Friday was a week since the horrifying assault on Joy’s vagina committed so casually by Dr. ComeSeeMyPatient’s vagina and her legion of young wannabes who erected that fucking Detour sign where my penis hungers to park. While my patience is wearing thin, my ravenous desire for reunion culminating in the ooooo ahhhhh sound of bodies surrendering in a mutual explosion of orgasmic penetration grows stronger by the moment.

Like waiting night after night after night beneath the flashing EMERGENCY ROOM sign of an inner city hospital, me and my cock – now recognized unofficially as The Artist formally known as Prince – watch and listen for every sign of the door opening, even a crack, and the smock covered nurse with her cropped hair and pursed lips whispering, “You may come in now.”

Although the pain seems to be subsiding, Joy’s vagina remains closed for repairs with no clear indication of when traffic can resume.

It’s been days since I saw her; not even the slightest peak since Dr. ComeSeeMyPatient’sVagina prodded, poked, needled and cut before her audience of med students likely feeling especially grateful for their late night MCAT studies.

While the DETOUR signs appear pointing in just the right direction, there are unanswered questions about those destinations too.

I’m embracing the adventure that awaits us tonight, discovering new paths to connection, pleasure, sensual exploration and sexual delight.

Like an unwanted guest showing up unannounced for dinner. And not just any dinner.

“Bartholin?”

No, not like Beethoven. And not like a violin either.

A bartholin cyst has been causing the pain in Joy’s vagina.

Thank God she saw a doctor. Actually, more than one.

Turns out Joy’s vaginal walls had company. Two bartholin cysts, one of which had grown infected to the point that it was causing enormous discomfort. So much so that she insisted on seeing a doctor today. And when one wasn’t available, and then another, she insisted on a third, who happened to bring some med students along. Even inviting one young man to personally prod away at the growth peaking out from Joy’s vagina. “Was he even a doctor?“

“He touched your vagina!” I thought to myself. “A young male med student.”

I never heard the word “bartholin” before today. But thanks to MayoClinic.com and some very personal testimony from my beloved, I’m feeling quite informed.

According to Mayo:

“The Bartholin’s glands are located on each side of the vaginal opening. These glands secrete fluid that helps lubricate the vagina. Sometimes the openings of these glands become obstructed causing fluid to back up into the gland, resulting in relatively painless swelling called a Bartholin cyst. At times, this fluid may become infected, creating a small area of pus surrounded by inflamed tissue (abscess) … A Bartholin cyst or abscess is uncommon. Treatment of Bartholin cyst depends on the size of the cyst, the pain and whether it’s infected. Sometimes, home treatment is all you need. In other cases, surgical drainage of the Bartholin cyst is necessary. If an infection occurs, antibiotics may be necessary to treat the Bartholin cyst.”

In this case, it took surgical drainage under local anesthetic in the doctor’s hospital office.

Joy’s still in pain. Although tonight perhaps more from the four needles inserted into that most tender of locations in advance of the incision Dr. ComeSeeMyPatient’sVagina had carefully shaped in order to drain the infection that was growing more dangerous as it was excruciatingly painful.

I don’t even have a vagina, yet I very much felt Joy’s pain.

As the hours melt into days, the incision will heal and so to, I pray with confidence, will Joy’s pleasure chest.

Lesson learned.

From now on, cucumbers are only for salads.

Or is it?

She didn’t seem shy last week.

But now she’s hiding. Closeted away, even at her most vulnerable moments, beneath cotton fluff and silky panties.

She likes the attention, I suspect.

The whisper of her name; hushed conversations about her health and happiness; the constant, burning desire for closeness and connection.

Catch me if you can.

Shy perhaps. Seemingly distant and aloof as if the mention of her name barely attracts even the faintest response.

A no show for our party of two.

Or maybe she likes it.

Aware of cheers erupting from my legion of sperm impatient for an end to her leave and a return to the holiday that was only just beginning.

When Joy said her vagina hurt, I almost immediately felt a pain of my own.

How could it be? Had I done something awful over that past week of passionate love-making and sexual delight that could have injured my beloved’s sacred pleasure chest? And what could I do to help her recover, heal and restore that hallowed place where our union brought ecstasy exploding with naked desire, surrender, and the deepest feelings of romantic love I’d ever experienced.

She quickly denied my offer to caress her sweetness with a yearning tongue or gentle fingers. Her pained vagina combined with the arrival of her monthly cycle left her withdrawn to a place quite distant from the illusory home we’d created days and nights earlier as our bodies hungered for each moment of connection.

Chicken soup, I thought. Surely a dose of the oldest of remedies would restore healing and health to her throbbing womanhood.

Chicken soup for the vagina.

Words to nurture, and heal. Perhaps a moment of smiles, laughter or tears. Or maybe just a brief recess from the stabbing pain distracting her heart, body and mind as time slowly, painfully, marched ahead to the moment of our reunion.