Reflections on First Visiting a Gynocologist
This is obviously going to be harder to write than I expected. It's not, however, something I've ever talked to anyone about, which is perhaps why I am writing these reflections at the grand age of 22 rather than the more sensible age of 16.
The whole idea of gynocologie is, let's face it, a bit weird. After all, nice girls don't open their legs on the first date, or even the fourth, unless they're on Sex and the City, so being expected to literally reveal all to a complete stranger is a very, very strange concept.
As it turns out, it's a stranger concept than it is reality. I didn't, admittedly, go to the doctor For An Exam. I went because my birth control needed renewing, and stayed the extra ten minutes, since they could fit me in. (Yes, I'm one of those people that makes everyone else late. Sorry.) This did mean I didn't have any time to think about it, but as I was undressing I realised that despite having been involved with things like the Vagina Monologues and having fairly open minded friends, I had absolutely no frickin clue what to expect. Should I, I wondered, keep my bra on? My socks? Could I? Would I feel better with or without?
And then to the exam proper, the stirrups, the Mean Cold Duck Lips, and the realisation that, although this man, this personable, kind, young man, the kind of guy who I wouldn't have the nerve to try to chat up in a bar, was going to put his hands inside my vagina. It seemed a little intimate for such a short aquaintance.
But.
But it wasn't at all, in any way shape or form, sexy, sexual, or anything to do with the usual implications of being in a state of undress or where his hands were. It wasn't even embarrassing.
And this, you can imagine, was something of a revelation. As I was lying there, I realised why it felt so strange. I don't think I have ever felt a man look at me with so complete and certain a lack of sexual interest.
I don't think I get a lot of comments, arse-grabbing, wolf-whistling, shame-enducing, unpleasant or inappropriate male attention. This is one of the blessings of being taller than the average bloke, and not particularly attractive. Nonetheless, it's always there. Unwanted attention lurks in dark alleys, in nightclubs, in bars, in seminars, on the bus, and with it the fear of reprisals if you indicate your lack of interest too forcefully, or if you don't. It was very refreshing to find a genuinely sex-free space.
The exam itself - well, the Mean Cold Duck Lips weren't noticably cold, and, yeah, the stirrups aren't particularly comfortable, and the whole thing feels a bit weird. But giving blood hurts more, and you've got to make polite conversation and hang around a lot to boot. But you don't get tea and a biscuit after a visit to the gyno, which is a flaw.
Having said all this - which I think is enough for one night, although I will post a blow-by-blow account of the process, if anyone wants, anonymous comments are fine - part of the reason I didn't want to go in the UK is because I didn't feel I could chose the doctor. Here, if I'd taken agains the doc - and I had five or so minutes to do so - I could have smiled politely, walked out, and made an appointment with someone different. No one would have minded, cared, or even noticed.
In the UK - and I maybe misunderstanding - it seemed that to see a specialist you had to go through your GP. And then wait for a few months. And then take whatever slot you were given. Which - even if I'd wound up with the same doc - would have put a lot more pressure on the whole situation. If I'd had to walk in thinking "if I don't do this it'll be a three-month wait, and I'll have to explain to the Health Centre why I ran away, and they won't listen," I wouldn't have done it. I didn't do it, in fact, despite three letters prompting me to.
It's unfortunate, really. I have no idea if my nice doc was a typical example of his profession or an exception. All I can prejudge male gynos by is the behaviour of other men in different situations. And now this one. But I still think I might ask for a woman next time: it seems less likely to be problematic. But I bet the waiting list is longer.
The whole idea of gynocologie is, let's face it, a bit weird. After all, nice girls don't open their legs on the first date, or even the fourth, unless they're on Sex and the City, so being expected to literally reveal all to a complete stranger is a very, very strange concept.
As it turns out, it's a stranger concept than it is reality. I didn't, admittedly, go to the doctor For An Exam. I went because my birth control needed renewing, and stayed the extra ten minutes, since they could fit me in. (Yes, I'm one of those people that makes everyone else late. Sorry.) This did mean I didn't have any time to think about it, but as I was undressing I realised that despite having been involved with things like the Vagina Monologues and having fairly open minded friends, I had absolutely no frickin clue what to expect. Should I, I wondered, keep my bra on? My socks? Could I? Would I feel better with or without?
And then to the exam proper, the stirrups, the Mean Cold Duck Lips, and the realisation that, although this man, this personable, kind, young man, the kind of guy who I wouldn't have the nerve to try to chat up in a bar, was going to put his hands inside my vagina. It seemed a little intimate for such a short aquaintance.
But.
But it wasn't at all, in any way shape or form, sexy, sexual, or anything to do with the usual implications of being in a state of undress or where his hands were. It wasn't even embarrassing.
And this, you can imagine, was something of a revelation. As I was lying there, I realised why it felt so strange. I don't think I have ever felt a man look at me with so complete and certain a lack of sexual interest.
I don't think I get a lot of comments, arse-grabbing, wolf-whistling, shame-enducing, unpleasant or inappropriate male attention. This is one of the blessings of being taller than the average bloke, and not particularly attractive. Nonetheless, it's always there. Unwanted attention lurks in dark alleys, in nightclubs, in bars, in seminars, on the bus, and with it the fear of reprisals if you indicate your lack of interest too forcefully, or if you don't. It was very refreshing to find a genuinely sex-free space.
The exam itself - well, the Mean Cold Duck Lips weren't noticably cold, and, yeah, the stirrups aren't particularly comfortable, and the whole thing feels a bit weird. But giving blood hurts more, and you've got to make polite conversation and hang around a lot to boot. But you don't get tea and a biscuit after a visit to the gyno, which is a flaw.
Having said all this - which I think is enough for one night, although I will post a blow-by-blow account of the process, if anyone wants, anonymous comments are fine - part of the reason I didn't want to go in the UK is because I didn't feel I could chose the doctor. Here, if I'd taken agains the doc - and I had five or so minutes to do so - I could have smiled politely, walked out, and made an appointment with someone different. No one would have minded, cared, or even noticed.
In the UK - and I maybe misunderstanding - it seemed that to see a specialist you had to go through your GP. And then wait for a few months. And then take whatever slot you were given. Which - even if I'd wound up with the same doc - would have put a lot more pressure on the whole situation. If I'd had to walk in thinking "if I don't do this it'll be a three-month wait, and I'll have to explain to the Health Centre why I ran away, and they won't listen," I wouldn't have done it. I didn't do it, in fact, despite three letters prompting me to.
It's unfortunate, really. I have no idea if my nice doc was a typical example of his profession or an exception. All I can prejudge male gynos by is the behaviour of other men in different situations. And now this one. But I still think I might ask for a woman next time: it seems less likely to be problematic. But I bet the waiting list is longer.