Betty Dodson with Carlin Ross

Better Orgasms. Better World.

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My vagina woke up the next morning and breathed a sigh of relief. The day before, I was on my back, splayed out like a slab of meat, wondering when this man was going to get out of my vagina. I’d never had anybody take this long... EVER!

I probably shouldn’t have let him do this, but he seemed so calm and sure of his ability to perform, and me, lying there, trying to be accommodating, agreed. I agreed against my better judgement. I agreed even though it was my vagina at the business end of that lifeless probe.

I suppose I should have known better. I walked into this knowing it was going to be far from a pleasant experience. It never is. In fact I think it's the one time a year my ass is more open than my vagina. No matter how “zen” I try to be about it, I hate getting a Pap test. Not so shocking, I know.

There are many factors that go into my difficulty relaxing during a Pap. Not having health insurance means two to three hours of waiting in a crowded room for a complete stranger to probe me with a piece of plastic or metal (Another surprise. Yeah!). I make some effort to relax during my wait, but after spending an eternity in a chair that has consistently come in last place in all tests of ergonomic ability, I begin to lose my resolve. My ladyfice (lady + orifice) goes into lockdown mode and I have no emergency procedural in place to bring her back. So, I just sat there tense, waiting and hoping that the doctor I got would be well qualified and kind. I hoped she’d be gentle, efficient and an avid supporter of liberal amounts of lube. I continued hoping until I was interrupted by my name being called. I got up and gave thanks to the God of Getting Out of Here.

I carried on hoping as I made my way through the clinic corridor. I continued with my mantra: I hope she’s well qualified. I hope she’s nice. I hope she’s patient. I hope she’s graceful with that speculum. I hope I don’t pee all that water I just drank onto her. Um, I should probably go to the toilet first. End Mantra. I emptied my bladder and took some deep breaths in the stall. I made my way back to my exam room and as I rounded the corner, I thought: Why the fuck is that dude reading my chart?! Damn! I forgot to hope she was not a he.

I stalled a bit at the corner to make sure I was seeing what I was seeing. In ten years, no man has ever done my Pap. Isn’t that illegal? OK, so if not illegal, just plain weird. I calmed myself as I thought: What’s the harm? He a doctor. We’re in a professional setting. It’s ok. I relaxed... my legs, and continued walking down the corridor. I remembered how I’d been making an effort to see men as another sex with individual nuances, rather than the “opposite sex”. I’d been testing my ability to be more trusting... to a degree. I suppose this was a final exam of sorts.

We walked into the room and he was knowledgeable, nice, and patient. I told him he was the first man to give me a Pap. He asked me if I wanted a female physician. We talked and I decided it would be OK. OK being about as good as it gets in the world of Paps.

I was at about average tenseness when I began to regret my decision of having an inherently, due to his lack of experience being on the receiving end of the speculum, less sympathetic person do my Pap. He grumbled a bit as he searched through the speculums unable to find the “big one”. I assured him that I was fine with the “small one”. He resigned to using the small speculum and gracefully tipped the edge of it into the little glob of lubricant that had been laid out on the medical tray. I noted that next time I need to be more specific about which parts of this procedure require grace and economy and which parts don’t. My vagina tensed up as I looked at the under-lubed speculum making it’s way to my unwilling opening. After what had to be the equivalent of ten hours in Pap test time (Ptt), he reemerged claiming he needed the “big one” because he couldn’t find my cervix. At that point my defenses were down. I laid there wondering what the hell happened in the last year to make my cervix shift into some obscure corner of my vagina. He returned with his preferred instrument. I encouraged his use of lube and asked him to wait for me this time. He didn’t, but I figured that’s fifteen less seconds my feet had to be in stirrups. I made feeble attempts to coach him as he explained and apologized for taking so long. He talked about women having tilted cervixes. I asked why and how my cervix would have tilted, as no other Pap tester had told me this. He didn’t answer. We carried on like this for another ten hours Ptt. My vagina protested as the “big one” carried on, twisting and turning every which way but towards my cervix. I came to the realization that I was going to be feeling the effects of this visit all day, and that was when The God of Getting Out of Here finally took mercy upon me. The doctor said he was going to try pointing the speculum down to see if that worked and there she was, my recently tilted, inconspicuous cervix. The rest of the conversation went something like this:

Me: So you had to push the speculum down to see my cervix because it’s tilted?

Him: No. Actually, it was pretty straight forward.

My Brain: You can’t be fucking serious. I think I’m imploding.

My Vagina: I have no words for what just happened to me.

My Brain: No, seriously. What’s the first sign of stroke?

What I realized is that there was a reason I was so tense. I had fallen into a trap. A trap that is part of my conditioning. I’d trained myself to believe that sometimes having a vagina means being in pain, even when it’s completely unnecessary. I wasn’t comfortable lying there, having a person who’s never had a Pap, or a vagina, examine me. I should have spoken up. I should have given myself whatever was in my reach to bring me as much comfort as possible, whether that meant asking for a female physician, or being more assertive about the time I needed to relax, or both. Yet I forced myself to be accommodating even when a fucking speculum was doing acrobatics inside my body. It’s a knee jerk response that needs to be reconditioned. Reconditioned to make my needs known and to not feel guilty about doing so.