Sex Ed Did Not Prepare Me For This, Part 1

As a small child, when I asked where babies came from, I learned about chicken eggs, fertilization and incubation.  In middle school, my classmates and I were taught about hormones, nocturnal emissions and fallopian tubes.  Since then, I have encountered about ten million things that made me think, "Sex Ed did not prepare me for this."  I cannot possibly address them all in a single blog, so I'll consider this "Part One," and focus on three challenges that vaginas often face without any forewarning.

1.  Vaginas are not allowed to have bad moods.  If we are melancholic, disgruntled or particularly assertive about our needs or points of view, others often assume that we will get over whatever is bothering us within the next five days.

2.  Ever hear of Honeymoon Cystitis?  Young brides would go off on their honeymoons, start having sex (or have a lot more than usual), and come back with urinary tract infections.  Then, they go on antibiotics and wind up with yeast infections.  These two problems are possible--and excruciating, as I hear it--for penises, but far more common amongst vaginas.  The best part is, mothers, older sisters and sexually experienced friends generally don't mention them.  Most vaginas learn about these infections from the doctor diagnosing them.

3.  To get my yearly prescription of birth control pills, I have to undergo an Annual Exam.  First I have to strip naked in the cold office, and then I have to cover myself with a paper vest and paper sheet.  I'm not sure why.  The paper retains no warmth, and whatever modesty it claims to have goes out the window moments later.  Next, I sit on the table, reading my book and waiting, because doctors always make you wait when you're cold and wearing undignified paper.  The doctor finally comes in, realizes I'm reading Gertrude Stein, and raves about her works, because of course gynecologists love Gertrude Stein.  Finally, the poking and prodding begin.  Between the air conditioning in the office and the doctor's icy hands, my nipples instantly harden during the breast exam, and all I can do is lie back and think, "What a waste."  I prefer my nipples to be hard in fun situations.  Then comes the speculum, with another waste.  All that KY, for a circumstance that isn't even remotely enjoyable.  The doctor opens me up, wiggles it around to find my cervix, and scrapes off some cells.  Relief floods over me when the speculum comes out, but it isn't over yet.  The doctor lubes up her latex glove and says, "I'm going to insert two fingers and press on your belly, so I can feel your uterus."  Thus, I am subjected to pressure from above, and fingered by a stranger.  Besides the waiting in paper clothes part, the whole process doesn't take long.  The doctor removes her gloves, washes her hands and tells me I can get dressed.  When all that intrusion is over, I don't even get cab fare... instead, the receptionist asks for my copay.


On a side note, today's panties are polka-dotted.  Please excuse the quality of the selfie; Henry's schedule precluded his photography today.

Guest Appearance: Elizabeth's Breasts

The woman-as-flower metaphor is tried and true, dating back even before the Kama Sutra's composition.  Vaginas are yonis, yonis are lotuses, and lotuses are flowers.  While I appreciate the metaphor for its visual aptitude and the olfactory compliment, I have to disagree with it on the grounds of practicality.

In addition to scent, flowers use the sight of their petals--size, shape, color--to encourage the animals who pollinate them to do so.  I, however, spend almost the entire day hidden behind panties and under pants or skirts.  The panties are usually cute or sexy, and I have no qualms with the other garments, either.  Their function is to keep me warm, safe and out of sight in public, and they do this with the usual efficiency.  But, the custom of clothing does shift the job of flower petals to a more visible part of my body.

It's much more acceptable for a woman to display her cleavage in the general public.  With the right weather, a tank top or halter can show off some side-boob, too.  A bikini can even display some under-boob, but with larger cup sizes, that's a difficult look to pull off.  Obviously, the size, shape and color of women's breasts are among the first things to encourage the men who have sex with them to do so.

I'm very happy in my partnership with Elizabeth's breasts.  They're natural D-cups, perky for their size and as pale as any redhead's skin.  They've attracted a lot of fun my way, and even introduced me to my best friend, Henry's penis.  Of course, he plays with them sometimes, but usually as a precursor to playing with me.  So, it makes sense that Elizabeth's Breasts get a spread on my blog.

They're promoting me.  What pals!