The Realities Of A Smear Test

So the event usually starts in the waiting room. You walk in and take a look around at all the other women waiting to have their vaginas prodded at and you can’t help but have visions of their fannies in your head. You don’t want them in your head, but you can’t help it as you know they are there for the same reason as you are. You’re going through them one by one. I bet that lady sat in the corner with the red rain coat and short blonde hair has a landing strip. Theres a few older ladies there too. You start imagining old ladies with vagazzle… They’re probably thinking about your fanny too. I hope their imagination does mine justice.

So you sign in. If you’re lucky then you have a self service screen but if not then you tell the nice lady that you’re here for your *whispers* smear test. You may even try to skim round it and just say ‘hi, yes I have an appointment…’ and the lady gets the jist.

So you sit down and the paranoia kicks in. Oh god, did I clean it properly in the shower last night? What if I missed a bit when I shaved? You know, the awkward bit at the bottom of your lips where you have to be extra careful to not cut yourself else it means you’re out of action for 2 weeks and on full time blow job duty. Fuck. Ah well. Deep breathes. Let’s just hope the gyen has forgotten to bring her glasses this morning so she cant see the random tuft of hair from your quick shaving job this morning before the school run.

25 minutes later (if youre lucky with the current state of the nhs #votelabour) your name gets called by a very nice looking health care assistant. You stand up confidently and all the other ladies waiting to be seen give you a sort of solidarity nod and a sympathetic smile as if to say ‘good luck partner’.

On your way to ‘the room’ the health care assistant makes small talk and talks about the weather. You know this because she makes a comment about how it’s a wet morning and she certainly isn’t talking about your hoo haa because you’re definitely not wet down there. You’re as dry as a prune at the thought of having a piece of machinery shoved up your Sheila.

You get to the room and there’s an overpowering smell of febreeze. It sort of reminds you of a teenage boys bedroom; stinks of lynx Africa with undertones of semen. The lady who’s going to be doing the deed introduces herself and you’re quite offended as she places on a face mask. You know, one of those that dentists wear. Does she think I smell? Do I look like I have a smelly vagina? I’m ringing my partner for a confidence boost as soon as this is over.

She asks if you can take your underwear off and sit on the piece of blue paper on the bed. You take your underwear off and you’re not sure where to put it. Do I scrunch them up? Do I fold them? You end up doing a sort of scrunch but a subtle one so it looks like you haven’t done it on purpose.

So you lie down and then your next challenge arises. Oh fuck, where shall I put my hands? Behind my head? No that looks like I’m enjoying it too much. On her head? Nope that reminds me too much of fellatio. You end up settling for crossing your hands on your belly. Sort of casual and relaxed. As if you’re sunbathing and not having your vagina prodded.

She puts the equipment in and you’re actually pleasantly surprised at how painful it isn’t. But then that makes you paranoid. Oh no. Does that mean that my vagina is too loose and I haven’t done my pelvic floor exercises? You accidentally say that out loud and the lady reassures you that she’s used lots of lubricant. Thanks hun.

Before you know it, it’s over and done with. You awkwardly put your knickers back on as if you’ve just had a one night stand. You smile and nod at the lady and hesitantly say ‘….. thanks….?’


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