WARNING: This 'Dear Cum' contains non-sexualised references and descriptions of vaginas. We appreciate this is unsettling and unnatural. Be assured that this is just a brief forray into the world of Medical Science. Vaginas are, of course, nectar oozing flowers of femininity to be worshipped, adored, ravaged, and abused. Their primary purpose remains that of cum receptacle. 

'Performance' and 'review' are two words that definitely have no reason to be snuggling up together to create a phrase, and certainly not a phrase that involves Janine from Personnel with her A-line skirt, Marks and Spencer polyester blouse, badly cut hair and a pair of spectacles she's stolen from an owl. So quite why I had to waste ninety minutes of my life trapped in a small glass office with her as she shuffled bits of A4 paper and wittered on about who knows what is quite beyond me. The upshot of it all was no pay rise and some of those crappy bits of A4 covered in her childish, nonsense, scribbles for me to take home and cherish. 

And what nonsense it was. Let me give you some of her greatest hits: 'Lacks empathy', whatever the fuck that means, or this diamond, 'self-absorbed, narcissist', or even this unsavoury accusation, 'cantankerous, caustic in the extreme, and generally quarrelsome and petulant'. If that wasn't libellous enough, there's these scurrilous accusations:

'She demonstrates utter disdain for her correspondents whom she regards as unworthy nobodies sent to plague her with their imbecilic problems.' 

Or this... 

'Her advice is viperous and insulting. She makes no effort to understand the issues presented and her solutions are quackery at best and physically and psychologically damaging at worst.'

Now I don't know if you can believe this but all of the above is supposed to be about me and my award-winning Dear Cum column. Sorry, but did I tell you about my award? I felt it was about time I got one and seeing as no one else was rushing to give me one I created my own. Swept the board. So now I'm the proud recipient of eight 'Cummies'. 

Well, Janine and her excessively magnified green eye shadow really put a dampener on my week, so you'll have to excuse me if I'm not quite my usual cheery, good-humoured and affable self. And if someone doesn't pop around soon and take me out for a yummy expenses-paid light-luncheon at 'Pret a Manger' then I might have to hold my breath until I burst. 

So here we are again at that point in this weekly purgatory where we slip into a living hell because it's time for one of those pig-swill of words known as the letter. As if any of us gives a flying fuck. 

Dear Mrs Girl,

I am writing to seek your advice on both a professional and personal matter. Although I am a doctor, I appreciate that you will have limited knowledge of the medical profession, so I will try not to talk in technical terms so that you can understand my problem and provide me with assistance.

My name is Mr Moclulis, and I am a gynaecologist. That’s a doctor of lady bits to you, but I’m called a Mr because I am a surgeon. I chose this speciality because of my love of all things female, and especially the glistening, enticing folds of the female reproductive organ. I wanted to help the fairer sex in maintaining their lady gardens by wielding my surgeon's scalpel to resolve any unsightly lumps and weird, unnatural growths, and so ensure that every cunt is a perfect cunt.

I joined this profession as a virile young man, and as a rich, handsome doctor, could have my pick of the ladies and had a rampant and very pleasurable sex life. After all, I am a specialist in all things vagina and what lady-of-taste wouldn't want a gynae know-it-all between their wide-flung thighs. However, Mrs Girl, in the last few years things have soured. I don’t think the general public appreciates the eroding effect of spending days on end with women, legs strapped into stirrups, staring at one cunt after another. And, though I hate to mention it, some of the foo-foos are frankly disgusting. Huge, unkempt bushes that I have to fight my way through to complete my examinations and on occasions the smell is.... well maybe that's best left to your imagination.

Some of the ladies, well their gunts just make me come over all queasy. Apologies, a gunt is a technical term, and as you are not a medical personage and therefore someone of limited brainpower and understanding, not something that I can 'dumb down' sufficiently for you to comprehend. But, take my word for it, it is oftentimes repulsive to behold and prevents me from having a good poke around with my speculum.

And then there are the births, which for most is a precious and magical experience. Not for me down at the business end of the action. For me, it is a shouty, aggressive, exercise involving multiple and varied liquidy excretions. You can’t even begin to imagine all the stuff that comes out of a woman’s luxuriant flower of divinity during childbirth. Or perhaps you can, you being a woman of a certain age who has in all probability experienced such a blessed miracle.

Anyway, why am I seeking your help, Mrs Girl? Well, since I have been spending my days staring at red, swollen, rashy muffs, my lust for the female body has all but evaporated. When I get an eager young lady into my bed, and I’m lying with my face between her thighs, I find myself diagnosing her with all sorts of unappetising ailments and my once masterful cock just droops with despair. How can I once again regain my rapt devotion to this anatomical glory of feminine beauty? How can I regain my mojo, add sparkle to my libido, and put a little pep back into my pencil?

Please, please help me get my sex drive back, Mrs Girl. I find myself unqualified to do another job, but a life of celibacy can’t be my only option.

Yours in desperation,

Mr Macenzie Moclulis MBchB FRCOG
Consultant Gynaecologist

Dear Dr Floppydick,

According to your notes, you've got terminal brain cancer and only have two weeks to live. Sorry about that. 

Oops, my bad. Wrong notes. 

See, not that funny when it happens to you, is it? So next time I visit your loathsome institution, do try not to fuck it up like last time. Furthermore, I need to inform you that as this consultation is not covered by the NHS there will be a fee of five hundred pounds payable for its provision (so you can stick your pay rise between your thin, pursing, disapproving, lips, Janine). 

I can empathise with your suffering, Dr Floppyduck (empathy, Janine). Just the other week, they showed five minutes of 'Naked Attraction' on 'Gogglebox' and I think I was sick-in-my-mouth three times at the repulsiveness on display. Not only was there a Gunt, but joining her was a Mussy, a Ragina, a Swat, and a Cnatch; apologies but these are non-medical terms and as such ones that a supercilious, patronising dick such as yourself would fail to comprehend (reflective mirroring to build rapport, Janine). Certainly, surgery seemed an appealing option because I'm fairly certain my eyes were bleeding. 

So, Dr Flappyduck, what's to be done? How can we put the fun back in fornication? The va-va-voom into vaginas? The sexiness into snatches? How can we make those expectant cunts worthy of your cock of professional competence?

Every week, I go to knit and natter. It's an exclusive cadre so I'm afraid you're not invited, but let me tell you, knitting is the most boring thing ever created with the possible exception of wood whittling, so mostly we just natter. Now, Freya Wilson went to see 'The Vagina Monologues' and wouldn't stop going on about it. Well, one thing led to another and before long, we were creating our own 'Vagina Dialogues', which was fun for a while, though Alison Cracknell does like to hog the spotlight (it's a torch). Then someone had a brainwave (though I don't want to take any of the credit really, because it's all in the day-to-day of being unbelievably amazing) and that someone suggested that maybe our assorted vaginas might, with a little dress up, come as characters.

Just last week, we did doctors. Bunty Bellwether came as Hot Lips Houlihan from MASH because, as she put it, "If Moses had more arm musculature, I'm sure there would have been a tablet stating, 'Thou shalt not cross-dress your vagina.'" Freya said she wanted to release the monster in all of us, so came as Dr Frankenstein, whilst Alison dressed up as Sigmund Freud because she wanted to explore our deepest desires. Which was all fine, dandy and just a little cunt-twingey yumminess. But then Carol Castaway did her reveal and she'd come as George 'oh my god' Clooney. Well, I've never seen such a twinkly-eyed, winsome smiling cunt. Talk about sex-on-a-stick or, more accurately, sex-secreted-between-pallid-somewhat-blotchy-thighs. Let me tell you, Dr Flippydack, there were quite a few whimpering, moaning, dew decorated, musk emitting, amateur vaginal thespians that evening, and we all had to be very diligent with the upholstery spot cleaner afterwards.

I even rushed out and bought a Nespresso machine the very next morning.

So why not give it a go with your lady-friends-of-leisure, Dr Funkydock? A feather boa and you've got Marilyn Monroe or Jane Mansfield, a top hat and cane gives you Marlene Dietrich or Fred Astaire. Got a hairy one, how about a bit of George Bernard Shaw or Conchita Wurst? The accessories are endless. A cigar and you can spend a pleasant evening swapping witticisms with Groucho Marx or discuss the USA's colonial imperialism in Central America and the Caribbean with Fidel Castro. Not only will ladies' front bottoms become entertaining and alluring once more, but there is the possibility they may also be educational. Who knows you may even give rise to a brand new kink, with specialist websites worldwide dedicated to finding the most alluring pussy of perfection. And, possibly, even a TV show, sort of like 'Ru Paul's Drag Race' but for cunts. 

And there you have it, Janine. Quackery my arse. Sheer, undiluted, incomparable brilliance is what I call it. 

Hugs,

Cum Girl (Mrs)