I decided to try something new at the dungeon this week. I was looking for a stimulating change to my usual routine, and despite my terror of the unknown, I took the plunge. Wednesdays are good days for new things.
When I arrived, I asked the attendant how long the sessions usually last. “An hour,” she said. “Would you like a pass?”
My heart raced. I hadn’t planned for this; I didn’t know I needed a pass. Luckily, she smiled sweetly and tendered a laminated slip my way. Then, off I went to undress.
I waited on a soft couch for about 35 minutes until the room was ready for my entry. Once inside, I found myself trying to avoid eye contact with my peers, except to ask the woman beside me how to adjust my straps and seat. I also accidentally remembered to care that I forgot to shave my legs yestermonth. Despite my best efforts to ignore my irrational guilt, gender programming kicked in, and I hoped no one would notice my copious leg hair.
At long last, we finally began.
My partner was gentle but firm with her instructions, clearly experienced in her craft. Sarah was her name.
Sarah helped me situate myself, and her calm eyes soothed my nerves. She first dimmed the fluorescent lights, then snuffed them completely out. Contouring blacklights provided hazy, purple glowing rows across the ceiling and illuminated our teeth like stars in the night.
Two doors were located on opposite sides of the room. “I’m going to leave those open,” Sarah purred. “You’ll appreciate the refreshing cross-breeze once we get started.”
Five minutes into the session, I knew I was toast. I began sweating so rapidly that the heat radiating off of my face caused my glasses to fog.
Ten minutes in, I questioned if I’d be able to drive myself home once the hour concluded. I was dizzy, queasy, and shivering with exhaustion.
Thirty minutes in, my crotch was throbbing with even more pain than when my thoroughly-hung boyfriend and I attempt intercourse. I chuckled to myself, imagining the awkward waddle I would have to sport for the next week while my loins recovered from this agony. “Drink and be merry, my inner masochist,” I thought. “This is your feast.”
Did I say dungeon? I meant gym — and that spin class whooped my butt… or, rather, my taint. Twenty-six hours later, I am saddened to report that my pubic bone still feels like freshly carved winter poultry, and my vulva stings when I pee.
To the gurus at Temperpedic, please let me know when you develop a memory-foam bike seat topper. My crotch and I eagerly await your call.