After her first gynecologist appointment, Farley’s annual vag checkup was old hat for her. She wasn’t even in the grin-and-bear-it-but-more-like-close-your-eyes-and-endure-it camp; she was firmly in the this-ain’t-no-big-deal-let’s-chat-while-you-put-shit-up-my-vag club. Since she only got to see her gynecologist once a year, her time to impress and traumatize was very short, and in five years she had yet to even faze Dr. Martins.

“It’s like being in a relationship again,” Farley mused as she put her feet up in the stirrups. She yawned loudly and closed her eyes against the bright lights of the exam room, relaxing into the table. “Wake up, spread your legs, have something inserted into your vagina, breathe through it, get a cup of coffee, and go to work.”

“You might want to re-evaluate your choice in partners,” Dr. Martins said as she pulled on her second glove.

“I did, it’s why I’m single.”