I’m at The Broken Spoke, an espresso-slash-bicycle shop. It reminds me of Deus Cafe in Venice, California, only Deus has pricey cafe racers and low quality coffee. The BS has affordable pedal bikes and rich, delish espresso. As a California-converted coffee snob, I now drive across town (seven minutes) for the best stuff: thick as molasses and smooth as Rihanna’s clam. (I assume.)
Speaking of vaginas—and, in my case, cobwebs—I went to my urologist the other day for more tests on my taco. Actually, they were bladder tests, but that’s not nearly as fun to write, or say, aloud. Seriously, try it. “Bladder.” “Taco.” Or … “Vagina!” Vagina: the funnest to say.
The doctor is mid 30s and kind of yummy. This Cute Vagina Checker sees a lot of old lady folds and flaps—as evidenced by all the blue-haired Bettys in the waiting room—so when I walk into his office, he seems pleasantly surprised, even though this is a follow-up appointment.
However, it is possible that I’m fantasizing an excitement from him. Let’s face it, I haven’t had my daisy dusted in almost two years, folks. Hashtag two(non)fuckingyearspeople!
Where was I? Oh, yeah, not gettin’ any … No, wait, I’m in the doc office at the urology clinic.
Cute Vagina Checker asks, So, how are you doing?
Me: I have a bionic vagina! Didn’t she tell you? I’m meaning the lady urologist who did the practical tests on me.
He stifles a chuckle, squirms in his seat, shifts sideways and crosses his legs.
I continue: I totally passed the ‘squeeze my finger’ test. (Innocent shrug.) Apparently, I’ve been overdoing it on the Kegels. I blogged about it. Google ‘bionic vagina.’
He coughs, smirks and composes himself. Yes, your urine tests came back good.
He explains that I pee mostly perfectly, whatever the hell that means. I’m triggered by the mostly bit. The part where I might not pee completely without flaw. Great, now there’s a standard on peeing and I’m failing at it.
I’m thinking about this while he continues to explain bladder stuff and ruling out blah blah blah by doing a cystoscopy blah blah blah.
Basically, he wants to YouTube the insides of my hair-pie. Ok, fine, not my vagina and maybe not YouTube per se, but he does want to get a mini video camera inside my bladder and make sure all is swell—but not swollen. Or whatever.
On the appointed day, I go to the hospital. I am ready: showered, shaved, perfumed and pretty. Naturally, I assume this is more of a first date than a medical procedure.
I’m wearing two blue hospital gowns—though, honestly fashionistas, they are hardly first-date gowns—one tied at the front, the other at the back. Underneath, I’m commando ready.
I’m disappointed to discover two female nurses in the examination room and Cute Vagina Checker at a computer with his back to me. One of the nurses instructs me to lie on the examination table and spread ’em.
Even if he is a kinkster, I’m not into sharing, but I do what I’m told whilst squinting into the fluorescent lighting. She places a blue crêpe cape with a 3″ x 5″ rectangle cut-out across my crotch and legs, and I wonder why I bothered shaving my gams. This date is so not going how I imagined.
I’d planned to be witty and naked and say sexy things like How you doin’? and While you’re down there, but since this date has bombed so far I just tell them what I’d planned to say because I was, like, dared by friend. At least they laugh.
Then the other nurse sanitizes my snatch and sticks the thin tube avec camera up my hoo-ha aka urethra and into my bladder, and the only thing that pops up on this date is the inside of my internal water bag on a monitor. Dude didn’t even see my labes! How unfair is that?
I ask, Am I gonna make it, doc?
The good news: I’m healthy. Or at least my bladder is. A little veiny on the inside, but everyone’s is. I asked. And really, even I consider it excess vanity to remove unsightly squiggles in there. Plus, I should save my loot for something more meaningful like drugs and alcohol since it seems I’m going to be single forfuckingever in this small town.
Which brings me to the born-again bit. Two years come September.
Up until shortly before I left California I was all like I’m single and celibate and happy about it … but is he behind that palm tree? and then I realized, Hey, I am single and happy. Woohoo!
So, I cut my hair and started wearing a fake wedding ring and rainbow-adorned 70s tees—well, that’s only partly true. I haven’t found any such T-shirts. And besides, even though it’s all the rage to be bi or gay or trans or anti-Republican, I’m not a dyke and I’m okay not being that cool. (Sorry, my lesbo lady friends, I won’t be squeezing your fingers.)
Anyway, as I get closer to the two-year mark, my girl friends are telling me that, if I don’t use it, I’ll lose it.
Barn Goddess, Bootyful Prudaloo and I are on the patio at our favourite (riverside) restaurant hangout. We’ve had a few cocktails … not to be confused with the cock tales that come later.
The following snippets are from several such chats. Yeah, we talk about sex a lot.
Me: I’m not into casual sex and I’m not into uninspired self-soothing.
Bootyful Prudaloo: I’ll be thinking about folding laundry, and then I’ll start making a grocery list, and then all of a sudden I’m like ooh ooh ooh … ahhh. And then I’m done. Easy peasy.
Me: See, now that’s a serious skill! Wish I could do that: orgasm while planning my day’s domestic activities—hello efficiency!
Barn Goddess, with mischievous expression: Agreed. I need my Rolodex of dirty fantasies, or it just doesn’t happen.
Me: Right! Me, too. I start out light and innocent, but then it takes forever and carpel tunnel and—
Bootyful Prudaloo: Use a vibrator!
Me: Even if I do, it doesn’t work, or I have to take it to warp speed and worry about [Best Roommate Everrr] hearing it, and he’s not really gay because he did offer to “bend me over”—(“and fill me so full of meat I’d think I was a Frigidaire frost-free deep freezer”)—so … I have to finally go to that naughty place that actually works.
Barn Goddess: You could save so much time by just starting there.
Me: But I don’t want to wear it out. The story.
Bootyful Prudaloo: You need to get laid, lady.
What I need is a job.
These nearly daily summer patio therapy sessions are adding up, and I’m on a limited income1. And I’m too lazy—uninterested? uninspired? busy speed-bagging the butterfly?—to do the mundane tasks required to earn a living writing: researching suitable publications, sending potential article queries, promoting my book and basically committing to writing yadda yadda … Plus, did I mention I’m lazy these days?
What I need is a man—a man with a job! Yes, that’s it! Then I can have meaningful sex and be a lazy writer! (Send applications to Born Again Virgin c/o this website. Must like naps and naughty, lazy writer types. No sex until September, I want my official two-year badge. See here for restrictions and never mind the bonus stuff.)
What have I (re-)learned?
Obsessive watching of the TV show Mad Men has led to bubble gum colour nail polish, matching outfits and rejection of select feminist values, such as financial independence. I’m OK with that!
Best Roommate Everrr may play the gay card with the hope that I’ll run around the house in my tighty-whities like he does. (Raised eyebrow.) Photos available upon request.
A medical appointment with your doctor is not “a date.” Dammit.
Always ink the date for booze therapy with besties!
Homework: Plug in the rechargeable hysteria-reducing mechanism—(that be my little matching pink vibrator, folks)—to be used only when Best Roommate Everrr is out of the house.
p.s. This is my 100th naughty potty blog! You’re welcome. (Um, donations and other acts of service welcome.)
1From a rental property. I didn’t spend all my earnings on shoes! Just most of it.