Speculum Season

Now, as with everything I post on the internet, I’m painfully aware of the (hopefully small) percentage of creeps (men) who will sexualise literally anything I do or say. It’s just the tax you pay for being a hot girl on the socials I guess... It’s a bitter, slightly jagged pill, but I’ve swallowed worse. I learnt the hard way that anything I post instantly becomes public property, whether it be tit pics, my intrusive thoughts or my skincare routine! The moment you upload anything to the internet you lose control and ownership of it.

Still, I’ve never let social norms, shame, or fear of embarrassment stop me from sharing or writing about my taboo subject matter. So with all that being said: please be respectful— and if you are going to sexualise this, then Goddamn, I hope you’re at least a paying subscriber(!!).

The first thing I did after receiving the NHS sanctioned text message to book my smear test was message my girls. I needed the insider info: experiences, advice, warnings??! The responses ranged from, “It feels like being railed by a ghost penis… That will scratch ya!” to the ever-reassuring, “just make sure you take your benzos (!!).” All the more disconcerting were my friends who told me they had ignored the invitation to go altogether. Perhaps through writing about my experience, I can help reassure anyone who has been avoiding their smear test to go…

Honestly, it’s no secret that female healthcare is medieval. Like, we have a whole healthcare system based on the mantra “you just need to lose/ gain some weight” Anyone with PMDD or endometriosis, etc, already knows the drill. Being believed as a woman requires the same energy as trying to return a high end dress without a receipt— humiliating, and unlikely to yield a fruitful result.

Women are dismissed, ignored, gaslit, and told to breathe deeply as a sort of substitute for pain relief. Advocating for yourself feels like going to war. Honestly, I wish I could take a man with me to my appointment just so someone might actually listen. Hands down, boys — not like that.

At least my monthly pussy-laser sessions over the last two years have absolutely desensitised me to any awkwardness about showing my pussycat to a stranger in a “non-sexy medical context.” Although I do have a bit of a doctor kink, so Lord help me. Probably rooted in some long-ago trauma, but that’s a story for another day. Ha! Jesus.

Of course, this morning I woke up feeling a little under the weather because my immune system is basically that of a Victorian child. For breakfast I swallowed my birth control, an antihistamine and two Klonopins. 

I prayed to be seen by a kind, female doctor as I blow-dried my hair. If the doctor were a man I think I’d die— if he didn’t die first after catching a glimpse of my pornstar pussy! I don’t mean to brag (and I’m the first to admit my flaws — I STILL want that nose job!!!), but my pussycat is cute, dainty and hairless as a pre-teen. Epstein would’ve loved me. Lol. Sorry if that joke is insensitive— you know my humour is dark, adjust accordingly.

I arrived at the GP half an hour early because with ADHD you’re either 30 minutes early or 30 minutes late— there is no in-between. I even ran a couple errands on the way: I collected a package, picked up some vegan cookies from M&S and even took a moment to contemplate my uncertain mortality. Still, I was early.

Luckily their twelve o’clock was running late, so I got in and stole her slot.

My nurse was a really sweet Jamaican lady who literally beamed with excitement when she realised this was my first, ever smear test.

She prepped the bed and asked me to lie down with my hands in fists under my ass to prop my pussy up into prime position. Honestly, I almost blushed when she took one look and said, “Let’s use the smallest speculum for you, dear.”

It’s archaic and patriarchal to care — I know —  But I felt like I’d won Miss Universe. 

Like… Thank you.

Also, thank God. Because the speculum is uncomfortable enough already. On this occasion, smaller is better. 

The speculum went in and yes, it did feel like a ghost was trying to rail me with his ghost penis. A wide, cold stretch without any actual fullness. Sharp. Clinical. 

Once the speculum was in place, she used a scratchy tool to scrape away some of my cells. My cervix bled a bit as she did, which she said was normal. She had to dip in twice because apparently I also have a cute, small cervix. Obsessed.

Then she hit me with the question… “Have you ever received any trauma to your vagina?”

Umm…

Five years ago I was hospitalised with a severe case of pelvic inflammatory disease, which spread to my poor little pussycat like wildfire. I’d caught it after a week at Glastonbury, during a biblically insane heatwave where the showers got shut off to conserve water. As someone with OCD, going seven days without washing was already my personal apocalypse. Getting sick on top of it only further exasperated this horrific situation. 

PID is dangerous, if untreated it can scar your reproductive organs to the point of infertility. In my case, it escalated so fast I ended up in hospital for over a week. I was hooked up to IV drips, antibiotics, fluids, painkillers and of course benzos. I made a unconditional offer with my doctor, that I wouldn’t resist treatment or tests as long as I was on 4mg of lorazepam every day. This helped them out almost as much as it helped me, believe me! 

When I finally got discharged I thought the worst was over. It wasn’t. The day after I got home, during the exact window where I should’ve been resting, hydrating, and maybe watching some trash TV, I was violated. Raped. And then robbed. By the most diabolical, manipulative ex, who used my vulnerability like an opportunity. He was an addict, though I’m sure you can guess that part already… 

He lied his way into my house with faux sympathy, pretended he wanted to “check up on me,” and then stripped me of safety, autonomy, and my belongings in one fell swoop.

I didn’t tell the nurse the second part— I can barely even admit it to myself.

But I did tell her about the PID.

While examining me she could see the signs of trauma, physical scars that don’t lie even when I try to. And of course I secretly wondered whether what was forced upon me the day after I left hospital had added its own traceable fingerprints in the form of those scars.

It certainly contributed to the ones in my mind. But anyway. I try not to think about any of it.

Five, or is it six, years later, whatever the cause, the damage is still visible.

That is… sobering.

After the nurse finished collecting the samples, she closed the speculum and slid it out. “All done!” she chirped.

I saw a little blood on the tip of the speculum and paper sheet. For a second I felt woozy, but being on benzos I was actually able to control my feelings so I didn’t have a total freak out. 

I tucked a folded paper napkin from the plastic dispenser into my thong for the walk home. By the time I got in, I could feel a trickle of blood —nothing unfamiliar. I switched to a pad and slid on my DKNY fleece pyjama bottoms I’ve had since sixth form. I used to wear them to school when I was too high to get dressed, paired with satin pink ballet-pump block heels from Debenhams (RIP). I wore those shoes to death.

It’s been a couple hours now since the smear. Other than a few cramps, which might just be psychosomatic, I’m feeling good. Though again, that might be the benzos ;)

I’m so proud of myself today! I totally advocate for preventative healthcare, especially when it’s free. Despite the embarrassment or inconvenience I really recommend getting shit like this done. It is important!!