The tale of the Pap Smear nebula

The road to standing tall is fraught with danger and excitement.

I have what most people refer to as a bad back. I have been self-medicating my bad back by wearing a tight corset with stainless steel inserts to maintain structural integrity, able to support my breasticles. Nevertheless, I make regular visits to a back doctor to get steroid injections to help relieve the pain. The clinic has become strangely familiar with its stark fluorescent lighting, and the faint scent of antiseptics lingering in the air often overpowers my cologne. The doctor has had little luck in alleviating my discomfort. Thus, each time, he gives the injection in a different area, aiming at different vertebrae, hoping to find the source of the pain, much like a queen-sized game of pinning the tail on the donkey.  

Each appointment is a blend of anticipation and dread, as I know pain relief is possibly within reach, but at the cost of enduring a humiliating and uncomfortable medical ritual. On the latest visit, after checking in at the front desk, I heard a deep, sonorous voice calling out my name. I turned my head and ‘what to my wondering eyes should appear’,

but a most gorgeous hunk who took my breath away. His name tag read ‘Mark’. He was wearing lavender scrubs that must have been two sizes too small, because they showcased his ass-ets and biceps with great accuracy. I almost swooned when Mark placed his hand on my back as he guided me to an examination room.

Mark sat me down and asked me the usual medical questions. His piercingly beautiful soul-searching eyes penetrated me to the very center of my being, and I felt my heart go all a flutter. In my mind, I imagined him carrying me in his strong arms to the exam table and having his way with me. My daydream was suddenly interrupted when I heard him say, “Now take off your clothes.” I didn’t hear, nor comprehend, the rest of what he said as I was in blissful shock and busy planning our honeymoon. Regrettably, I was rudely brought back to reality as he handed me a hospital gown and told me to put it on, and he would return shortly. As I accepted the gown, my nerves tingled with a peculiar sense of excitement. The anticipation of pain, mingled with the distraction of his perfectly sculpted forearms, made it nearly impossible to focus on the impending procedure. Still, I managed to crack a joke about being the clinic’s honorary pincushion, hoping to mask my apprehension with humor. And then Mark left me.

As I slipped into the gown, I couldn’t help but glance at the mirror, wondering if I should’ve chosen more flattering bloomers for this occasion. I turned my back to the mirror and craned my neck to glimpse my buttockus maximus to check if there were visible skid marks on my panties. Then I sat in the eerily quiet room, feeling alone and exposed. Again, I felt something stir in my fatasaurus rex tummy, and I realized that I had not been feeling my heart go all twitterpated over Mark, but that my stomach was mixing and churning and that a gaseous release of the ‘thunder from down under’ was imminent. I felt pressure building. I said a silent prayer. Please God, let this be a silent and scentless ‘air biscuit’.

Just then, Mark returned and led me down the hall. I could hold the ‘fluff’ no longer and proceeded to ‘crop dust’ all the way to the procedure room where the doctor was waiting with a syringe in hand. Mark spoke the words which I shall always remember, “Mount the table and lay flat, face down.” In any other circumstance these would be words to cherish or at the very least be dialogue in a porno movie. The cold of the exam table seeped through the gown, and I caught myself wondering if Mark noticed my not-so-graceful mounting technique or if he was too busy prepping the array of ominous-looking syringes. Then as I attempted to lay down, I immediately realized that I had a huge ‘bubble gut’ in the way. I could not lay flat, and I could not breathe. So, Mark hurriedly placed some pillows strategically under me to accommodate my blubbernaught belly. Oh, the embarrassment.

Just as I had assumed the position with my butt aimed towards heaven, I caught sight of the syringe in the doctor’s hand. The needle was much larger than I had anticipated. I suddenly panicked and wouldn’t you know, I let out an audible ‘butt burp’. Oh, God! How could this get any worse? And then I caught a whiff of my stinky ‘fanny flutter’. How devastating for a queen of my stature to be reduced to having my ass exposed and producing a ‘booty breeze’ in the object of my desire’s face. I heard Mark giggle.

With my dignity clinging by a thread and my backside perched high, I swear that I could see the cloud from my nether regional nebula. Just then, the doctor said, “you’re going to feel a poke.” and gave me a menacing grin. I gripped the edge of the table, bracing for impact, determined to survive both the injection and my own embarrassment.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1.    Does the smell of the antiseptics overpower my cologne?

2.    Should I begin wearing bloomers with funny pictures on my ass for the enjoyment of the nurses?

3.    Do I need to create a new game called Pin the Tail on the Pap Smear?

4.    Could padded breasticles have avoided the need for pillows?

5.    What is the best cologne to cover the evidence of a ‘tush toot’?

6.    Will Mark qualify as a down winder?

These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.