a man who can look deeply into my vagina and tell me I have beautiful eyes.
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