by S. E. Law
But Rob merely held still and shook his head again.
“No, no, I don’t feel anything. I mean, I feel that you’re there, and that something’s happening, but it’s not tight, you know? It’s warm and squishy, but it’s not hugging my dick.”
Now I stared at him.
“You’re not getting enough friction?” I asked, unamused.
He shrugged.
“I don’t think so. No, definitely not. Maybe your pussy is too big.”
I bit back a sharp retort. It wasn’t my pussy, it was his puny size. But in the interest of concluding this as quickly as possible, I raised and lowered myself a few more times.
“Is that better?” I asked. “Could it be the condom? You know, if those things aren’t sized right, they can ruin the entire experience.” I’d seen Rob rip open a condom packet with the words “Magnum XL” on it, so it was completely possible that he’d misjudged himself.
But Rob wouldn’t listen to reason.
“No,” he said stubbornly. “It’s you. Your pussy is stretched out from giving birth and who knows what else. You’re loose and floppy down there like an old lady.”
I stopped moving and merely stared at him, his dick still embedded in my waiting twat.
“Are you kidding me?”
This time, Rob took things into his own hands. He literally pushed me off his dick so that I bounced onto the mattress, surprised. Then he got up and re-fastened his fly, standing over me with a superior look on his face.
“I don’t think we’re a match, Bethany,” he proclaimed. “Some girls are just too big down there, and you’re one of them. I need someone younger, tighter, and maybe who hasn’t given birth yet. You’re just … used, is the best way to put it. I’m sorry, Bethany, but I think you should leave now.”
I gaped up at him for a moment before scrabbling to my feet and pulling my clothes on. This guy was clearly off his rocker. First, it wasn’t my pussy that was the wrong size, it was his dick. Had he ever been in the men’s locker room? Didn’t he realize that he was seriously tiny compared to his friends and teammates?
Second, it was just so insulting to think that I’d gotten stretched out somehow by labor and delivery. For his information, there are women who’ve given birth to more than five kids, and who are still as tight down there as when they were sixteen. The female form is incredibly flexible and elastic, and just because we passed something the size of a watermelon through our pussies doesn’t mean that we don’t bounce back in shape.
Stunned from Rob’s reaction, I threw on my clothes, grabbed my purse, and ran for the door.
“I’m sorry, Bethany,” his voice called out from behind me. “But we’re just not a fit. Maybe you’ll meet someone else on DatingTime.”
I didn’t even bother to turn around. Clearly, we weren’t a fit even in the literal sense. His tiny dick couldn’t find purchase in my pussy, and neither of us enjoyed the encounter at all. I was better off without him, and without saying a word, I ran out and let the door slam behind me with my purse in hand. Good riddance because I was onto bigger and better things, no pun intended.
2
Bethany
Well, that encounter leads me to where I am now. Standing in front of a mirror scrutinizing myself. Again, my tummy is a tiny bit poochy and my ass has definitely gotten bigger in terms of curvature. But it’s okay. This is what a real woman looks like, and not what magazines and media depict.
However, Rob’s words echo in my head. Is it possible that my pussy somehow got stretched out during birth, and is now loosey-goosey and no good? I shake my head no, but doubts overcome me. After all, his reasoning sounds logical. I passed a nine-pound baby through my vagina, and it hurt. I felt like I was passing a giant boulder through my tiniest opening, and even though the hospital gave me drugs, it wasn’t enough. So it makes sense that somehow, things didn’t snap back into place afterwards. Maybe there’s truth to his words?
I groan and close my eyes, pressing my fingers to my temples. The date with Rob went haywire, but that doesn’t bother me. Bad dates are par for the course, and I’ll forget the man himself in no time. But his words have lit a fire within me, and this lingering doubt about my pussy size is torturous. What if somehow, I am deformed now? What if no man can reach the peak of physical ecstasy within me because I’m too big and loose down there? What do I do?
Rob’s the first man I’ve slept with since giving birth, so I don’t have other points of comparison. What should I do? Should I post an ad on craigslist and try to find someone else to sleep with? Or maybe I could look up one of my old hook-ups from the past, and ask him to come over and service me? It would be pretty awkward, but then again, men are dogs. Even though I haven’t talked to some of these guys in years, I bet they’d come over at the promise of sex no matter what.
I can’t do it. It’s too awkward, and besides, my son is sleeping in the next room. I really don’t want to have some fly-by-night hook-up occur with my precious Danny innocently snoozing mere feet away.
I sigh. There just don’t seem to be any good options. Suddenly, my cell rings and I snap it up.
“Wanda,” I hiss into the phone. “It’s eleven p.m. You know Danny’s sleeping!”
My best friend giggles.
“Oh sorry,” she says. “I forgot because you’re the only one of my friends with a kid. Soooorrry,” she sings in a low, musical tone.
“It’s fine,” I harrumph, rolling my eyes. To be honest, I’m grateful for Wanda’s friendship because she’s one of my only friends who stuck around after I gave birth. Within our friend group, I was the first to have a baby. In fact, I’m the only one. We were a group of about eight girls from college who all came to NYC after graduation, and at twenty-five, most of them are still living the high life. They party until the wee hours, stumble into work the next morning hung-over, and spend all their money on booze and SoulCycle classes.
I don’t judge them because once upon a time, I was like that too. We’d stay out and party all nights of the week with nary a care in the world because when you’re in your twenties, your body can handle it. But then, my life changed on a dime. I got pregnant by a guy I’d been casually seeing, and I didn’t want to terminate. It was a scary time, to say the least.
“Oh my god, you’re going to be a mom!” squealed my friend Lindsay, her blonde hair glinting in the sunlight. “Wait a minute, is Chris going to help you raise him?”
My friends all knew that Chris was the father. He was a guy I’d met a couple weeks ago at a bar.
“Um, no I think he’s going back to England,” I said.
“He’s going back?” added Kendall, nonplussed. “But you’re here. And the baby’s going to be born here, right?”
“Right,” I said, nodding while also rubbing my stomach protectively. “Chris isn’t … um, really into the idea of having a child, and you know, the U.K. is where he’s from. His friends and family are all there. He was just in New York on a temporary work assignment.”
My friends stare at me.
“So are you going to move there then?” asked Lindsay in a confused voice.
“Is he going to pay you child support?” added Briana, putting down her fork to stare at me.
I felt like I was being grilled by the Inquisition, but fortunately Wanda sensed my discomfort and stepped in.
“Bethie just doesn’t know yet, okay ladies?” she said in her queenly voice. “She’ll figure it out. In the meantime, let’s get some more mimosas!”
The mention of champagne distracted the girls, and sure enough, the conversation turned to other things. I wasn’t showing yet, so out of sight, out of mind. But as my second trimester became my third, I started to look like a lumbering whale, much to the shock of my friends.
“Oh my god, you’re huge!” whispered Lindsay.
“Absolutely ginormous,” agreed Kendall, staring avidly at my bump.
“Well, this is what pregnancy does to you,” I said in a wry voice while putting my
hands protectively around my tummy. “You gain weight. In fact, I heard Kate Hudson put on seventy pounds during her first pregnancy. Isn’t that crazy? She was only like a hundred pounds before, so she almost doubled her body weight.”
The girls’ mouths opened and closed without sound as they continued to stare at my belly.
“Huge,” whispered Lindsay again.
“Enormous,” agreed Briana, unable to tear her eyes away.
I sighed. Pregnancy was just too much for my group of twenty-five year old fancy-free friends to appreciate, much less identify with. Here in New York, women often wait until they’re in the thirties, or even forties, to get pregnant and have a baby. It’s called the Sex and the City effect: you stay sexy and party hard for as long as you can before giving into the call of maternity (if in fact you ever do).
As a result, I wasn’t surprised as my friends slowly peeled away and dropped off. I’d get texts from them occasionally, asking about the status of my pregnancy, and quite a few attended a small baby shower that Wanda threw for me. But otherwise, we had little in common anymore. Wanda is the only one who’s stuck by me, and whom I’m still friends with now, two years after having Danny.
“Giiirl,” she sings into the phone. “I know you went on a date last night. How did it go?”
I sigh. Terrible. But how do I tell Wanda just how bad?
“Well, let’s just say it was a negative five on a scale of one to ten,” I say dryly.
She squeals.
“Oh my god, that awful? What happened? Was he a psychopath or a criminal of some sort? Or did he, I don’t know, reveal that he’s a polygamist and actually married to four women? Wait, this is the date you were going to have sex during, right?” she asks.
I roll my eyes. Wanda is smart, and sometimes too smart for her own good. Her memory is like a steel trap, and I could tell I was going to be forced to recount every single detail.
“Yes, we were supposed to sleep together,” I begin slowly.
“So what happened?” she breathes. “Did he have a small pecker?”
The words almost make me explode with mirth because that’s exactly how to describe the situation. But I try to go about it delicately.
“Well, yes, in fact, he did.”
Wanda immediately cuts me off.
“Then I don’t blame you at all, girl. Guys with small peckers just don’t cut it. It doesn’t matter how handsome they are, or if they make millions of dollars. There is no cure for a small pecker.”
“Well, there are all those sheaths and alleged drugs guys can take,” I venture cautiously.
“Girrrrl!” Wanda squeals. “Are you talking about penis pumps? Well, I have news for you. Those. Don’t. Work. My old boyfriend Harvey tried one just for fun, and his penis came out so purple and painful after he used it that we had to go to the emergency room. Not only that, but I think it shrank him in size long-term,” he adds on a confidential note. “I didn’t want to tell him, but in my opinion, it did some really serious permanent damage.”
I have to laugh at this.
“Well, we didn’t get a chance to talk about penis pumps or Viagra or anything because Rob kicked me out. He said it was my fault,” I say.
There’s silence for a moment.
“Your fault? How is that possible? He’s the one with the small pecker.”
I shrug, feeling despondent again.
“He said that it’s because my pussy is too loose. He said it’s not the size of his equipment, it’s the size of mine. He says I’m all stretched out from giving birth and whatnot, and that’s what the real problem is.”
I can almost hear Wanda shaking her head on the other side of the line, her red curls bobbing.
“No way,” she says defensively. “That guy is just flat out wrong.”
My heart warms because Wanda always has my back. And yet, my thoughts are still troubled.
“Rob was lame, but the thing is Wanda, what if he’s right? What if I am stretched out down there from the baby? What if there is something wrong with me?”
“There isn’t,” she says quickly. “Women give birth all the time and bounce back to their original sizes.
“But what if I’m not one of them?” I ask, trying to keep a reasonable tone. “I mean, not everyone goes back to their pre-baby weight, so it makes sense that not everyone goes back to their pre-baby elasticity, right?”
Wanda makes a huffing noise.
“I don’t know, but that guy’s a dick. He’s just needling you, Bethie. Let it go, and good riddance. There are tons of guys on-line who’d love to meet you. Just go back on DatingTime and I’m sure you’ll have a new date in two hours.”
I sigh.
“I know, I know, but the thing is what if the second date also goes wrong? What if my pussy really is stretched out, and the second guy also says um, I hate to tell you but you have a really serious problem down there? I’d be devastated, Wands. I’d want to kill myself.”
My friend’s silent on the other side of the line, and I can almost hear the wheels in her head turning.
“Well, since you’re asking, I guess I have some relevant information.”
“You do?” I ask, stumped. Wanda is an investigative reporter, and I have no idea what she could possibly know.
“I do,” she says. “You know, I did a little bit of work for Love Magazine, right?”
I nod. Love is an established glossy catering to the mid-twenties to mid-thirties female population. They run articles about make-up, hair, fashion, and getting the guy. Once in a while, they throw in something about current events, but not often.
“Yes, but?” I ask, my curiosity piqued. Wanda sighs.
“Well, I was doing some research on plastic surgery for an article I was writing, and I stumbled upon a procedure called a vaginoplasty.”
I scrunch my nose.
“What’s that?”
Wanda tut-tuts into the phone.
“Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either when I read about it. But evidently, it’s just like a nose job, except instead of being for your nose, it’s for your pussy.”
“What?” I squeal. “Wait a minute, is this where transgender men turn into women? You know, bottom surgery?”
“No, no!” Wanda says quickly. “That’s totally different. That’s gender reassignment surgery, whereas a vaginoplasty is totally different. It’s when the vaginal walls have become loose for whatever reason, and you go in for surgery as a tune-up.”
I’m silent for a moment as my heart pounds. Oh my god, I had no idea that this procedure even existed. But should I look into it?
Wanda clucks her tongue, as if she can hear my doubts.
“I’d go in for a check-up,” she says in a firm tone. “After all, it can’t hurt right? Just go in for a consultation and get yourself looked at. I bet that it’s nothing, and that that guy you went out with last night is just a dick,” she says with finality.
“But what would I say?” I ask in a flustered tone. I’ve always hated going to the doctor and get really nervous when they ask you all sorts of probing questions while you’re wearing nothing but a thin paper gown.
“Just tell them the truth,” says Wanda firmly. “This is actually good because if it’s a medical condition, then it can definitely be fixed. Not that I’m saying anything’s wrong with you,” she says quickly. “But it doesn’t hurt to get it checked out, right?”
Wanda’s right, and I nod silently. There’s rustling on the other end of the phone, and suddenly my friend pops back on.
“Besides, I have just the referral for you,” she says. “When I was doing research, I talked to two prominent plastic surgeons in New York. Their names are Doctors Ryder Stephenson and Ranger Stevens, MD.”
“Ryder and Ranger?” I sputter. “What kinds of names are those? For surgeons, no less?”
“I don’t know, but your first appointment is the perfect place to ask,” replies Wanda sassily. “Now do you have a pen? I’ll give you their number. Don
’t mention me though,” she says in a rush. “They won’t remember me anyways.”
With a groan, I do as she commands. I grab a pad of paper and quickly write down the office phone for Epinine Medical. After all, my friend could be right. Maybe a little look down there by professionals won’t hurt. I’ll just be out a co-pay and half an hour. It’s worth it, right?
After a few more laughs with Wanda, I hang up, looking ruefully at my cell after I place it back on the table. My friend is so wacky, and yet, she’s smart. Wanda knows what to do, and not only did she come up with a plausible diagnosis, but she also came up with a path forward.
Giggling again, I change into my PJs and get into bed. I’ll book an appointment with Doctors Ryder and Ranger tomorrow. Hmm, what intriguing names. My heart flutters because these guys sound like they could be straight out of a soap opera, with gleaming blue eyes and wavy black hair.
But then I snort as my head hits the pillow because there’s no way that’s true. These men are likely short and stout, with bald pates and nerdy glasses. Hell, they might even be seventy years old! After all, it takes a lot of studying to become a doctor, and Wanda recommended them as the best. Rolling my eyes again, I shut my eyes and drift off to sleep.
3
Bethany
Nerves overcome me as I step into the plush offices of Epinine Medical. It’s a neutral setting: blush pink walls are decorated with framed portraits of flowers, and the furniture is a soft dove grey.
“Hi, I’m Bethany McLeod,” I say tentatively to the receptionist. “Here for a five o’clock appointment?”
The blonde woman nods her sleek head and gazes at the computer.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “If you’ll just take a seat, Dr. Stephenson will be with you shortly. Oh, and if you could fill out our questionnaire,” she says, pushing a tablet into my hands.
I walk to one of the chairs and gaze at the tablet dumbly. What is this? But my name is on the front, and I press “Go” with the stylus. Oh, I see. It’s taking me through a bunch of routine background health questions, such as do I smoke and how often do I exercise. No biggie.
