When I set off for college in a city far from my hometown, one of the tasks on my to-do list was finding a new gynecologist. My former gynecologist had always prescribed my medication based solely on the symptoms I described, never insisting on a physical examination. Looking back, it was likely because I was only sixteen years old and still a virgin at that time.

As an eighteen-year-old college student in a new city, I needed a prescription refill, but my new gynecologist had a different protocol in mind. She insisted on conducting an examination before renewing my prescription. Panic washed over me. I wasn't prepared to disclose my virgin status to her; just thinking about it made my cheeks burn with embarrassment. However, I had no choice but to make the appointment.

In the days leading up to the examination, I wrestled with my decision. Should I come clean about my virginity, or should I try to keep it a secret? Finally, my fear of potential judgment and overwhelming embarrassment led me to choose the latter, hoping that she wouldn't notice. My hymen may have been ruptured because I used tampons and a vibrator.

On the day of the appointment, I stepped into the gynecologist's office with a heart pounding like a drum. The room itself exuded an aura of sterility and intimidation, with the examination table taking center stage, encircled by an array of formidable medical equipment, all bathed in the harsh glare of an overhead light.

The chilling ambiance of the clinical environment only served to exacerbate my already mounting anxiety. I felt intensely vulnerable, standing there in nothing but the flimsy robe they had provided. Every second that ticked by seemed to amplify the anticipation and fear, leaving me exposed to the impending revelation of my closely guarded secret.

As I waited, the minutes felt like hours, my imagination racing with all possible scenarios of how the examination might unfold. I couldn't help but replay the conversation leading up to this moment in my mind, wondering if I had given any inadvertent clues about my sexual history.

When the gynecologist finally entered, she greeted me with a warm and reassuring smile, which did little to calm my inner turmoil. I tried to return the smile, but my anxiety was palpable. She proceeded to explain the examination process, her words a blur as my thoughts were consumed by the fear of exposure.

As I lay back on the examination table, my knuckles turned white from gripping the edges of the chair so tightly. With a calm and professional demeanor, she gently instructed me to lift up the robe and move further down toward her. It was a simple request, but it felt like a monumental step into the unknown, amplifying my anxiety even more. I followed her instructions, my heart pounding in my chest as I tried to maintain a composed exterior, concealing the inner turmoil that threatened to engulf me.

Her body tilted forward, her gaze fixed intently on my nether regions. The intensity of her scrutiny never wavered, and her face remained an unreadable mask. Despite knowing she was a seasoned expert, accustomed to handling all types and shapes, I couldn't help but feel exposed, as if she was witnessing the core of my being with every passing moment.

With great care and precision, she reached for a slender, metallic instrument resting nearby, meticulously selecting the smallest one available. It glinted in the sterile overhead light, its polished surface catching my nervous attention. She held it delicately, almost as if it were an artistic tool, ready to perform her intricate task. She moved the instrument with practiced ease, her fingers gliding effortlessly along its sleek handle as she applied the lubricant before placing it gently into position.

As she moved the instrument deeper and deeper into my vagina, my walls yielded to its presence. The sensation was strange—a mix of pressure and unfamiliarity, and I winced slightly, feeling a tinge of discomfort.

After a thorough examination, she finally spoke, her voice soft and reassuring. "Everything looks good; no concerns here." Her words provided a brief respite in the midst of my anxiety, but she quickly followed up with, "I expect you won't bleed much during your first intercourse."

My cheeks flushed with embarrassment as I processed her words. Questions raced through my mind. Did she see something physically? Or was it my behavior that gave me away? With my secret, now hanging in the air between us, I desperately sought a distraction.

In my search for something to occupy my thoughts, I found myself fixating on her face. Her brown hair, impeccably pulled back in a professional manner, framed a countenance that bore the weight of a lifetime of experience. Her eyes, both expressive and unwaveringly focused, hinted at the profound depths of her knowledge and expertise.

Although she was in her early forties, which to me at the age of eighteen seemed old, there was a timeless quality to her beauty. It was more than just physical; it radiated from the confidence and assurance with which she conducted herself, putting me at ease even in such a vulnerable situation.

She took the instrument out of my body and gently placed it back on the tray, giving me a moment to collect myself. In my discomfort, I mistakenly thought that the examination was over, a sigh of relief washing over me prematurely.

As I relaxed, she extended her gloved hand, placing it carefully on my lower abdomen. Her fingers pressed with a methodical and controlled force, palpating the area with precision, and I felt a slight pressure. Her touch was a deliberate and practiced exploration, attempting to assess the condition of my ovaries beneath the surface.

"Relax, it won't hurt," she said, and I felt her gloved fingers spreading my folds. I gasped as she pushed deeper, feeling a mix of vulnerability and trust in her expertise. Her fingers moved toward my left ovary, and with her other hand, she gently palpated my lower abdomen, feeling for any abnormalities or signs of tenderness. Then she checked my right ovary in the same manner.

As uncomfortable as it was, I knew that this examination was necessary. I focused on taking deep breaths and reminding myself that this was a routine procedure conducted by a professional who had my best interests in mind.

She inquired, "Do you feel the discomfort when I push my fingers toward an ovary?"

As she inserted her fingers deeper into me, toward my right ovary, I nodded in agreement.

"When a boy will put his penis inside of you, make sure he thrusts downward toward the spine," she advised. "Like this," she demonstrated by moving her fingers in a downward motion. "This can help minimize discomfort and maximize pleasure during intercourse."

Her fingers moved in and out of me, simulating the motion of intercourse. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I listened to her explicit instructions, wondering if this was a normal part of a routine gynecological examination.

Still continuing to finger me, she shifted her position slightly and continued, "It's important to communicate with your partner and let them know what feels good and what doesn't. Every person's body is different, so it's essential to find what works best for you both."

Her fingers suddenly changed course, thrusting upward towards a spot that sent a jolt of pleasure through my body. As I squirmed under her touch, she chuckled, "I think we just found your G-spot."

As she massaged the area, she explained, "The G-spot is a highly sensitive area located on the front wall of the vagina. It can be a source of intense pleasure when stimulated."

With every stroke, I could feel the sensations intensify, confirming what she had just explained. My embarrassment increased when I felt my juices drip down toward my rosebud, a clear sign of how aroused I was.

The sensations were unlike anything I had ever experienced before, and I couldn't help but surrender to the pleasure coursing through my body. Despite my best efforts, I let out a soft gasp of pleasure and bit my lip to keep from moaning.

As she continued to explore and stimulate my G-spot, I could feel my muscles tightening and my breath becoming shallower. The waves of pleasure grew stronger with each touch, causing me to lose control of my body's reactions. My mind was consumed by the overwhelming intensity of the sensations, and it became increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything else.

"And just so you don't forget," she said, thrusting her fingers downward with a sudden intensity that made me gasp in surprise. "This is how it will feel when his penis is in the proper position."

Her fingers continued to explore my depths, moving in a faster and more rhythmic motion. "Remember, communication is key during sex," she emphasized, "so don't be afraid to speak up and guide your partner to ensure mutual pleasure and satisfaction."

I barely heard what she said because I was so intent on not showing how influenced I was by the sensations her fingers were eliciting. Every nerve ending seemed to be on fire as she skillfully stimulated me, leaving me craving more, as I was totally immersed in the moment, my body reacting instinctively to her touch.

My heart was pounding in my chest, and my core was pulsing with longing, begging for more. I couldn't help but moan, no longer able to contain the desire that built inside of me. She seemed to understand exactly what I needed with each touch, heightening the pleasure and pushing me closer to the edge.

And then she abruptly stopped, leaving me in a state of frustration and anticipation. The sudden absence of her touch left me yearning for her to continue, desperate for the release that was so close.

After pulling her fingers out of me, she examined the smear of my arousal on her gloved fingertips with a mischievous smile on her lips. "Your body seems to be responding well," she commented, her tone tinged with amusement. "It's always a good sign when there's a healthy level of arousal."

Her observation made me blush, but I believed that she was simply assessing my body's reactions for diagnostic purposes.

"Your discharge is clear and healthy," she continued, her tone reassuring. "If it changes in color, scent, or consistency, it could be a sign of an underlying issue that we should address. But for now, everything looks normal. Once you begin having sex, I will take a Pap smear."

"Okay," I breathed, feeling a mixture of relief and lingering embarrassment.

"Good, we're all done. You can get dressed," she informed me.

Once I had dressed, I made my way to the nurse, who handed me a prescription and a few condoms, along with instructions to schedule a regular checkup within a year.

Leaving the doctor's office, I found myself engulfed in a whirlwind of emotions. Uncertainty lingered as I questioned whether my first gynecological examination had gone as it should. The embarrassment I experienced was so overwhelming that the thought of discussing it with anyone felt impossible.

What exacerbated my feelings was the realization that, deep down, I liked the experience, which only added to my inner turmoil. At the time, I was still grappling with and suppressing my bisexuality, which made the intimate nature of the examination even more conflicting, leaving me unsure how to process it all. 

Years of societal conditioning and the weight of internalized shame had instilled in me the belief that any form of physical intimacy, particularly with someone of the same gender and outside the bounds of marriage, was steeped in guilt and sin. The guilt I carried for something as natural as self-pleasure already felt burdensome enough. 

This unexpected encounter at the doctor's office forced me to confront my own desires and challenged the validity of the societal norms that had long shaped my understanding of sexuality. In her reassuring presence, she normalized the experience, portraying the exploration of one's desires and the embrace of one's sexuality as a healthy and intrinsic aspect of human nature.

Though I remained resolute in my commitment to waiting for "the one" to share my first intimate experience with, her words planted a seed of curiosity. They compelled me to question whether I was denying myself not only pleasure but also personal growth by rigidly adhering to societal expectations.

And, as a spoiler, I didn't wait for "the one" because he took too long to find his way to me, but that is another story for another time.