I knew the drill.

“Bottoms off, only” the receptionist told me, as she walked me into the exam room and started to close the door. I straddled astride the table, bottoms off.

I laid back on the table and opened up a Star Magazine. It’s my fourth treatment but my warts are only getting worse – bigger, uglier, harder, crustier, white, bumpy, and hard to hide.

Dr. Lisa came in and had a look. I told her the last treatment wasn’t strong enough because it didn’t hurt that bad. She got right down to splitting my legs open, getting in there and painting my warts with a horrible, burning, chemical substance. There were more warts than last time, and some had grown, she concluded. She  then decided to perform what she refered to as a “Double Whammy” by applying yet another, different, horrible, burning, chemical substance, one even stronger than the first, on some of the warts. Thank goodness for Lidocaine. I could practically hear the sizzling.
“Do you have any encounters planned for this weekend?”
What was this, freaking alien encounters? I gave Dr. Lisa a puzzled look.
“You know, maybe time with a lover?”
Oh god I could have just died from holding in laughter by this point. A lover?

“Yes,” I responded, “definitely.”
“OH, well that is really going to hurt.”
“I’ll think of something” I assured her.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Mmmmmmmmmmmm, yessssssssssss…….OUTERcourse.” From down there on her little rolling stool, she looked up at me on the gyno table, from between my wide-spread legs, my head cocked like a dumb puppy on the other side of my Star, with my infected, burning, chemically-painted vag bare to the world, paper skirt falling off. She beamed with her whole face, her eyes smiling from behind her glasses.
I left the office walking like a grumpy bow-legged cowboy only to hop on my beach cruiser and pedal the 3.8 miles back to work standing up.
Outercourse, I thought. Did she mean Anal? Or I can pretend I have my period. I got bored of doling out BJs when I was 17.