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FRESH
YARN PRESENTS:
At
Your Cervix
By
Anne Flanagan
PAGE
TWO:
 Here
is a typical workshop: In front of 12 to 20 students, another instructor
and I will perform a demonstration. One of us will act as Doctor,
one as Patient. I have been in both roles and therefore I know who
among my colleagues has a tipped uterus, an inverted nipple, a hemorrhoid.
I can tell you who is waxed, who is pierced, and who is not a real
blonde.
After the demonstration, we split up into small groups and I will
teach, and therefore undergo, anywhere from four to six exams a
night. Once, I did ten exams in one sitting, but that's rare, thankfully,
because I was walking like John Wayne when it was over.
How it works is that I raise the back of the exam table, so that
I am sitting up, and I balance a mirror on my knee so I can see.
With my feet in the foot rests (never stirrups -- we're not riding
horses), I raise my gown and then show the student how to manipulate
my labia, examine my Bartholins glands (FYI: If the clitoris is
twelve o' clock and the anus six, the glands are at five and seven
-- you never know when this stuff may come up), insert a speculum,
palpate my ovaries, etc. I also comment on the student's "bedside"
manner, offering suggestions like, "Why not say I will insert
the speculum" rather than, 'I'm gonna stick it in'?"
It is weird, at first, to be naked from the waist down and have
a total stranger's finger up your cooch, but you get used to it.
Mostly because the students are more nervous than you are. I've
even had a student faint upon my disrobing (I tried not to take
it personally). The first night I worked solo, after an extensive
training process, my heart started pounding as I began to lift my
gown and a voice roared in my head, "OH MY GOD! YOU ARE NAKED!
THEY ARE TOUCHING YOU!" but by the third student, it was no
big deal and I was chatting easily about plastic vs. metal speculums
while a student searched through my pubic hair for parasites.
My colleagues are a varied bunch; I work with a chiropractor, a
masseuse, a few teachers, actors, and, for many years, Adele.
Adele, originally from Brooklyn, was 70 years old, with a large
body, heavy, pendulous breasts, and a long cape of white hair. She
dressed like Mama Cass, wore shocking red lipstick, and had a wandering
eye due to the cancer that destroyed her optic nerve and, three
years later, ended her life. Adele worked the Naked Job because,
as she would say, "I've had too many horrible exams in my time,
I've gotta train these babes to do it right!"
Adele's eyesight was poor and she couldn't drive so her ex-husband,
with whom she still lived, chauffeured her to our gigs. He was 90%
deaf, and he and Adele were quite literally each other's eyes and
ears. Unlike the other instructors, who usually closed the doors
to their individual exam rooms, Adele kept her door wide open and,
if I left before she did, she'd call out, waving her mirror whilst
a student was toiling between her meaty thighs, "Goodbye, Anne!
Drive safe! Tell your man I said hello!" Okay, Adele, okay.
When she wasn't doing the Gyno gig, Adele worked as a sexual surrogate.
Meaning, Adele helped people with sexual dysfunction by showing
them how to have sex…with her. Now, were I having trouble
getting it up, I don't think an overweight, 70-year-old woman with
varicose veins and a wall eye would help matters, but apparently
she worked a lot. Clients came to her by way of a therapist, and
Adele was equal opportunity -- "Well, I've got a new client
tomorrow, a woman, and I'm not a lesbian so it's gonna be interesting!"
Some clients only needed a few sessions but Adele worked with others
for years before they were "cured". Once, she had to discontinue
treatment with a guy who became "too attached" and started
leaving roses all over her front porch. But mostly her clients "maintained
the professional relationship". I asked if any ex-clients ever
dropped by for a "brush-up," but she said, "No, that
would be inappropriate."
Every job has its nuisances and the Naked Job is no different. I
hate students who try to look confident and drive the speculum into
my vulva like a Mack truck; students who palpate my breasts like
they are kneading bread dough; students who glove up, then immediately
touch the dirtiest object in the room, and are insulted when I ask
them to re-glove; students with really large hands (no fault of
their own, but uncomfortable); students who are incapable of controlling
their thumb so it keeps bumping my clitoris; students who rest their
elbow on my knee like I'm a bookcase; and students who handle my
genitalia like Legos, trying to twist and lock things into place.
You may think that after exploring one's uterus, it would be awkward
to go out for a beer, but we Professional Vaginas, along with our
male counterpart, Professional Prostates (men who turn their head
and cough many, many times an evening), socialize quite often. When
we get together, we'll forget to censor our conversation and the
"civilians" amongst us soon flee the room as the talk
turns to vaginal douching or anal polyps.
Back in the exam room, it's 9:55. I'm not going to make my friend's
show but at least Student Number Five and I are in the home stretch.
"The bi-manual exam is the last step," I explain. "First,
tell your patient what you are going to do."
"Okay. Bi-manual mean I will put in my hand and --"
"Not your hand. You'll insert two fingers."
"Yes, I put in my hand --"
"No, don't say hand. You'll scare the patient. It's not your
hand -- just your fingers." I waggle my fingers in the air.
"See?"
He nods. "Yes. I now to put my hand in and touch your vanilla,
okay?"
"Sure, whatever. Touch my vanilla."
Close enough.
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