Im Ready To Tell The Story Of My Disturbing Diagnosis With Blue Waffle

My pals call me a whore.

It’s not a nasty name. It’s said with love.

They might tsk-tsk when they find the number of matches currently sexting me across Tinder, but when we are three mimosas deep at brunch, they practically pray to hear about my quickie-in-the-bar-bathroom, cum-on-the-chest hookup stories.

They enjoyed the one about the hipster bartender who bent me over the billiards table while I bit down on the pool cue to keep from screaming. And the forty-year-old French prof who eat me out in between the stacks in the library while moaning in his syrup thick accent.

So, yeah, I might be a whore, but I’m a careful harlot. A harlot on family planning. A prostitute who visits the gynecologist twice a year and stocks up on condoms in case my one-night-stand of the week isn’t the kind to stuff them in his wallet.

I favor beer bellies to babe paunches. Becoming a mother isn’t in my overall scheme and I’m not interested in adding herpes capsules to my medicine cabinet. I’ve had urinary tract infections two or three times, but they cleared up after a few cases periods with antibiotics. No big deal.

With how careful I am, I have no suggestion how I purposed up with vaginitarius — or what the internet so eloquently calls

It started with itching. I felt my hand migrating into my jeans whenever I was driving or drawing out documents at work, but I stopped myself each time to avoid looks a lot like a slob.

My first instinct was to get a wax. The whisker hadn’t grown too much down there since it had been rent out the last time, but if I was itching like a motherfucker, I must have needed it removed. I booked an appointment and got a brazilian along with anal bleaching that afternoon.

The itching only got worse, though. Alone in bed that night, I committed into lure and itched so difficult that scalps is stuck under my fingernails. I even left a little blood behind.

Needing some sort of relief, I stripped off my silken pajamas and soaked myself inside of a hot bath. It felt good. So good I stayed in there for over an hour with a photocopy of The Handmaid’s Tale.

I had almost arrived at the final page when I decided I better get to bed. When I stood up to towel myself off, I noticed how crinkled my scalp appeared down there. The flesh had bunched together into thick lines like an old lady’s forehead.

I shrugged it off, presuming I had been in the bath too long since my fingertips had also turned to prunes, but the next morning, “hes still” wrinkled. Even more unsettling, the flesh had taken on a light greenish tint.

With several hours until my gyno opened, I scoured WebMD, searching for an explanation. I saw none. Vaginitis didn’t describe what I was going through. Neither did herpes or chlamydia or AIDs. I had no notion what was happening to me.

When nine o’clock ticked onto the clock, I induced two telephone call. One for an emergency appointment and one to cancel my date that night. No lane I was having sex while looks a lot like I emerged from a swamp with seaweed dangling between my legs.

Unfortunately, developments in the situation didn’t lessen my libido. I was still horny and without a hookup scheduled, I decided to masturbate.

It hurt like hell. I had to tug my dildo out seconds after inserting it. I couldn’t even touch my clitoris with my fingertips. Every movement sting like I had run lemon juice into a wound.

When I tried getting dressed, I realized I couldn’t even wear my skinny jeans. The fabric injure when it rubbed up against my vagina. I had to wear oversized work shorts that an ex had left over years earlier.

Unfortunately, my gyno appointment wasn’t until late afternoon so I filled the empty space with a snooze. I had to videotape mittens onto my hands like I had the fucking chickenpox to hold myself from scratching in my sleep.

When my alarm woke me, I forced myself to lift the band of my shorts and look inside. The light green tint had turned into an alarming blue. Not light blue like the lane hand soap or shaving cream appears in certain lighting. Bright blue. Obnoxious blue. It started at the lips of my vagina and extended deep into my pussy. I peeled the folds open to check and nearly vomited at the sight.

When I ultimately stimulated it to my gyno, she solved the problem right away. She diagnosed me with. She couldn’t tell me how I had get it since it bides dormant in certain all those people who appear symptom-free to the blind eye, but she said it was easily transmitted and there wasn’t a known panacea or even a treatment plan to reduce the symptoms.

That intended my vagina was going to stay like that for the rest of my goddamn life. That entailed I wasn’t going to be having sexuality anytime soon , not even with myself. That meant other women in this world was bolt out of get her orgasm.

Read more: https :// thoughtcatalog.com/ january-nelson/ 2018/06/ blue-waffle

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