Little Shop of Horrors
by WHO on Jan-1-2003

I have gone to great pains to remain childfree.

Condoms are useless to me. They crumple under the pressure of rough sex. I figured this out after not one, but two, of them broke…leaving nothing but a few forlorn strings of plastic clinging to my partner’s softening penis. Not one, but two times, I have had run with my ass on fire to the clinic to take an emergency contraceptive. (Otherwise known as The Morning After Pill) Twice (TWICE!) I was thrown into a hormonal frenzy after swallowing two delicate blue pills that would flush a fertilized egg from my system. After that, condoms and I regretfully had to part ways.

So I tried the pill. Unfortunately, I had a hectic work schedule and an even more hectic sleep schedule. Taking the pills at the precise time every day was next to impossible. In fact, taking the pill every day at ANY time was tough on me. I’d look into my handy dandy carrying case and realize that I had missed a day. So I would double up…and then promptly miss the next day. Soon I realized that, for me, taking the pill would result in an 18-year commitment. Mr. Pill and I soon parted ways.

Then I heard about Depo. Depo is a shot. You only have to take Depo once every 3 months. Depo is a gift from God. Like most good things, with Depo comes a few negative side effects. Firstly, my clitoris is but a shell of it’s former self. BD (Before Depo) I used to become excited almost to the point of orgasm by merely changing positions in a chair. Now I only become excited when my boyfriends head is between my legs. Secondly, I shed like mad. A side effect of Depo is hair loss. And while I have yet to find any bald spots, strings of my long blond hair cling to every surface of my home, my car, and my acquaintances. But faced with the prospect of becoming the guardian of a peeing, pooping, whining, crying, puking, rotting bag of flesh, I’d say I’m getting off easy.

Before getting my shot from heaven, I had to visit the gynecologist. My gynecologist is a 90-year-old Chinese woman whose favorite pastimes include grinning vapidly, drilling me about my sex life, and swabbing the fluids from my unmentionables, showing them to me, and remarking on how beautiful they are. She’s crazy and I strongly suspect that she’s a dyke. But she shoots me up every 3 months, so I suffer the indignities like a soldier in a POW camp.

Last year, Dyke Gyno asked me if I was ‘a touching dee breasts onna regular basis.’ When I told her that I have never given myself a breast examination, she loaded me up with pamphlets and sent me home with a swat on my ass to touch my breasts. I did so. And promptly found a lump.

Being a foolish child with little knowledge of breast cancer, I initially cried like a baby. Visions of Doctors and hacksaws and becoming a bald one-breasted freak dance in my head. Then I calmed down, took a long bubble bath and considered the possibilities. I imagined that everything would be OK and contemplated turning this story into an update to amuse all of you sick freaks. Then I got dressed and headed for the hospital.

So there I was. The only fresh meat in a waiting room full of 80-year-old women. The poster girl for alienation. After waiting roughly about 18 years, I was hustled into room to be examined. Three Doctors, seven nurses, the janitor, and some kid with a broken leg all got to feel me up. Yep, there is definitely a lump, was the general consensus. Just in case our fingers deceived us, I had a mammogram. For those of you who don’t know, a mammogram is when they put stickers on your nipples, jam your boobs into a machine and take pictures which I suspect are later turned over to some second rate porno magazine.

After examining my pictures, a doctor pitching a tent in his jacket says, “Yep, there is definitely a lump.” One more time, for good measure, he gives my tit a squeeze.

“What do I do?” I ask?

“Well, it’s probably nothing. You’re too young for breast cancer and you don’t fit the profile. It’s probably a cyst or something harmless. We can give you a biopsy to be sure.”

At the time, I was without insurance and lacking in the funds to financially support another hospital grope fest, so I went with the theory that it was something harmless and to be ignored. I went about my life figuring that my little lump would eventually go away.

Fast forward to yesterday. My shot is due, but when I call Dyke Gyno to make an appointment, I find that my clinic is shut down due to remodeling. I will have to go to a sister clinic to get my examination and shot. So now I have to make an appointment, travel one city over and get swabbed and prodded by a perfect stranger. Perfect.

One thing I will say about the sister clinic is that they are prompt. The Dyke Gyno usually makes me wait about 20 minutes before starting my examination. I suspect she likes to wait until she smells my fear. But at the sister clinic, I was buck naked, laying on my back, feet in stir ups, and draped in a large paper towel by 2:05. The ceiling donned a poster of a wet cat with wild fur above the caption ‘Bad Hair Day.’ I want to know what kind of sick fuck thinks it’s funny to make patients look at a picture of a wet pussy while they are getting their unmentionables poked and prodded.

Of course, the gyno finds it necessary to walk you through the process. “I’m spreading open your labia. It looks pink and healthy.”


“You’re lubricating a little.”

It’s always tough to know what to say here. My first instinct is to assure her that I am NOT turned on. But at the same time, I don’t want to come across as overly defensive. So I opt for ignorance and say, “Does that mean something is wrong?”

“Absolutely not. It is the sign of a healthy vagina. It doesn’t look irritating and it seems odorless, so you should be fine.”

‘Hold the fuck up! Did she just smell my pussy?’ I think to myself.

A few minutes later, the examination ends. “How often do you examine your breasts,” she asks as she starts feeling me up.

“Not often,” I say, “I don’t really know what I’m looking for.”

“Well,” She answers, “The important thing is to know what your breast feels like and to compare it to your other breast…..oh! What’s this?”

Guess what she found, faithful reader! You guessed it! My lump. Instead of going away, the damned thing decided to grow to a size slightly smaller than a golf ball. Of course, I told the gyno the whole story about my visit to the hospital and how the doctor wanted to become my pimp. She listened attentively and when I was finished, she looked concerned.

That look of concern sparked my much forgotten fear and paranoia. Suddenly, I pictured my nipple leaking thick, black sludge and my entire boob turning black and rotting off.

The gyno interrupted my morbid fantasies with a beacon of hope. “It could be a just a cyst, but either way, if it’s getting bigger, you’re probably going to have to have surgery to get it drained.”

And while that sounds fucking disgusting in its own right, at least I won’t have to sacrifice my hourglass figure for a body that more closely resembles a pear. That’s the best-case scenario, anyway.

Worst-case scenario is that my boobs will sloth off in my sleep. I can’t wait to pin a pink ribbon over the flat plane that was once my cleavage while I lecture every one about the dangers of breast cancer and plow them full of pamphlets. I will become hated and feared. And not in a good way.

And now I’ve got to ask you, my faithful readers, a very important question:

“Will you still love me when I’m titless?”


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