The Ghost of Hoo-Has Past


Note: This article I wrote was chosen to appear on sex-kitten.net. Must be 18 to visit. (It is not porn, but contains adult discussions.)

So tomorrow is my annual visit to the hoo-ha doctor. Usually, I save my annual maintenance for my birthday and go get my junk, eyeballs, teeth, and everything else looked at at the same time. It makes for a nice birthday. Then I go out and get drunk and try to forget the fact that I’ve spent the better part of the day being violated in every orifice. The junk inspectors spend the day collecting my hard-earned dough, and I get to feel like I have done my annual maintenance and tune-up. You don’t want to let that shit go. You could end up with ass cancer or the like. Not that I would ever know if I had ass cancer. You’re not looking in there.

As much as I hate having my ass inspected (I’m assuming I hate it. I’ve never had my ass inspected), I hate having my hoo-ha inspected almost as much, except that I feel socially compelled to have it done. Unless you are willing to have your nether regions probed at least once a year, you can’t have neat stuff like birth control, and my aversion to ankle-biters running around outweighs my aversion to a sadistic witch shoving her entire arm into my fun zone.

So I thought I’d take a moment to reminisce about the first time I ever had to undergo this procedure. I grew up in a town small enough that my mother was considered progressive for having a female hoo-ha inspector. She had to drive four towns over to get one, but have one she did. As far as I’m concerned, entrusting your vagina to a man for anything other than poking is like entrusting your car to a mechanic who doesn’t own and has never driven one. I have a buddy who has never driven a car, and while he’s welcome to wash my car, I’ll be damned if he’s getting under the hood. Okay, that was a bad analogy. Moving on.

So when I turned eighteen my mother, being the progressive woman that she is, made a mother-daughter appointment to get our respective vaginas violated. As if visiting the gynecologist for the first time with your 48-year old mother doesn’t sound traumatic enough, for the blissfully ignorant, a routine vagina inspection involves the following items:

PLUS

PLUS

That’s right. They lube you up, shove the duck-billed looking implement of destruction up-in-yuh, and peer into your body with a flashlight. I personally think that the use of one of these, for effect, would complete the humiliation:

Except if it’s the guy in the above picture peering at your junk, you probably are in for more trauma than I care to contemplate. Perhaps your annual gyno visit could come with complimentary therapy.

Back to my first experience with such things. To recap, I’m with my Mom. The hoo-ha lady (yeah, this is Idaho), has a white five-gallon bucket filled with what is presumably sterile fluid, and 15-20 of those aforementioned duck-billed things of varying width. And they weren’t the nifty plastic ones they use nowadays. These were the ancient cold steel ones with the clamps on the ends. I swallowed hard and started to sweat. Bear in mind that the hoo-ha lady was a six-foot-two linebacker of a woman with big teeth and even bigger hands, and I was uninitiated. This was NOT a comforting woman. This woman was not going to bake me a cookie and sing me a song. Some of the specimens in the bucket were upwards of four inches wide.

After the cursory boobie-poking that is often a bonus with these exams, I asked “What are the awfully wide ones for?” She winked at me and said “You know how penises on men are all different sizes?” I said “Yeah, I guess so…” She said “Vaginas are all different sizes too.” My brain nearly exploded attempting to comprehend the woman who has a vagina that is four inches in diameter, but I digress. Attila then hauled my feet into the stirrups and snapped on her rubber gloves, and me, quaking with fear, said the only thing I could think to say:

“If it’s all the same to you, could you use the small one?”

She guffawed uproariously like the sadistic bitch she was and the next thing out of her mouth was, (and oh, dear reader, I wish I were kidding. Did I mention that this was not a comforting woman?)

“My fingers, lots of cold lube. Get the picture?”

Before I could open my mouth to protest: “SPROIK!”

Um yeah, I’ve got that picture now. Fuck you, hoo-ha lady.

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