My annuals weren't always this positive. I was 18 and just lost my V card to a guy named Rocko with a DUI from Canada. Clearly, I win the bad girl/idiot competition. Thank God I made it out of that relationship without a tattoo—it wasn't easy.
Rocko was a big fan of condoms—except NOT. There were a lot of limp dick situations just from pulling out the tiny foil square, and his flag would lower to half-mast before I even got the sucker open. I decided to be responsible and visit a gyno. I knew I didn't want to be on birth control because I didn't want to get fat before I even made it to college and put on the requisite 15 lbs. My head was spinning with all the options for non-hormonal birth control (that's sarcasm). After a lot of internet research I came to the conclusion the best thing was to get fitted for a diaphragm. That's right, because even though it was 2003, in my heart I believed it was 1954.
To prepare for my first visit to the lady doctor, I watched David Cronenberg's Dead Ringers. A movie about twin gynecologists (both played by Jeremy Irons) who slowly go insane from prescription drug use. They commission a metal artist to develop gynecological torture instruments to operate on their “mutant” patients with abnormal genitalia. To this day, before any doctor's visit, I have nightmares about this movie. Even if it's just an appointment with my Ear, Nose and Throat guy.
The next morning I was sitting in my paper gown trying to count backward from 100 to calm down. I kept thinking, “What if I'm a mutant woman? Or, what if those instruments actually inspired some kind of trend in the gynecological field and are about to be used on me?” I looked around the room for any clues I was about to be disemboweled. All I could find were some tongue depressors and a plastic model of fallopian tubes that quickly came apart in my hands. I shoved them underneath the exam table and hoped she wouldn't notice.