A Game of Inches

There are times I think it might have been interesting to have been born female.  And with the possible exception of recognizing that there were probably more opportunities out there for bright women than bright men in the early 1980s and 90s, most of it admittedly revolves around sex.  It might have been nice to be in control rather than the begging.  I like breasts, and it might have been fun to have my own.  It might have been nice to be able to have multiple orgasms, and not leave a mess or develop wrist sprain from holding a magazine when doing it by yourself.  (So I’ve heard). But then I think of periods, and childbirth, and makeup/clothes/shoes, and the fact that the guys you want to have sex with may not be the guys who want to have sex with you, I’m okay with the way I was born…quite happy with it, in fact, thank you very much.  (That being said, through life in the ER I’ve come to recognize that given the right circumstances…often meaning cigarettes, beer and methamphetamines…just about anyone will have sex with anyone else in a burst of Darwinian frenzy.)

I was reminded of another difference the other day when a self-described adult entertainer came in late one night complaining of a lost object.  I should specify that the term “adult entertainer” is used rather loosely in our neck of the woods.  I mentioned in a blog post some time ago that I believe advancement in the Erotic Dancing Guild of America works on a farm system.  If New York, LA And Las Vegas are the majors, then dancing around here is…well, rookie league short season at best.  To be blunt, she wasn’t the kind of hottie for which your hard-earned twenties longed for her g-string.  Instead, you might take some nickels and throw then in the other direction, hoping she’d follow.  (I should note at this point that there are two Guild establishments of note in Our Fair City.  One is called Sasnak, which is Kansas spelled backwards.  It’s known for having a bin of free hot dogs in boiling water available day and night.  The other is Club Orleans, a place out by the interstate that seems to me to be pretty dark during most of the year, but lights up on weekday nights during the four months of the legislative session.  The Universities have to get their funding somehow.)

This particular Pole Professional had lost an absorbent monthly hygiene product.  It had bee appropriately placed for a very sensible reason…if I might quote, “You can’t drip and dance.”  But the string had unfortunately been lost , and she couldn’t pull it out.  It happens.  Fair enough.

(Which reminds me of the time a surgical intern at the University of Florida…who is probably now some Chief of Cutting Brains at Harvard, for all I know…came running out of an exam room to tell me there was a harry mass within a young woman’s nether regions.  One of the finest moments of my teaching career came in pulling the mass out with a pair of forceps while the intern winced, explaining the difference between a hairy mass and a ball of cotton fibers, and directing him to purchase a “little something” for his girlfriend as research.)

Enter the boyfriend, a hulking specimen of Homo Ergaster (and I say that knowing it’s not, as Groucho might say, fair to the other Ergasters) sitting in the chair in the corner of the room, with the aroma of self-assurance that comes with an adverse disposition to authority.  “She says it’s there, but we had sex and I didn’t feel it so she’s wrong.”

An interesting difference of opinion, to be sure.  The clinical issue was simple.  Do an exam, remove the object, atomize the room with the toilet water of reassurance, go in peace, peace be with you, and also with you, and have a nice day.  Which we did.  But the whole scenario begs two questions:

1.  How many women do you need to have sex with to be able to tell the difference between interacting with female soft tissues or a tampon?
2. If the length of the average vagina is 3-4 inches before arousal, and if the tampon takes up two to there inches of that, exactly how small do you have to be to not notice the tampon is in there?

Neither of which I chose to ask, thinking my life was more valuable (at least to my creditors) that the information I might receive.  But I suppose it doesn’t really matter.  As long as I can still feel the pericardium in those more intimate times, it’s all good.