A Trip to the Gynecologist

Let me preface this story by saying that I believe it is absolutely unfair for attractive men to be in the gynecological field.

My yearly exam came around, and because I deal with endometriosis and a host of other female-reproductive issues, I had to see a specialist at the Army hospital an hour north. Fine. No problem. The doctor’s name was difficult to pronounce, and somehow that led me to believe it would be an old Asian man. I didn’t bother to landscape, if you know what I mean.

After checking in for my appointment, I waited in the exam room, refusing to sit on the paper-lined reclining chair that faced a ceiling featuring a bright pictured-tile of blooming branches to comfort the weary to patient. Instead I sat on the side chair intended for guests and played solitaire on my iPhone.

There was a knock at the door, and then Idris Elba walked in wearing a well-fitted set of Army-issued utilities. Okay, it wasn’t really Idris Elba (and if you don’t know who that is, please feel free to Google his name now) but the gynecologist staring at me with compassionate brown eyes was just as good looking. Did I mention that I didn’t landscape? Okay, I just wanted to be clear.

He looked through my file and told me that he didn’t think he was the right doctor for me. His specialty was female urological problems, and he wasn’t sure how I’d ended up in his exam room. He asked me numerous questions about my vagina and urinary habits. He had slightly graying temples and the shoulders of a linebacker. I stared at my knees whenever he brought up discharge or bowel irregularities. He asked me if I had any bulging, down there. Bulging? “No,” I answered. I wasn’t sure what he meant. He showed me a picture of a prolapsed vagina. “No, definitely not!” I blurted out.

He told me that I didn’t fit the criteria for his patients, but just to be sure, and just so the visit wouldn’t be a total waste, he’d do a vaginal exam. I smiled at the doctor then looked up at that stupid blooming branch on the ceiling. Then I tried to remember if I’d even bothered to shave my legs.

“Dear Lord,” I whispered under my breath, “this isn’t happening.”
I pulled off my pants and underwear and stared down at my risen bread-dough stomach. I looked at my legs. Yes, I’d shaven them, but the odd halogen lights made my light skin lighter and the black roots of my leg hair darker. It looked like the lower half of my body had a five o’clock shadow. He entered the room with a nurse a few moments later. I could feel my vagina clench together in horror. I had just told this man about all the strange issues I had, down there, and now, Idris Elba’s twin was going to come face to face with my shabby clam.

He snapped on the blue latex gloves. He had hands like a Trojan warrior. He flashed me a smile, pearly white teeth, before turning to the nurse to grab the bottle of jelly-lube.
“I think I saw you walking down the hallway earlier,” he said to me.
“Oh, me?” I asked. I felt his fingers begin the examination.
“Okay, I’m just going to feel around here,” he said.
I sighed. It wasn’t the sigh of someone enjoying the feel of a handsome man’s fingers caressing her labia, no it was the sigh of a woman trying her damndest not to turn hot pink with embarrassment and then run half naked out of the room.

“Everything ok?” he asked.
“What? Oh, yes. I’m fine,” I lied.
“Okay, I heard you sigh. I just want to be sure,” he said. His voice was like a cup of thick hot chocolate sitting on a wooden desk in an old library. Yeah, nerdy hot. I’m going to do us all a favor and skip over the speculum. I will say that around that time I finally understood why women do a Brazilian wax. Hindsight is a bitch.Then the doctor told me to cough.

“Excuse me?” I asked. I knew men were victims to having their balls cupped while having to forcibly cough, but me, a woman?
“I’m a uro-gynecologist. I need to see if I can make you pee,” he said. He had the same hot chocolate voice; and I had a heightened level of ‘this isn’t happening.’ So, the coughing game continued for three rounds, all while his latexed fingers were fiddling around inside my junk. I locked eyes with the nurse and I believe, in that moment, she understood, sister to sister, what I felt. Then she shrugged her shoulders and stared at my vagina, forcing me to look away. As if the experience hadn’t gone strangely enough, the pièce de résistance occurred next.

“Do you do Kegels? The doctor asked. He had looked up over the white sheet across my lap and smiled at me, waiting for my response. Memories of secret squeezes and magazine articles on tightened vaginal muscles unraveled.
“Yes, a little bit,” I managed to stutter.
“Okay, great. Give me a good one,” he instructed.

At 1:45 pm on Friday, September 14th, I Kegeled on a handsome doctor’s finger. It somehow was both the highest and lowest moment of my life. Then, the exam was over. He commented on how great my vaginal walls were before he pulled off the used gloves and exited the room. The nurse had an offering of a box of tissues and a wet wipe in her hands.

“Thanks,” I mumbled before she walked out too. Somehow, I found the courage to pull my panties back on and act like a grown up. I sat on the reclining chair and faced the branches on the ceiling. The stupid blooming branch wasn’t so stupid anymore. The pink flush of flowers felt like an acknowledgement of my humiliation. The doctor walked back in the room.

“Just as I suspected, you definitely don’t have the kind of issues I treat. But your vagina is in excellent shape. I’ll see if I can talk to another gynecologist and get you in for an appointment with her. Thanks for your patience,” he said. He shook my hand. His skin felt like a hug wrapped in one-thousand thread count Egyptian cotton. I left the office with the right doctor’s phone number and a mortified labia majora. It wasn’t until I reached my car that I felt a bruise on the tip of my tongue. I’d been biting it the whole time. I called my husband and confessed the entire affair. “Sweetie, I didn’t know he’d be that attractive,” I said. “Oh babe, I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he cooed. “I guess it would be like me going to see Robin Meade for a prostate exam.” “Yeah,” I said. I felt relieved. “Well, I guess it’s good material for a story, huh?” I asked. He agreed. Later at night, as we were falling asleep he asked, “How big were his fingers again?” Sleep invaded my brainwaves and I whispered, “Yes, they were.”