Born Again Virgin

This is a recent autobiography; however sex tragic one of me, Laura. Nickname: Vixxx. Aka: Wanton Vixxxen. Wife {twice over} mother to six {NEVER over} grandmother of thirteen and still counting with the youngest chick getting married and leaving the roost next year. Interior designer/ retail merchandiser by day; writer by night and Dominatrix anywhere in- between.

And now...a virgin. Again.

The "long time, no see!" kind of virgin. Yes, it's been

that

long. After all, I was married the first time before I was able to legally be served {I did say

legally

remember} and about five minutes after the "I do's" were spoken, I found that I did and was going to be a mommy. And now, several decades, two husbands and a tribe of kids later, I find my road to paradise has been closed for repairs due to its unpleasant introduction to the Law of Gravity. It made its uninvited and unwelcome presence known on my uterus, and my uterus on my bladder. In other words, I was told I needed a hysterectomy to stop my organs from playing musical chairs with one another. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me take you back to the beginning of my I'm- never- going- to –wake-up- from –this- nightmare- story, about four months ago, and let you eavesdrop on the conversation that started all of this "you remember when?–well, forget it now!" intercourse insanity...

*******

My urologist was Dr. Joseph Margison; a man on the friendlier side of middle age, but with the knowledge and skills of a physician many years his senior. He also has a terrific bedside manner that leaves you at ease no matter what the prognosis, so as he leafed through my file after examining me that Monday afternoon in mid January, I casually asked,

"How far has it dropped this time, doctor?" I sat back up now on the examination table swinging my legs gently off the front of it, as I calmly waited for him to confirm what my own mind and bladder had been telling me for nearly a year; three years since the first procedure had been done to correct the problem. But I never expected the type of response I was now going to get.

Dr. Margison looked up from the folder in his hand, and replied with an unconventional $185.00 per office visit remark, "Well, if we take a look at this from a geographical point of view,

{geographical? Where the hell is he going with this?}

I would have to say your bladder, which would normally be located at say, the equator, has actually dropped this time to oh ...Argentina."

I allowed my mind to visualize a world globe as I slowly lay back on the exam table again; my high school A's in geography biting me in the ass – that is, if they could reach Argentina.

"But look on the bright side, Laura" he continued, as if there

was

actually a bright side to that scenario. "It could be a lot worse. Your bladder could be situated in Antarctica."

"Antarctica?" I echoed; knowing the moment I asked I would be sorry.

"Yes. Antarctica. In which case I could be using it as a footstool right now."

I swallowed hard as

that

horrendous picture all too clearly came into focus in my mind and just hoped he wasn't citing an actual case history. My heart did wheelies at the mere thought.

"It's unfortunate that this has happened again."

Much to my dismal surprise he had continued without taking a breath, as if his last remark was something routinely mentioned to his patients in passing. For all I knew it could have been standard office policy to use wandering body parts for medical furniture. The interior designer in me winced.

But he wasn't finished with his $185.00 per visit shock treatment yet. Oh no. I was going to get my insurance monies' worth out of him today. Yes indeedy.

"Laura..." he began all too carefully; all too out of his usual upbeat, off beat demeanor; keeping his eyes down and glued to my patient file in his hands as if they were retinally welded there. Uh oh. I felt this icky lump in the pit of my stomach at that moment and prayed it wasn't some other body part deciding to relocate itself.

I sucked a deep breath into what I hoped was where my lungs were last situated and said, "Go ahead, doc. Just tell me whatever it is you have on your mind – or in that file. I'm a big girl. I can handle it."

"Ok then," he said in a slow, faltering voice; never lifting his eyes from what I now positively knew were my documents of doom. "I... need to know. Were you planning... on having any more....... children?"

I exhaled slowly; relieved it wasn't anything serious in nature, but then allowed his out of left field question to really sink in. As the gestational periods of my life flashed before my now widening, glazed over eyes; the visions of a human weeble hugging the porcelain god twenty four hours a day, seven days a week; nine months times four pregnancies bounced and wobbled and rolled and loomed in the foreground. But it was the memory of my mother's heart swelling, breath halting and tear rendering version about how a woman with child looks "so radiant" while she is carrying that really brought me to the teetering edge of the bearing baby myth abyss. All four times the reality of

my

mother-to-be "so radiant" image was that of bloodshot eyes and bright purple dots of burst blood vessels all over a celery green face caused by the thrusts of bile and dry cracker projectiles constantly heaved into my best friend, the commode. And

that

so vivid a vision just scared me enough to bolt upright from the table and blurt out,

"HELL no!!! Are you NUTS?!?"

It was the clear cold fact that my dear, little, sweet saint of a mother who lies like a rug on the subject of glowing mothers-to-be that made my final decision to opt for the surgery soooo quick and easy. Thank you, Saint Mom.

*******

MEDICAL LEAVE – two of the sweetest words I could hear! It not only meant getting some well deserved R&R, but also having the golden opportunity to getting something really accomplished on my novel. After all, it wouldn't take any exertion to just sit here in my nice comfortable den typing on the computer, now would it? Now that I was scheduled for the surgery, I would have all the time in the world to get a good part of the research and some of the chapters' rough drafts completed. I would have eight, long, body and soul fulfilling weeks to accomplish everything I had in mind. I actually was looking forward to the operation. I had a very competent surgeon; my ob-gyn of many years that I had tons of faith in. Also, the operation was going to be performed at a hospital that I had given birth in to all four daughters, and those same daughters would be there when I came out of recovery. Yep, I was feeling very upbeat about the whole thing. The operation itself would be killing a flock of nuisances with one scalpel; surgically repairing a descended bladder while at the same time eliminating the need to worry about change of life pregnancies. All systems were 'go' as the hysterectomy was scheduled for the first week of February. And this girl couldn't wait.

Unfortunately I had, in my growing coupled excitement of envisioning working on my novel while also acquiring expanded sexual freedom, totally forgotten about another couple: Father Time and Mother Nature; two of the worst, warped pranksters known to Man – and Woman. Together, they are a dysfunctional pair that has celestial amnesty from child abuse. They wake up each morning and pick and choose from all of their millions of children throughout the world and decide which unsuspecting victim they are going to play a demented, cruel, ruthlessly raunchy, humiliating joke on. Not just little "haha" or polite, half hearted chuckle types of jokes either. They play the kind whose punch lines have no limits; no boundaries and are as frustrating and as embarrassing as they can get. How well I know.

Because on February 7th, their joke lottery was awarded to me.

*******

I remember waking up in the recovery room to a nurse's voice telling me the operation was over and that they would be wheeling me down to my room very shortly. I also remember barfing up some bile projectiles {minus the dry crackers} right after her little announcement and thinking to myself,

"well, thank God it's just from the anesthesia and not because of a 'so radiant' pregnancy"

before I drifted back into my then very unaware state of the first joke of renewed innocence oblivion.

The second of the sick jokes was in place, too. Literally. And it would stay "in place" for another week after I was released from the hospital. My newly slung bladder and urethra track remained hung over from the anesthesia and I went home with a catheter bag hanging from my arm like a perverted Gucci coochie purse. Back at the ranch, the grandkids thought it was way cool, however. Now I could just lay there on the sofa watching a movie on HBO and not miss a Matrix minute. Not one Morpheus moment would I lose of Neo kicking the shit out of a thousand agent Smiths because I didn't have to waste a precious Zion second going all the way to a bathroom to pee. In their eyes, I was almost as mystical and powerful as the Oracle. The two younger grandsons asked if I would leave the priceless plastic jewel to them in my will. They promised they would alternate wearing it depending on whose favorite show was on at any given time. Very time savvy kids, my grandsons. Although I wasn't planning anytime soon to belly up and shuffle off to Buffalo, I did ponder the thought of revamping my will to include the urine holding grail just as a memento of a dear, little sweet saint of

a very, very old when she died

grandmother. But then I noticed something very profound! The Oracle wasn't wearing a Gucci coochie bag while she was baking cookies and explaining to Keanu that the end of the world was inevitable. I decided right then and there that if a toilet was good enough for an oracle, it was good enough for me. The other inevitable was that the grandsons would just have to tape their favorite programs and hit the pause button whenever they needed to whiz.

A grandmother has to put her catheter strapped foot down once in a while, you know.

*******

My bladder and urethra track awoke from their coma in exactly a week from the date of the operation. I was so relieved that I could... well... relieve

myself

without that designer of disgust fashion accessory that I wasn't worried about another single thing. For about one Matrix minute that is, until the doctor went to give me an internal to check on his surgical handiwork. The grand reopening ceremony of Wanton's World was about to commence.

My gynecologist had, in his medical wisdom, performed an episiotomy after removing and rearranging everything that needed to be internally renovated. Well, that would explain the Frontierland-like feeling at the opening of the pussy pass. It was as though the medicine man was attempting to dig in his spurs and gallop off to the next territory through a nearly impassable trail. I was a hurtin' for certain pardner as I gritted my teeth and dug in my own boots against the doctor's chest. He, in his instinct to protect his ribcage from a cave in, took what in his profession might be called a 'pregnant pause', and waited for the rigor mortis of my body to subside before resuming his ride. After wisely placing my feet into the stirrups this time around, he tried again. Now in a somewhat airless voice, he attempted to explain to me what he had done in the operating room to the roadway to Wanton's World Fantasyland. Meanwhile, he also resumed an Adventureland vaginal canal cruise. But it was already becoming claustrophobically clear that "it's a small world after all" of the surgery. MY small world that I didn't believe could fit another soul - and the soul's cock in ever again.

I was beginning to hate Walt Disney.

Immediately I realized his two fingers felt like an eighteen wheeler was grinding its gears and its way through my tunnel of love. And it was being sideswiped on both sides of the double wide trailer in its too narrow of an entrance. I stiffened as I slammed on imaginary emergency brakes, and my doctor, sensing he was about to lose his fingers in a jackknife crash, attempted to calm me down and save two crucial implements of his career. He then went on to explain as he maneuvered his fucking tractor trailer around inside of me that

THIS {ouch!}

was where he needed to stitch when he removed

THIS {eeeek!}

and

THIS {aaaaughh!}

was where he needed to stitch when he repaired

THAT {oooooph!}

and waaaaayyyyy up

THERE {OMG!!!}

was where he slung my bladder; safe and sound.

"Slung"?

It felt like he used sailor's knots to weave a damn hammock for the poor displaced, soggy thing. There was more netting in me than is used on a whaling vessel. No wonder everything felt so tight! My vagina was stitched and cross stitched like an embroidered racetrack.

After driving us both on an extremely uncomfortable tour of my twat, the doctor put the two digit Mack truck into reverse and floored it; snagging what felt like my belly button in one of the surgical dream catchers. OH FUCK!!!

Until then, I never realized that after all these years, I could still instantly arch into a perfect "U" backbend. Neither did my truck driving doctor. He was still counting and flexing his fingers when I left the office, but I wasn't concerned about him.

He knew what

his

Tommorowland looked like.

*******

Back at the ranch once more, I was pussy deep in panic with the realization of how my very apparent sex suicide attempt was going to fuck me over - and now strongly suspected it was the

only

thing that might fuck me ever again! My mind was sinking in a quicksand of Q&A's.

"Here I thought I was going to have so much more sexual freedom, and all it looks like I have now that I can use is my big mouth - big deal! What the hell pleasure will that give my PUSSY?"

and

"What did I do wrong in my past life to deserve THIS? I must have been Jack the Ripper to get the shaft like I'm getting right now. 'Shaft' – how pathetically ironic. A word that describes something I'll never know the feeling of anymore in me!"

and the scariest, most depressing one of all,

"How the hell am I ever going to scene as a strict but loving... Domme VIRGIN?!?!?!? Yeah, right. THAT ought to put the fear of Goddess in a submissive."

I was more determined than desperate {but not by much} to make sure that I was not going to wake up to too many more mornings as a reborn virgin. Somehow, some way, some thing would have to be done to lift this curse off my shoulders and out of my vagina. And the cunt cursed ascent was going to begin that very night.

I waited until everyone was in bed before I made my first attempt to reunite my fingers with my clit since my sex stifled surgery. Choosing the sofa in the family room as my temporary bed during my recovery, it was just the privacy I needed; downstairs and far and away from all the others in the nighttime hours, so I began to prep for my own up close and personal operating room procedure. I decided to turn on the TV and place a log in the fireplace to create a warm, relaxing atmosphere conducive to self applied finger fucking fun. I found one of my all time favorite movies to watch, but my mind wasn't on anything but my all time favorite masturbation techniques. Reminding myself of the trailblazing episode from earlier in the day, I gave thanks{ in a rather shamefully perverted prayer}to the blessed fact that my clit lays high in the saddle and away from the newly marked territory of my unusable Death Valley. As I began to fluff up my pillow and straighten the blankets, I noticed through the kitchen windows that it had begun to snow. I felt myself smiling for the first time since my Vixxxen- gone- virgin discovery, and oddly enough, I thought about "Twas the Night Before Christmas" as I made myself a hot cocoa and headed back to the sofa to nestle all snug in my bed while visions of naughty things danced in my head. I was still reciting my version of the poem as I settled down for a long winter's... night of masturbation.

Several hours later, my clit, my finger, and my fantasies were all worn out, but in a "as he rode out of sight" masturbation-ally exhausted sort of way. Things were really starting to perk up {my nipples included} as I fell asleep all curled up with my warm blankets, damp pillow, and another run of "The Matrix" emitting from the TV.

And to all {of me} a good night!

*******

I awoke the next morning before my finger or clit did, and decided while I still had the family room to myself, I would try my own, much safer - and much thinner, size five finger internal to see if I could feel any signs of hope for a revived sex life. Since my strumming finger remained curled in an arthritic coma from the festivities of the previous night, I resorted to using my still safe size six pointer finger and pointed it in the direction of my vagina and prayed for the best. Another prayer for my pussy just didn't sit well though. For that matter, neither did I what with all the intricate basket weaving pinching my bottom. But the image of me going it all alone in solo sex for the rest of my life didn't sit any better.

So I tactfully prayed for a total recovery and asked for guidance with everything ...and everybody... that entered my uh... uhmm... life. And to be extra sure He heard me, I pulled out all the stops and all the artillery and all the clout I had. I humbly and reverently asked for His blessings – all in the name of Saint Mom.

After Vixxxen vespers, I cautiously began the journey into the now fuck forbidden zone of my vagina and immediately realized two things. #1- I wasn't getting anything like my vibrator or other pleasure toy of girth anywhere near the inside of my cunt and #2- I wasn't even sure if anything the width of a soda straw was ever going to clear. Well, perhaps a Flexi straw. In that way, it could maybe bend enough to dodge the Chinese jump rope strung up inside of me. If I didn't clothesline the straw, I would then try...??? Well... let me think. Maybe I could get real daring and use a giant pencil! Yeah! The kind with the thick pink eraser bulging from the end! I could fantasize it was a gorgeous circumcised cock head and

really

cum my brains out! Then, if that worked, I could maybe graduate to a banana ...peeled of course. I always ate them while they were still a little green and sweet... and firm. Firm enough to fuck myself with! Hmmmmm... So that would then take care of the crucial circumference problem without causing me to feel that tractor- plowing- everything- under sensation that I felt with Dr. John Deere's internal. Now all that was left was the standard when you want a refreshing, cool pick me up on {and in} a sultry hot pussy day - the favorite Vixxxen vegetable: a cucumber! No, on second thought... it ain't ready for the green monster yet. I've got it! A carrot!! I'll use a carrot!!! I can safely perform the critical "carrot in the cunt" test! I would find the perfect size to work with in both width and length, and even one that was bent if I was so inclined – much like a "pick a dick" all from a produce bag. I was really getting into this; getting into my Fantasyland AND getting it back up and running again.

Maybe I would give Walt another chance if this worked out.

Although I was more than eager to begin the self deflowering of my new but unwanted virginity, I played it safe. I kept up with my masturbation marathon for another two weeks; my creative cum juices flowing steadily with no hitches simply because my guitar finger wasn't anywhere near the internal strung gridlock to get my nail caught on. I still said my prayer of thanks each night of course, knowing good and well it was due to the name dropping of "Saint Mom" that pulled the right harp strings with The Head of Heaven.