I was still horny and without a hookup scheduled, I decided to masturbate. Unfortunately, the situation didn’t lessen my libido. No way I was having sex while looking like I emerged from a swamp with seaweed dangling between my legs. One for an emergency appointment and one to cancel my date that night. When nine o’clock ticked onto the clock, I made two phone calls. Vaginitis didn’t describe what I was going through. With several hours until my gyno opened, I scoured WebMD, searching for an explanation. Even more unsettling, the flesh had taken on a light greenish tint. I shrugged it off, assuming I had been in the bath too long since my fingertips had also turned to prunes, but the next morning, it was still wrinkled. The flesh had bunched together into thick lines like an old lady’s forehead. When I stood up to towel myself off, I noticed how crinkled my skin looked down there. I had almost reached the final page when I decided I better get to bed. ![]() So good I stayed in there for over an hour with a copy of The Handmaid’s Tale. Needing some sort of relief, I stripped off my silken pajamas and soaked myself inside of a hot bath. Alone in bed that night, I gave into temptation and itched so hard that skin got stuck under my fingernails. I booked an appointment and got a brazilian along with anal bleaching that afternoon. The hair hadn’t grown too much down there since it had been ripped out the last time, but if I was itching like a motherfucker, I must have needed it removed. I felt my hand migrating into my jeans whenever I was driving or drawing out documents at work, but I stopped myself each time to avoid looking like a slob. With how careful I am, I have no idea how I ended up with vaginitarius - or what the internet so eloquently calls blue waffle. I’ve had urinary tract infections two or three times, but they cleared up after a few days with antibiotics. Becoming a mother isn’t in my overall plan and I’m not interested in adding herpes pills to my medicine cabinet. A whore who visits the gynecologist twice a year and stocks up on condoms in case my one-night-stand of the week isn’t the kind to stuff them in his wallet. So, yeah, I might be a whore, but I’m a careful whore. And the forty-year-old French professor who ate me out in between the stacks in the library while moaning in his syrup thick accent. They loved the one about the hipster bartender who bent me over the billiards table while I bit down on the pool cue to keep from screaming. They might tsk-tsk when they see the number of matches currently sexting me across Tinder, but when we are three mimosas deep at brunch, they practically beg to hear about my quickie-in-the-bar-bathroom, cum-on-the-chest hookup stories.
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