In conjunction with my previous post about thyroid disease, I give you this magical trip to the lady parts doctor. You can all rest easy tonight knowing that I do not, in fact, have thyroid disease or anemia.
It’s true what they say about misery loving company, because I did not hesitate to share what happened to me at the doctor with a male colleague of mine. The conversation is below and it occurred after a couple shots of vodka (and by couple, I mean 6-10).
Me: Just thought I’d keep you in the loop. Just had some fingers in my butthole at the gyno. I need a drink
B: How many fingers? More than one? Less than ten? And more importantly, how many knuckles?”
Me: 2. Just the fingers. No knuckles. Ugh. My poor butthole.
B: Didn’t even go deeper than the first knuckle? Shut the fuck up you wimp.
Me: Sorry, 2 full fingers. I’m still disoriented.
B: 2 full? Now we’re finally getting to something worth talking about. Did you at least get his number first? Were they pencil like fingers? Or were they big, fat bratwurst fingers? This is vital information!
Me: She was like 50. Average sized fingers. Who likes anal? Seriously? I took a couple of shots when I got home. I deserve it.
B: I agree. Anyone who gets their poop chute diddled by two average sized fingers, down to the hand, deserves a couple shots.
Me: And of course nothing is wrong.
B: So you played altar boy for nothing?
B: Wow. I’m sorry. Seriously, that’s the worst.
B said he would only read my blog if I blogged about this. So I did. And now he has to read this. Which makes me laugh, because earlier he told me that he was bored. And I told him he should read my blog to help with the boredom. To which he told me “I’m already bored! Why would I want to be more bored?” Which is a valid point. So I said, “It would give you something to mock.” And he, very kindly, said that “as long as we are friends, I will ALWAYS have something to mock.” Which is also true. Because my life is a joke. A big, fat joke. But jokes are great, so my life isn’t really that bad.
I think my favorite part of the textual conversation between him and I is the hint of compassion and concern for my plight at the very end. But then I read our conversation again and I couldn’t stop laughing about how he claims that it’s “the worst.” Wouldn’t someone have to experienced the worst first hand in order to make a statement like that? Has he experience the worst? Has he had fingers up his #2 hole and never told me? I’d like to think he would have told me. So I’m inclined to say that he hasn’t had the pleasure yet and just wanted to let me know that he was there for me in my time of need. Which he was. Kind of.