For better or for worse, I am very comfortable on my back with my legs spread, but my annual pap is an exception to the rule. I love my doctor, am incredibly comfortable with her, but as many women have said before me, you don’t need to know anything about medical history to know that a man created those stirrups (perhaps best addressed in The Vagina Monologues). Which is exactly what my doctor said.
“A man definitely invented this procedure,” Dr. Ensler says (my doctor actually said this, I swear. But yes, it is only in my fantasy world that Eve Ensler is the one sticking a speculum up my vadge).
I close my eyes, focus on my breath, think of my happy place (a beautiful, secluded island where Miranda July and James Franco are pleasing me sexually at the same time). I am hoping to relax my vagina, make it easier for Ensler to collect what she needs, and get this whole thing over with as quickly as possible.
And then the most unexpected thing happened.
“You have an ideal vaginal canal.”
My heart stops. Am I hearing voices? Oh god, I’m having a psychotic break. And just my luck my on-setting schizophrenia would make its debut by attacking the most sacred part of my anatomy.
“Did you know that? Amanda?”
And then I realize it’s my doctor. Did my doctor just say I have an ideal vaginal canal? My doctor just said I have an ideal vaginal canal!
“Uh no,” I stammer. Then I start to laugh. “You’re pulling my leg right?”
“Amanda, women have reconstructive surgery to emulate this. It’s long and narrow. It’s perfect. It’s supposed to be better for, you know, pleasure, female pleasure in particular. You must have great sex.”
Maybe she was trying to make the pap more pleasant. Maybe she could tell I needed an ego boost that day. Maybe she was being nice. I don’t give a fuck. I’m running with it.
Well, I sorta already did.
At this point, anybody who knows me knows about my vaginal canal. I’ve shared this story with my family, friends, acquaintances. I also got wasted at my own house party last year and my conversation skills were apparently reduced to repeating this story over and over again. So yeah. Everyone in my life knows about the vaginal canal. And everyone I may have run into after a few drinks within the last year or so knows about it too.
You might think I’m arrogant and narcissistic. That could be true. But I was a fat kid. And I think any fat kid will agree. No matter how skinny you get, how old you get, how mature you get, how far away you distance yourself from that chubby 10-year-old child you once were, you never outgrow that feeling that your body is flawed. That you are not the norm. That you are not the ideal.
So if a medical doctor examines my vaginal canal and deems it fabulous, I’m going to wear that badge loudly and proudly on my chest every day. It would probably be scarlet in colour, to draw more attention.
And if you’re wondering, yeah, I do have great sex.
And when it’s not great, guess who I get to blame? Because that’s the kind of power a vaginal canal like mine can give you.
Lick My Knish is a forum for sex-positive feminist expression with a bissel of Jewish neurotic sparkle and political incorrectness.