Tag Archives: story

Coochie Chronicles (Because “Vagina Monologues” Was Already Taken)

Wow, it’s been a hot minute since I updated this blog, huh? Allow me to reward your patience with the saga of my twat adventures!

I’ve been ashamed since puberty of my inability to use tampons. They won’t go in and they hurt like a bitch. I assumed I either had unusually narrow lady bits or was doing it wrong, so I didn’t ever tell anyone. Luckily, I found out recently that not only do I have a fairly common disorder called vaginismus, but that it’s treatable! (You’d think I would have learned this before hitting my thirties, but high school sex ed…blah blah…society teaching girly parts are gross…blah blah…ingrained prudishness…blah blah…white coat syndrome…etc.) As it was explained to me, the muscles surrounding my genitalia don’t know how to relax at all. As Wikipedia explains it, those muscles involuntarily react to the prospect of penetration by yelling “Nope!” and slamming shut. I guess it doesn’t really matter which it is, as the result is the same.

Let me back up a bit: I need exercise (source: my pants that used to fit), but stuff like walking or using weights is too hard on my joints these days, so my doctor recommended water yoga. After much procrastination fueled by my fear of swimsuits, I finally got my gear and was ready to go. All I needed was to wait for my period to be over because of my lack of tamponability. (Totally a word. Spellcheck can suck it.) Unfortunately, I forgot that I have two loooong periods a month, leaving me four days max to go to the pool. See the issue?

So I need to treat the vaginismus so I can wear tampons, so I can work out, so I won’t be so fat, so my rheumatism won’t be so aggravated that I suck down enough painkillers to dissolve my stomach into puddle of ibuprofen. An improved sex life is just a side benefit…depending on if you ask me or my husband.

My doctor—who I used to like—made me buy vaginal dilators and see a physical therapist specializing in pelvic floor issues. Actually, I completely forgot we had talked about the latter (probably because I’d never heard of such a thing), so imagine my surprise a few days later when I got a phone call one morning from a nice lady informing me that I had been referred to, essentially, a crotch doctor. I was asleep when she called, so after a long silence I blearily mumbled that I would call them back.

When I was awake enough to be coherent, I called and said, “WHO referred me to WHERE to exercise my WHAT??” The nice lady patiently explained and I ended up with an appointment before I could panic and hang up. More on that later.

But first I had to order vaginal dilators, which are essentially plastic cylinders you stick up your hoo-ha. I did an Amazon search (I’m sorry, but I’m not marching into a pharmacy to ask them where they keep the vagina wideners) and only got a few results. However, there was a “related items” list that had a lot of similar-looking metal thingies. I was confused when I noticed that most of the reviews were by men:
“These are great for sounding!”
“I found them more comfortable for sounding than so-and-so brand.”
“My girlfriend was skeptical about sounding until I got these. Five stars!”

Huh, I thought. Maybe sounding is another term for vaginal dilating? But why would so many guys be interested in them? Thus my doctor’s recommendation resulted in a Google search that I will never, EVER forgive her for. It turns out sounding is the practice of using tools to widen the urethra until you can stick a finger (or whatever) into it, I assume for some kind of sexual purpose. I don’t know—I slammed my laptop shut before my eyeballs could accidentally read details.

Thank the gods I didn’t do an image search.

Listen, you’re welcome to whatever kink turns your little crank. I personally don’t see the appeal of an enlarged pee hole (except maybe for passing kidney stones), but I don’t begrudge anyone their fun with another consenting adult. HOWEVER, I could have lived my life just fine without knowing what sounding is. That’s a mental image I can’t unsee. (Note: If I’m wrong about any of this, I DON’T CARE. Please please please do not contact me in an effort to further my education on this matter.)

Anyway, I finally ordered a set of vaginal dilators, and now Amazon keeps recommending interesting products based on my search history. The fun never ends!

The idea is that you start with the smallest of the set and work your way up as space allows. You lie down, lube up the least intimidating one, put it in, and stay that way for half an hour or so. I did the first treatment while Tim was at work, but it occurred to me that things would be a bit awkward if, say, the cat started throwing up and I had to rush over to push her off the chair. Now I wait until he’s home. Moral: Always have an inserting-things-into-embarrassing-places buddy available to spot you.

I need to go look up more euphemisms for my reproductive organs before I can tell you the rest. That’ll be another fun Google search. Tune in next time for the gripping tale of what my physical therapist is putting me through! It also involves cats.

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Saga of the Peppermint Beasties

 

The beasties of Big Rock Candy Mountain lived simply.  They spent their days harvesting candy canes from the peppermint trees, trading with the beasties of neighboring Gumdrop Hill, drinking cocoa, and swimming in Fructose Lake.  Aside from occasional encounters with the pTerrible Peppermint Panther that roamed the woods, the peppermint beasties were content.

Until the dentists arrived.

It was later learned that the pTerrible Peppermint Panther—annoyed at being driven away from the peppermint orchard by fierce warriors armed with sugarcane spears—had sent a letter to a dentist he had met many moons ago.  The dentist had left his business card in gratitude for not being eaten (panthers never eat dentists, as they numb the mouth like Novocain) when he had wandered into the panther’s lair while lost in the forest.  To this day, no one is quite sure how the panther wrote the letter, as even pTerrible panthers lack opposable thumbs.

Upon receiving the letter, the dentist called an emergency meeting of the Committee to Poke People in the Gums.  “I have recently learned,” he said, “that there is a way to drastically lower the price of the peppermint we need to flavor toothpaste and mouthwash.”  He told them of the peppermint orchard, and of the beasties that controlled it.  The C.P.P.G. agreed that the only thing to be done was to conquer Big Rock Candy Mountain and claim the trees for themselves.

They invaded on a starless night, counting on catching the peppermint beasties unawares. The entire village would have been captured if it hadn’t been for the warning shouted by an elderly beastie rocking her grandchild to sleep on her peppermint patio.  As it was, the primitive spears were no match for the enemy’s dental drills.  Less than half of the beasties escaped.

Someday the peppermint beasties will take back their ancestral mountain.  They plot and prepare for the coming battle.  Planning for that day gives them purpose, but the refugees need a safe place to stay while their schemes are perfected.  They have heard of strange beings called “humans,” and are undertaking the long journey to human lands in the hope of finding sanctuary in their homes.

If you wish to offer shelter to three peppermint beasties, please visit our Etsy shop, TiMae Creations, and place an order for the Bag O’ Peppermint Beasties.  Each beastie is a unique plush toy made using an original design.

Poor Old Oscar

A few months ago I went crazy in a junk store and bought a bunch of stuff that I had no immediate plans for.  Among those items was somebody’s entire stamp collection, which filled a large box until I took the stamps out of the hundreds of tiny envelopes and dumped them in three jars.  Still, that’s a LOT of old stamps.

What I know about stamp collecting can be written on the head of a pin.  I guess some stamps are hard to find and therefore worth big bucks (at least to other stamp collectors)?  It’s unlikely that a rare stamp is somewhere in these jars, but there is still a tiny chance that there is something valuable. I now have a fantasy:

I am holding court at a party in a trendy gallery.  My stunning dress shimmers as I converse wittily with my many admirers.  (In my fantasy this is totally plausible.  Also, I’m a size 5.)  On the wall behind me is a series of my brilliant collages that incorporate the aforementioned stamps.

One of the guests idly peruses the art.  He is a short man in an ill-fitting tweed suit and a bad toupee.  His wife dragged him to this party against his will, and he’s hoping he can leave before someone tries to engage him in conversation.  Let’s call him Oscar.

Oscar glances at one of my pieces and is about to move on when he does a double-take.  Surely it couldn’t….no…wait….it IS!

“Noooo!” he wails.  “It’s the rare ten-cent three-headed red eagle stamp!  Generations of stamp collectors in my family have searched for it in vain!  It’s worth three hundred dollars!  And she’s glued it to a canvas!  There’s PAINT on it!”  He breaks down into sobs.  “How could you do that?  Did you know? Did you?”

All eyes are now on me.  “Of course I knew.  What you don’t realize, my dear man, is that art is more precious than mere money,” I say.

Spontaneous applause erupts.  Oscar is led away by kind people as I calmly sip a cocktail made of his tasty, tasty tears.

When no one is looking, I whip out a pen and write a new, hugely increased number on the price tag.