Today I had an IUD fitted and it made me think of sex. Glorious early 20s sex where procreation is a dread fear and your biggest worry is finding a chemist on a Sunday that will give you the morning after pill. (Although in my day you had to do the walk of shame to the GPs for a prescription and lecture).
Before you start thinking I’m some sort of contraception craving ‘precaution pervert’, I’ll explain. The coil fitting was a bloody disaster. First off I needed a long speculum. Although my GP assured me this is because I’m tall, I still felt all flipping woman. Then the coil wouldn’t go in. Different implements used to help, things that every girl dreams of. Damn my cervix wouldn’t play ball. There was some blood, and some gushing. It sounds worse than it was: having recently given birth I am inured to the horror of lying legs akimbo, and seeing a puzzled face look up every now and again. Mainly I was just spaced out and feeling oddly prudish that my son was in the room.
Then just as it went in, phew, the baby started crying. Awesome timing little one. I wound up trying to get my knickers on and wipe the blood away as my GP jiggled the baby (with the curtain open as the baby wouldn’t stop crying unless he could see my embarrassed fat fainty face). Which was when I noticed the knickers.
To my shame I was so tired this morning that I flung on a clean pair from the depths of the knicker drawer, tena-ed up and left the house. As I slipped them on again this afternoon I realised they were a pair of Gossard shapers I’d bough for a formal dinner university. Probably the first shag me pants I’d ever bought, all cheap lace and smooth creaminess, the best I could afford at the time and the only ones that matched the feat of engineering which was my strapless bra. Not only were they the first sexy pants I’d ever bought, but they remain seared on my memory as the most effective. So sexy and confident had they made me feel, that along with my brand new saucy librarian glasses and a brown minidress from H&M (the glamour, the glamour) I marched up and pulled my crush of the year. A younger man, get me, who was about as drunk as I was. The night is memorable for me despite the details being patchy, safe to say I recall agreeing to do the rude up against a Grade 1 listed building in so hammered a fashion that the following day I found my bra tucked into my handbag.
Those were the (pre CCTV) days. I haven’t thought about them for years. The pants are ruined, of course. But I’m so glad their passing into the great wash bin in the sky reminded me of those halcyon silly shaggy days. And I guess there’s something fitting in that, the reminder of sex I mean, given the implications of having a coil put in.