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I am a 25 year old butcheyfemme queer with rubbish on my mind and sparkles everywhere else My Profile
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I got a letter in the post today. The only letters I receive are from debt companies threatening legal action over not paid store accounts and flyers from SAGA (sex and games for the aged) because they confuse me with my mother. Obviously they have seen us together in real life. Poor mother really. Anyway, the brown envelope looked as inviting as a hard-on but I tore it open in non guilty abandon anyway. It was an invitation. I cant even remember the last time I got invited anywhere that I didn't invite myself. Maybe it was that 'going away' party people threw for me when I was 17. I wasn't going away. Or maybe it was the time I was invited to the local Italian resturant's annual clean up bash where all the local dogs are invited to come eat up a years worth of stale cheese and bread crust from the alley way kitchens. Oh the memories I have of that day, I cleared out the left overs before the other dogs even got sniffin and had diarhea for 2 months. That was the only time I have weighed an amount not equal to my age. I lfet quite a legacy behind that day. As well as a trail of slimey poop and lumpy puke. Anyway, as you can imagine, my excitement was uncontainable and I even had 'flashdance' on before I got passed the word 'invite' and had worn myself down before the chorus. My joy was short lived however. As i read past the the third word I was horrified to see what I had been invited to. No, it wasn't some heterosexual orgy or FAT CAMP but gasp, a smear! The words 'You are invited to attend a smear test' mocked me and replayed over and over in my head like that bad lesbo porno that was so vile and so full of double handed fisting that I could't stop thinking about it for months. An invite to a smear? Hello? Is it a party? Is it the sort of occasion where a bunch of hot chicks gather in one room and are all told to whip off their panties, spread there legs in unison and enjoy having something metal shoved up their fannies? I mean, if it were there would be no holding me or any other unself respecting lesbian back. We'd all be lying about our ages and getting a monthly smear as opposed to one every 5 years if this were the case, just for a bit of group relief. It's all very well for a doctor's secretary to try and dress this event up for me as a lesbo orgy but where's the 'party' in someone scraping bits of your insides out via your fudge? Or maybe my doctors secretary knows who I am and really does want to turn this undignified and humiliating experience into something a bit more erotic. Doctors and nurses and their secretaries are all sadists. I'm sitting here with my legs tightly crossed (fine, don't believe me) and am sweating like a hippo just at the prospect of the whole thing. I've put it off for 3 years, what's another 3? Death? At this moment in time death is looking far more tantilising than getting my beaver out for a middle aged nurse who's fingers have just desecrated a tuna and cheese sandwich and who is now ready to examine my bush closer than any lesbo ever has. It's all wrong and while I know they have seen a million fudges before they havent seen mine and they need never. I wouldnt wish that upon anyone, except maybe the whores at the harbour whos' fannies are more mashed up than a car crash and as appealing as dried worm guts on brown bread. And so I go to practise 'self smears' to see how much it really does hurt. Or maybe that's an entry more fitting for the trashwhore diaries.
Listening to: Do you really want to hurt me? Thinking about: cold steel being inserted into not so eager beavers Also thinking about: What if your muff puffs mid examination? Britney Wannabe 
7/26/2002 02:46:00 PM
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Adventures of Charmin |
