I Have a Porn Star Pussy

I have a porn star pussy. As of Friday 4th of November, 2022, after 16 years of sexually active field research, I can now confirm the results. I have a medically perfect vagina. Now, don’t get me wrong, there is a lot of other weird shit going on here, not limited to but including toes that have grown at such desperately different lengths, I can never find shoes that genuinely fit, and an orchard of thick black nipple hairs that I’m scared to pluck in case they’re nerve endings. But my pussy? Flawless.

My confirmation came from a doctor. That’s right. If you thought I was joking, now you know this is a real evidenced medical occurrence. She was probably about the same age as me, just catastrophically well paid in comparison, so we instantly levelled with each other. To her, I was probably a breath of fresh air in an airport smoking cubicle of old person problems – diabetes, incontinence, chronic conservative voting (medically diagnosable).

Where I live is the Australian equivalent of Florida and commonly referred to as ‘god’s waiting room’. It was also the setting for the classic film Muriel’s Wedding, where they rebranded it ‘Porpoise Spit’, which is shockingly apt. The rental population is huge because everyone knows they’re likely to die in a second, so why waste all that time on paving a backyard you’re about to leave to a son you never liked that much anyway? Gary’s been given enough in life and he still sucks.

I asked Dr. Haines why she had chosen to practice in Porpoise, given that she was still awake at 2pm, peak nap time in The Spit, and didn’t smell like Butter Menthols – the general selection criteria for permanent residents. She explained that she was on a regional placement and kind of had to. That made me sad. I blame it for mishearing what was to come next. That, and the fact that I get the unstoppable urge to be the most entertaining version of myself that I can be in doctors surgeries. I don’t know what it is but for some reason, being seen to by a serious and well-paid professional triggers and tight five from me every time. So, I was mid-way through my Las Vegas shotgun wedding story, complete with Elvis gestures and applause breaks, when she asked me if I’d like to do a HPV test, “since my last had been when I was 15 and still sexually dormant at that age.”

Now, when someone says something like “sexually dormant” to me, I’m not about to ponder the question being asked. Rather, I’m going to wonder why, in 2022, we’re still intent on using volcano metaphors to describe women’s sexuality. As if having sex unplugs a horny lava demon that can’t be stopped, tamed or treated until we all inevitably end up walking the streets hand in hand with our heroin addictions instead of our husbands.

At this point, Dr Haines nodded seriously and typed something out on her doctor’s report, which I could only assume were important notes on volcanos and feminism to tell her friends after work. She then started drawing a curtain around where I sat. I thought that was lovely but said I didn’t need a curtain to conclude a performance – I’d been to acting school for three years and new how to read the end of a moment. She smiled and took what looked like a glass dildo out of a drawer. I realised I had, in fact, lost all moment-reading abilities at this stage and went quiet.

There is something incredibly humbling about a surprise pap smear. Yes, ladies, gentlemen, those who are both and neither, this is  what ‘HPV test’ means in cool young sad regional doctor speak. Don’t let yourselves be fooled like I was. I immediately felt betrayed. How could you, Stephanie? I vacationed you to Vegas in your mind, far away from this bulk billing nightmare, and this is what I get? Surprise spatula-ed?

As she butterflied my legs into position, I was already writing the complaint letter in my head. “Dear doctor bosses. Stephanie is a mole. Frankly, she’s too young and great to be working at your clinic and actually, she’s really hurt my feelings.”I would pour drops of water on the paper where I signed my name, so it looked like I had been crying because, as my babysitter, Margaret, would always say – If you’re going to be a bitch, at least be thorough. Margaret lives in a caravan now, next to the one petrol station with two working pumps. Her first two husbands left and all of her cats seem to die before their time but she’s a good egg. I was trying to remember Margaret’s phone number, so I could call her after this and set her terrible luck or mob connections onto Stephanie, when the good doctor gasped.

Now, it is my firm belief that all public-facing medical professionals should have to undergo rigorous breath training to stop the body’s natural gasp response. It is simply unacceptable that, looking my pussy in the face, my doctor should not be able to restrain her audible intake of breath. Obviously, I assumed that she’d found some teeth or something. At the very least, it was the wrong colour or I’d accidentally left half of the joint I shoved in to get past the sniffer dogs at Harvest Festival in 2009. Truly, gasping needs to go. If there’s a petition, I’ll sign it. But then ,she looked me in the eyes, as if she was trying to share the gasp with me. This was odd for several reasons. I do not want to be handed a gasp. They’re not like yawns, they don’t catch on like that, as far as I’m aware. You should know that, Stephanie, more than anyone. And, perhaps most confusingly, she looked suddenly delighted. I’m a career lesbian so I knew I wasn’t pregnant and it couldn’t be that kind of miracle but I must admit, she had me double checking my facts there for a minute.

I snapped my legs closed around the glass dildo, half expecting it to crush and for someone to yell MAZEL TOV! from the next room like my pussy was the scene of a small Jewish wedding. Instead, Stephanie, desperately heterosexual regional doctor, said these words –

Wow. I mean, everything looks great. It’s actually perfect? Inflecting upwards at the end of the statement, as if I had an answer for it.

Thanks? I blushed, also inflecting upwards like it was a communicable disease. She continued.

Have you thought about medical modelling?

HAVE I. Wait. Had I? I thought about this for a moment as I laid on my back warming the Jewish wedding dildo.

Hmm. I applied for Chadwicks once when I was only eating long blacks and cigarettes, I offered, but I don’t think that counts?

She gently pried apart my knees to get on with the smear. I noted that I didn’t rattle so nothing was broken in there, thank god.

Not quite, she went on. Modelling is more like moulding, so it would just be taking a cast of your – pussy, I interjected  – sure, so that we have a range of forms to reference for research.

Right. In gold?

Gold?

Obviously not then.

No, it’s just silicone.

Disappointing but okay. As we all know, silicone was invented by Kardashian Biology Inc. so I was still feeling expensive at this point.

Stephanie went on to explain the ease and comfort of the process. I went on to ask how much it paid because now, I was quietly making a note to research how to insure a vagina.

I told Stephanie how lucky it was that she had found me, the very week that I had quit my job and was undergoing a gently violent identity crisis. At that, she laughed and took a deep swab, which I half expected to find on a dark web auction site in two days time.

I walked out of the surgery with the confidence of a porn star and a phone number for a guy named Percy who does medical moulding in Brisbane. In the surgery carpark, which was a Return & Earn between the pub and the other pub, I decided to make the call. To my girlfriend. To tell her that she was sleeping with the best pussy in the world. She said she already knew that and could have told me without the paperwork. Sure, I cooed, but sometimes, you just need an outside eye.

On the drive home, between getting Siri making a note to research “pillows for your pussy” and “skincare routines for vaginas”, I wondered why it took telling. I’d always considered myself a sexually confident person. I’m loudly LGBTIQA+. I have small boobs so I don’t wear bras, regardless of the colour or shape of my top, because it’s more comfortable. As a kid, I would take off my underwear at school to allow for more airflow under my stuffy uniform. So, why did it take a doctor breaking her professional code to tell me I looked good? Why is it so teeth-grittingly difficult to write this article about loving a single part of my body, let alone to publish it on a public platform? How deeply implanted is shame around sexuality if it has to be fished out with a hook and a glass dildo? My professional medical (modelling) advice? Don’t wait until your next pap smear to find out.

And Hollywood, if anyone’s hiring for pussy stand-ins, I’m available.