So I am at work looking forward to my third date and first hotel date with Well Fed Dr Who (so called because he looks like a more rotund David Tennant).
We’ve exchanged some fairly graphic emails, detailing what we both like and don’t like.
He has told me he adores giving oral. Hurrah!
Now I know men do sometimes say that just cos they know us birds like it (just a bit) but from what else he’s said I do actually believe him. So I am beyond excited, especially as he has been very naughty and booked a 5 star hotel whose website alone makes me salivate.
So I have to say I felt it was a little unfair when, at 12.16 this afternoon, Mother Nature delivered her monthly assurance of my non-pregnant status a week early.
Anyhoo… on the internet I go in desperation looking up ‘How to speed up you period’ (sorry boys this is a girly post and what follows may horrify your sensibilities) and it suggests the following:
Increase your activity, exercise increases blood flow (sorry)
Apply a heat pad to your lower abdomen as heat dilates blood vessels and increases blood flow (sorry again)
Use a vaginal douche regularly to flush yourself out (sorry sorry sorry)
So I excuse myself from work, jump in the car and zip off to Tesco in search of the last item, which I have obviously heard of but never had cause to use before. However needs must when the devil drives or whatever they say.
Tesco pharmacy lady tells me that vaginal douches are no longer available over the counter and that I will have to visit my GP. Really? Bugger. Which might be the only option at this rate as despite Well Fed Dr Who’s lusty emails I am not convinced he will feel in the mood to chow down on me if I am bleeding like a stuck pig.
I mooch away from the pharmacy area sorrowfully, pausing only to collect my lunch, and then spot the kitchenware aisle….
Yes indeed, gentle reader, I purchased a turkey baster!
I resisted the temptation to use it at work, didn’t want to leak all over the floor and cause my esteemed colleagues to slip and break something…. so, once safely home, I locked myself in the bathroom, filled the big rubber bulb with warm water and lay on the floor with my feet hooked over the sink, lifting up my butt.
Now bear in mind this object is designed to comfortably baste Christmas turkeys large enough to feed 20 greedy festive guests. The bulb is possibly considerably larger than that of the now-retired vaginal douche. Therefore I almost certainly squirted more fluid into my foofoo than was entirely necessary or wise. Added to that the length of the pipette tube thingy, around 10 inches, which means I have to lift my upper body up in order to reach and angle the thing in. This results in my abdominal muscles clenching to maintain my ‘crunched’ position, feet still basin-locked, so when I squeeze the cooking onion-sized bulb and dispense several fluid ounces of water into my precious portal it is propelled out again almost immediately, with startling velocity and, alas! the addition of Aunt Flo’s monthly contribution, splatting prettily against the white tiles.
I squeal. Bruv, who is passing by on the landing, asks if I am ok. The bathroom door is locked, thank god, and he knows better than to try the door unless requested to help, otherwise he might have been faced with a vision of his sister laying on the floor with her feet in the sink, dress pulled up round her midriff with a 10 inch turkey baster up her snatch, her butt in a pool of bloody water and a macabre new look for the bathroom decor. Bruv puts up with a lot sharing a house with me but I fear homelessness would follow such an epiphany.
Anyway the bathroom is now cleared up and I am sitting on the sofa wearing my dressing gown, big granny pants and clutching my lambikins hot water bottle to my tummy. I have not yet informed Fat Dr Who of my predicament. Maybe he won’t care, I once had a boyfriend who used to PREFER giving me oral when I was in receipt of my Ladies’ Special Monthly Blessing. He was either a fucking weirdo or anaemic.
It would appear there is fuck all I can do about it anyway. But at least I am prepared for catering Christmas dinner.
*A few days later*
An update to this story as I’m sure you’re bound to be on the edge of your seats wondering what happened….
I checked into the Landmark (5 star!!! ) Hotel at 3pm and had no less than THREE baths, all accompanied by the turkey baster. He arrived at 6pm by which time I had concluded that the endeavour had failed (although not in a Texas Chainsaw Massacre style) and I had plugged myself up with the appropriate item, string tucked away out of sight (sorry boys for the image)
I was wearing a naughty basque, stockings etc under my hotel bathrobe but, before he unwrapped me, ‘fessed up that I had something not-very-sexy to tell him and that Mother Nature had played a cruel trick on me a whole week early but that I was still game if he was.
He was. Yippee!
So everything went ahead as planned, maybe not quite as spontaneously but I am comfortable that the hotel will not have to do the ‘boil wash’ on any of the bedlinen.
Afterwards I had nice drinks with a couple of FFDers who have read this story, I did get the turkey baster out for one of them and waved it around in the pub. It made him laugh which was good as he was a bit down.
As for Fat Dr Who… well he assures me he’s up for another meet but who knows? But if not it’s not through want of effort.
Oh and guess what? This morning everything was back to normal – after just 2 days. So the turkey baster can stay for future use (although I will be keeping it under my bed and NOT in the kitchen drawer…)