killbill-thurman-hannah

Question: What’s the only thing worse than going to the GUM clinic?
Answer: Going to the GUM clinic when it’s one thousand degrees outside and you’re given the world’s least professional nurse to see.

Never in my life had I truly understood the meaning of ‘pissing razor blades’ more. I was in agony. Everyone knows its easier to go to the same clinic each time, but when you miss the walk-in hours – you’re sometimes forced to make other arrangements. One of the worst things about going to a new clinic is that you have to go through the routine of standardly-nosey-and-uncomfortable questions.

This mare, that looked like she could barely orchestrate her own thoughts, let alone a competent sexual health exam, asks:
“So how many sexual partners have you had in the last three months?”

She can not be serious. She wants to know how many sexual partners I’ve had in the most promiscuous three months of my life? Lard! In my defence I had just discovered the wonders (and now the pitfalls) of sex parties. I was gonna ask the bitch for a pen and paper to help me do the math, but thought that if I gave her a cardiac arrest I’d never get this exam out the way.
I gave her the number (sssh… It’s a secret) while smiling coyly. Although the lack of movement in her face would suggest she didn’t find it cute, let alone innocent. Like your age, it’s one of the numbers that you won’t go to purgatory for lying about.
“It’s not normally that high…” I attempted to defend myself.

I was tempted to go on explaining that sometimes when you’re buzzing you end up at these ‘gatherings’ – but why would I even waste my breath on someone that was probably still a virgin. Still that didn’t stop me breaking out in sweats though. Literally sweating like Heather Mills in a three-legged-race.

“Homosexual?” She asked. I was stuck between two replies,
“Who dear? Me dear? Gay dear? No dear!”
And asking her what gave me away seen as I’d left my body glitter and low self-esteem at home.

She asked me if I wanted rectal and urethra swabs, but as I hadn’t had full sex since I’d last been tested, I declined. I’d also been told on a number of occasions that urethra swabs are outdated and no longer need to be used. So why was I gonna then let this unstable fruit loop anywhere near my japseye? She’s probably still practising by the books of Victorian era, I was just waiting for her to get out a tree branch and start chanting while giving me a rabbit’s foot to heal. I mean, her mobile phone had a monophonic ring tone, that should have tipped me off. I noticed this when she took THREE phone calls during my appointment. BIBLE.

I agreed to let her do a throat swab as it’s easy – and at this moment – relevant.
“Now this may cause you to gag a little…”
Oh honey, when you seen how much has fit in there before, ain’t no little cotton bud gonna touch the sides.
“… It can be unpleasant…” She continued.
Babe, I just told you – having the ability to eat a foot long Sub in one go is a God given talent. The only thing unpleasant about the prodding of the back of my throat, was that it was in-fact just a cotton bud.

She proceeded to ask me if I had any allergies… approximately 28 times (I lost count after the ninth time). So I was checking my Gaydar messages. What? I was bored with the plethora of unnecessary (and repetitive) questions, and she already thought I was hoe. Then again she probably thought that about anyone who didn’t wear a chastity belt and shunned the farming of the land to go and play with boys. When she asked me if I used condoms for oral sex I laughed so hard snot came out my nose.

She then asked me what medication I thought she should give me…
Erm… Unless this is 2008 and I’m roleplaying with that business man from G-A-Y Late… I’m not the nurse!
But after getting a second, (third and fourth) opinion, she – or rather someone else – made a decision.

After I’d rolled my eyes at her a dozen times, cut her off mid-sentence and explained over and over again that I didn’t want a cotton bud pushed down my bell end – I think she’d (somehow) got the impression that I hadn’t warmed to her.
When giving me the injection on my bum cheek I could see the anger protruding through the vain her forehead. It was practically scolding at me;
“Like it in the arse? Well bitch, I’ll show you what a real prick is.”
Because I swear down I’ve never had an injection hurt so much. Then she dithered back to her seat like an old hen with a grin so sadistically evil it would make Maleficent shudder.

Dusty, dithering homophobe. Oh and did I mention that she put on two pairs of gloves?! As if I was any dirtier than that satchel she had on, that looked like it had been designed by Amish lesbians.

NEVER again.

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