Just Say 'Hell, Yeah!'

I don't know if this is true of all women, but when I first started having sex (at 17), I was always getting all sorts of irritations; yeast infections were a quarterly event. But when at 19, I started itching and burning like nothing I'd ever felt before, I got scared and made an emergency appointment with my family's doctor.

At first I was too busy itching and burning to be bothered that my doctor (who later ditched medicine for a career in the convent) greeted me wearing an expression that made her look as though she'd just dined on a shit sandwich. I guess I figured she was having a bad day. My then-boyfriend was too freaked out by the thought that we might be playing co-hosts to a venereal disease to really pay much attention, either.

Dr. Holierthanthou (name changed to protect the bee-yotch) listened to my complaints with one eyebrow cocked skeptically and directed me toward the examination room. When I finished getting undressed, she came in and began her examination. Now picture this: I'm laying flat on my back, scared shitless that I've got some incurable brand of cooter cooties, wearing only a crappy disposable gown. I've got both feet up in stirrups, my 'gina spread open for all the world to see, and this bitch is staring down at my business like she's never seen anything so repulsive in her life.

As she starts to poke at it, she asks if I'm married (knowing full well I'm not). I say nope, and she jabs around some more. She then asks if I'm at least engaged. Working up a real sweat, I reply with a negative. She steps back and snaps the gloves off her hands.

"Then what do you think you're doing, having sex?"

Now, I wasn't a wussy kid. At the time, I had a 12-inch mohawk in New Fucking Jersey, so I was used to handling a certain amount of abuse. But that day, laying there all exposed like a flayed animal, that doctor made me feel like a trampy ho-bag. It wasn't that I wanted to marry the guy I was with; I loved him and knew that sleeping with him didn't conflict with the moral code I'd worked out for myself. But laying there, with my legs spread wide open—I've never felt so vulnerable. And so judged.

Without running any tests, she informed me that I had chlamydia, silently gloating to herself that slutty girls deserve diseases. (At least that's what it looked like she was thinking.) I later found out that my "chlamydia" was actually a reaction to the spermicide-covered condoms I was using because I was a careful teenager who didn't want an unplanned pregnancy or a disease to ruin the rest of my life. But instead of being treated like a responsible young adult, this cow chose to inflict her rigid Catholic mind-set on me.

Which is why I was so pleased to read about the American Academy of Pediatrics' new and improved position on teen sexuality. In spite of our government's unrealistic (and scientifically unsound) insistence on abstinence-based sex education (an oxymoron if ever there was one), the good doctors sensibly believe that while kids should be urged to postpone sex, they should also have access to birth control, including the controversial "morning-after pill." It's so refreshing to see science triumph over repressive ideology once in a while.

Especially since it appears things are going to get far worse before they get better, as it looks like Bushie's going to get the chance to fill two critical Supreme Court seats this term. Yikes.

Very depressing, indeed. But instead of getting all gloomy, Washington NARAL is throwing a "Screw Abstinence" party at 6 p.m. on Thursday, July 14, at Watertown (106 First Ave. N.; 206-624-1990 for info). If you can't make the bash, I suggest you make a donation to the pro-choice group of your choice, because they're going to need the dough if they're going to keep abortion safe and legal. And if you're too broke-ass and/or selfish to contribute to anything other than your own personal beer fund, I implore you to engage in the most deviant (yet legal and safe) sexual activity you can think of immediately. (If you can't think of anything that satisfies the definition of deviant, please e-mail me and I'll send you several suggestions.)

No appointment necessary. Write Dategirl at dategirl@seattleweekly.com or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western Ave., Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.

 
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