blue waffle

I’m Ready To Tell The Story Of My Disturbing Diagnosis With ‘Blue Waffle’

Blue Waffle is a vaginal abnormality that occurs after being exposed to a sexually transmitted disease. It turns the area a blue-green color and resembles a waffle since it is disfigured in shape.

My friends call me a whore.

It’s not a nasty nickname. It’s said with love.

They might tsk-tsk when they see the number of matches currently sexting me across Tinder, but when we are three mimosas deep at brunch, they practically beg to hear about my quickie-in-the-bar-bathroom, cum-on-the-chest hookup stories.

They loved the one about the hipster bartender who bent me over the billiards table while I bit down on the pool cue to keep from screaming. And the forty-year-old French professor who ate me out in between the stacks in the library while moaning in his syrup thick accent.

So, yeah, I might be a whore, but I’m a careful whore. A whore on birth control. A whore who visits the gynecologist twice a year and stocks up on condoms in case my one-night-stand of the week isn’t the kind to stuff them in his wallet.

I prefer beer bellies to baby bellies. Becoming a mother isn’t in my overall plan and I’m not interested in adding herpes pills to my medicine cabinet. I’ve had urinary tract infections two or three times, but they cleared up after a few days with antibiotics. No big deal.

With how careful I am, I have no idea how I ended up with vaginitarius — or what the internet so eloquently calls blue waffle.

It started with itching. I felt my hand migrating into my jeans whenever I was driving or drawing out documents at work, but I stopped myself each time to avoid looking like a slob.

My first instinct was to get a wax. The hair hadn’t grown too much down there since it had been ripped out the last time, but if I was itching like a motherfucker, I must have needed it removed. I booked an appointment and got a brazilian along with anal bleaching that afternoon.

The itching only got worse, though. Alone in bed that night, I gave into temptation and itched so hard that skin got stuck under my fingernails. I even left a little blood behind.

Needing some sort of relief, I stripped off my silken pajamas and soaked myself inside of a hot bath. It felt good. So good I stayed in there for over an hour with a copy of The Handmaid’s Tale.

I had almost reached the final page when I decided I better get to bed. When I stood up to towel myself off, I noticed how crinkled my skin looked down there. The flesh had bunched together into thick lines like an old lady’s forehead.

I shrugged it off, assuming I had been in the bath too long since my fingertips had also turned to prunes, but the next morning, it was still wrinkled. Even more unsettling, the flesh had taken on a light greenish tint.

With several hours until my gyno opened, I scoured WebMD, searching for an explanation. I found none. Vaginitis didn’t describe what I was going through. Neither did herpes or chlamydia or AIDs. I had no idea what was happening to me.

When nine o’clock ticked onto the clock, I made two phone calls. One for an emergency appointment and one to cancel my date that night. No way I was having sex while looking like I emerged from a swamp with seaweed dangling between my legs.

Unfortunately, the situation didn’t lessen my libido. I was still horny and without a hookup scheduled, I decided to masturbate.

It hurt like hell. I had to tug my dildo out seconds after inserting it. I couldn’t even touch my clitoris with my fingertips. Every movement stung like I had poured lemon juice into a wound.

When I tried getting dressed, I realized I couldn’t even wear my skinny jeans. The fabric hurt when it rubbed up against my vagina. I had to wear oversized running shorts that an ex had left over years earlier.

Unfortunately, my gyno appointment wasn’t until late afternoon so I filled the empty space with a nap. I had to tape mittens onto my hands like I had the fucking chickenpox to keep myself from scratching in my sleep.

When my alarm woke me, I forced myself to lift the band of my shorts and look inside. The light green tint had turned into an alarming blue. Not light blue like the way hand soap or shaving cream looks in certain lighting. Bright blue. Obnoxious blue. It started at the lips of my vagina and extended deep into my pussy. I peeled the folds open to check and almost vomited at the sight.

When I finally made it to my gyno, she solved the problem right away. She diagnosed me with blue waffle. She couldn’t tell me how I had gotten it since it stays dormant in certain men who appear symptom-free to the blind eye, but she said it was easily transmitted and there wasn’t a known cure or even a treatment plan to reduce the symptoms.

That meant my vagina was going to stay like that for the rest of my goddamn life. That meant I wasn’t going to be having sex anytime soon, not even with myself. That meant another woman in this world was screwed out of getting her orgasm. TC mark

One story, told five ways…

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