The last woman to stare with rapt attention into the cavernous depths of my vagina was, unfortunately, my gynecologist. I'd never been to see this gynecologist before, and I was anxious to make a good impression.
There is something about visiting the gynecologist that is intrinsically awkward, but I hazard a guess that being a (rather perverted) lesbian increases the awkwardness of a pap smear exponentially.
Like my first (and so far only) experience getting waxed DOWN THERE (where the cute girl doing the waxing politely requested that I remove my pants, turn my face to the wall and get down on my hands and knees so she could apply hot wax to my asshole) my most recent trip to the gynecologist had rather confusing personal undertones.
My gynecologist--a young, attractive black woman--strutted merrily into the examination room in 4 inch stilettos and a mini skirt and shook my hand with genuine enthusiasm.
"Oh no," said my brain.
Five minutes later I found that I was actually enjoying myself. Wanda (I honestly cannot remember her real name, thus assuring her anonymity) was both personable and professional. As she massaged my breasts, peered inquisitively at my nether regions and stuck several fingers inside me Wanda and I chatted pleasantly about where we were from, how many children she had, and what school we'd gotten our degrees from.
And then it got awkward.
The problem with being a lesbian at the gynecologist, or in any doctor's examination room, is that you will inevitably be asked the seemingly innocuous question: "So what type of birth control are you using?"
My honest response is that I'm not using any type of birth control, at which point I watch my doctor struggle to resist smacking me around the face with pamphlets on STDs and unplanned pregnancies. Wanda seemed equal to the task of resisting this urge, and simply asked me why.
"This is it," said my brain. "Tell her it's because you're a lesbian and all these birth control questions will go away."
But for some reason I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell Wanda I was a lesbian. Perhaps if she'd been less attractive, or wearing clogs and scrubs like a normal doctor, I could have told her. But my mouth wouldn't say the words.
I told her it was because I'd just gotten out of a relationship and I wasn't interested in having sex with anyone. She laughed.
"Well I guess that's understandable but you never know when Mr. Right is going to come along. How about I write you a prescription for the pill just in case he shows up?"
"Ok," I said.
I still have three months worth of birth control pills sitting in my bathroom, which I went and paid for because I felt like I deserved it. I've thought about taking them, because my miserly Beck blood boils within me when I think about the money I've wasted, but honestly, what would be the point? Unless I trip and fall directly onto an ejaculating penis I have an exactly 0% chance of becoming pregnant. So the birth control sits there--a reminder that gay, proud and fabulous as I am--there are still some places I just can't come out.
Wanda was not the first doctor I've decided not to come out to. When it comes time to decide, as it always seems to, if I should tell my doctor that I'm gay, I always struggle to carefully weigh my options. In that instance I have to make a split-second judgment based on very little information: is this person homophobic, or not? If I tell my doctor that I'm gay, will they treat me as they always have? Will they listen carefully to my concerns, meet my eyes when they shake my hand, and answer my questions with real thoughtfulness and honesty?
In the world outside the doctor's office I could care less what other people think of me. But inside the doctor's office I want the best service possible. And so I'm scared to come out when it's time. I know about the Hippocratic Oath, but people are people.
I think it's important for gay people to come out, whoever they are and wherever they live, because gay people become real people--and not some faceless, perverted enemy--each time someone a homophobe loves admits that they're gay. A lesbian has no use for birth control pills, and I have no right to preach the gospel of living life openly when I can't even tell my doctor I'm gay.
Wanda dahling, sit down. Your feet must be tired in those heels and besides, I have something to tell you.
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