Monday, April 07, 2008
“If you could just lift your bottom up a bit, that would be great,” he coaxed.
I flexed my stomach muscles the best I could and raised my hips off the bed; an additional cushion was carefully slotted in underneath my arse.
“Comfortable?” he asked, and I nodded. “Now, please slide your legs apart.”
“Um, I still have underwear on,” I apologised.
“Don’t worry, that’s fine. Just open your legs please.”
I did so and felt mortified: seven different people were staring at my horrific underwear.
“Your own?” he joked, stifling a giggle.
“No. Mine are slightly less stylish.”
He laughed. “Yeah, Bridget Jones has nothing on these pants.”
And with that he grabbed some scissors, cut the sides off my vulgar paper knickers and ripped them off me. I lay there, legs spread, vagina exposed to the entire room, and felt myself flush with embarrassment.
He must have spotted my red cheeks because he leant over and said, “Don’t worry: you’re OK, it’s all OK.”
“Yeah, this is clearly the least embarrassing position I’ve ever been in,” I replied sarcastically, as everyone stood in a semi-circle and peered at my privates.
Sadly, I wasn’t about to participate in some wild sex orgy, but instead, was going to have the most intimate bits of me examined and sliced into, in an operating theatre. Legs akimbo, I lay there as I was pulled, prodded and injected; I wished they were going to knock me out as previously planned, rather than this last minute decision to operate whilst I was awake.
If you think waxing your pussy is painful (and I bloody well do: it’s agony), it’s nothing in comparison to having a two-inch needle stuck in your labia and local anaesthetic squirted into the sensitive skin there.
“Oh fuck,” I said involuntarily, as I felt the injection sting, using the same vocal response for pain as I do for pleasure. (Although I didn’t continue and say “Fuck me now, oh fuck yes, please fuck me”, as that would have just been weird.)
The anaesthetist grabbed my hand. “Deep breaths, deep breaths. You’re doing great.”
I looked at him smiling at me and felt the tears well up: the injection was fucking painful. Unless pain involves some sort of spanking, or nipple-pulling, or hard fucking, I really, really dislike it. Anyway, there were no orgasms to be found here, and if pleasure isn’t my final destination, I have no interest in being a masochist for the hell of it.
So I’m lying there, crying, with this sweet anaesthetist holding my hand, telling me how brave I am (so that I don’t move, and so that the surgeon can do his thing without me freaking out) and I notice how cute he is. Big brown eyes, large hands, a gorgeous smile; I totally would. He’s talking to me in this soft voice, and even though there’s a crowd of people getting up-close-and-personal with my vagina, I’m thinking, hey, maybe I can get his number?
My fantasy was swiftly interrupted; the surgeon began telling me, in explicit detail, what he was about to do. I realise – and appreciated – that he wanted to keep me informed, but really, did I have to see the dripping, bloody scalpel? Was it necessary to show me the bits of my flesh that he had removed? And surely it might have been wise to warn me about the smoke, emanating from my pussy, as he soldered (or the medical equivalent of) my skin together?
On the verge of puking when I saw the surgeon pick up the needle and thread to sew me up, I frantically tried to distract my attention from what was happening down below with the best attention-switch I know: thinking about blow jobs. It usually works a treat – and I recommend it for all, men included, regardless of sexuality – but this time it could only offer me a momentary happy daydream, as I was far too occupied with the fumbling going on between my legs.
Luckily the surgeon worked very quickly, and thirty minutes later it was all over; he told me I must rest, avoid exerting myself, and not have sex for at least a month. (Yes, I did laugh, silently, at the cruel hand of fate.)
I was too embarrassed to ask the surgeon whether masturbation was allowed – especially with that cute anaesthetist in the room (and the other six people); I am relieved to report that it’s less than a week into my recovery now, and even with a very painful pussy, I am still able to wank. Thank God: a month without orgasms and I imagine I would turn into the Nightmare Bitch from Hell.
Just warning future partners, like.