With the promise of improved sensitivity and sex drive, Polly Gillespie decided to test out the much-hyped O-Shot. Here’s what happened…
As mentioned in a previous story, I became aroused (possible double entendre) at the idea of visiting The Face Place (ironic name noted) to have my special lady place revved up with a procedure discussed on various American reality shows and at a friend’s house in Auckland.
The mysterious O-Shot. I don’t think, in this case, the O is for awesome, but apparently it’s literally “oooooohhsome!”
I booked in.
As I got closer to the The Face Place, my phone beeped and buzzed. Friends knew I had the appointment and, with the same anticipation they get when I have a first date with a hot guy, they were all frantic for the details.
“Are you there?”
“Did it hurt?”
I was just walking to the appointment and already there was an O-Shot frenzy going on in my messages. I chose to ignore them all and continued breathing deeply as I walked towards the door, all the while thinking:
“What if I have an ugly one?”
“Have I showered enough?”
“Will I be judged on my overdue wax?’
“Will all the women in this place be beautiful, and will I feel like Shrek?”
“Do we think this is feminine enhancement hypnotism?”
Once inside, I was handed several detailed forms to complete and was feeling more comfortable about my imminent vaginal adventure.
The questions were rather personal. Yikes! I had to grade myself on my sexual satisfaction and expectations. I assumed I would need to be honest and confess I was quite fond of a bit of slap and tickle – my terminology, not theirs.
I also needed to come clean about my desire, drive, response, and sexual routine.
This was harder than final exams for high school biology. In those, you can sometimes pass just by answering “C” on the multiple choice questions (don’t quote me on that).
I tiptoed up to the counter and handed over my forms. Level: vulnerable.
The doctor explained what was about to happen. I balked when she told me they’d be drawing blood, and then spinning it for “gold”. Yes, spin my blood, and separate it to find the special serum (a non-medical Polly term) that they would inject back into two places down in the garage below. She went on to explain that some women struggle during this process, as their blood might not have the true “gold”, or enough of it to make the procedure viable. Panic.
My nutrition was bordering on abysmal. I’d been through months of stress, and I was probably a candidate for New Zealand’s Next Top Couch Potato. I lay on the bed as she spun my blood just knowing I’d have no gold. Possibly only rust.
“Fantastic!” the doctor exclaimed. “Your platelets are a beautiful golden colour and you have plenty!”
Miracles do happen.
The next part was the pants off, legs open bit. As women, we become used to this, but for some reason I’d never wanted to get an A-grade for this at the GPs or with my midwife. Now I yearned for applause – or at least not a look of horror. I simply got instruction that she was about to apply numbing cream. Slightly scared now and slightly amused. The last thing I wanted was numbing down there. I was after more “va va voom”!
The last thing I wanted was numbing down there. I was after more ‘va va voom’
She assured me it was only temporary.
Did it hurt? Well the injection in to the wall of my “V” hurt like hell and simultaneously made me want to pee, but the shot to the magic button was painless. I hoped this was a good sign. Worried slightly it wasn’t.
Then, it was all over! I had been O-Shotted and could put on my strides and go, armed with lots of advice and instructions. The doctor had told me not to engage in any type of “activity” for 24 hours. I assured her there was not a chance in hell of that.
So what of the results? Well, with all rigorous honesty, I did not touch myself down there for a week, other than washing and drying.
When I did it was fairly spectacular.
And with a man? Haven’t tried it out yet. I’m trying to be selective. I don’t want to give my “new improved” Polly parts to just anyone; I’ve turned over a new leaf. That makes it sound like I was hooking up with loads of men, but I wasn’t. I just decided that men have over complicated my life, and for now I’ll behave myself.
However, when I do get to try out my new “gold standard” bits and pieces, I’ll be sure to let you know.
As a side note, I was looking at another procedure they do that tightens up all the important muscles down there – so much so that some men beg their wives to stop the treatment lest they end up with a broken appendage. Oh, no!
I think I have to go back for that. I long for someone to say, “No! Your pelvic floor muscles have a Mike Tyson hold on me! Let me go!”