When someone has been exposed to a sexually transmitted illness, they develop a vaginal deformity called a “blue waffle.” It disfigures the region, turning it a blue-green tint, and giving it a waffle-like appearance.
They refer to me as a whore.
It’s not a derogatory moniker. It is stated lovingly.
When we are three mimosas deep at brunch and I tell them about my quickie in the bar bathroom, cum on the chest hookup stories, they nearly want to hear them. However, they might tsk-tsk when they notice how many matches are now messaging me on Tinder.
The story about the hipster bartender bending me over the pool table while I bit down on the pool cue to contain my screams was particularly well-liked. And the forty-year-old French professor who ate me while wailing in his thick, syrup-accented accent amid the library’s stacks.
I might be a whore, but I’m a cautious whore, so sure. a whore using contraception. My one-night stand of the week is a whore who goes to the doctor twice a year and hoards condoms in case he doesn’t have them in his wallet.
Beer belly wins over baby belly in my book. I have no intention of having children, and I have no desire to stock up on herpes medication. I’ve experienced two or three UTIs, but they resolved with antibiotic treatment within a few days. Nothing major.
I have no idea how I acquired vaginitarius, or what the internet so beautifully refers to as blue waffle, despite how cautious I am.
Itching was the first sign. Every time I was driving or drafting documents at work, I could feel my hand creeping into my jeans, but I had to stop myself to keep from seeming like a slob.
My initial reaction was to get a wax. Since it had previously been torn out, the hair had not significantly grown there, but since I was scratching like a motherfucker, I must have wanted it removed. I scheduled a consultation and had a brazilian and anal bleaching that same day.
But the scratching just grew worse. That night when I was by myself in bed, I gave in to temptation and scratched until skin became caught beneath my fingernails. Even a little blood was left behind by me.
I took off my silk pajamas since I needed some type of release before soaking in a hot bath. It was pleasant. I read The Handmaid’s Tale there for more than an hour because it was so wonderful.
I was almost done reading when I decided it was time for bed. I became conscious of how wrinkled my skin seemed on my lower body when I got up to dry off. The skin had congealed into thick lines like the forehead of an elderly woman.
My fingertips had also turned to prunes, so I brushed it off and assumed I had been in the water for too long, but the next morning, it was still wrinkled. And to make matters worse, the meat had developed a faint greenish tinge.
I combed through WebMD in the hours before my gyno’s office opened in quest of an explanation. I could not. Vaginitis didn’t adequately express how I was feeling. Nor did AIDs, chlamydia, or herpes. I was oblivious to what was taking place.
I placed two calls when the clock struck nine o’clock. One was to cancel my evening date and the other was for an urgent appointment. I could not possibly have sex while sporting seaweed dangling between my legs and appearing as though I had just emerged from a swamp.
Unfortunately, the circumstance didn’t make me feel less desire. Since I had no planned hookups and was still somewhat horny, I chose to masturbate.
Intense pain resulted. Only a few seconds after inserting my dildo, I had to pull it out. I was unable to even reach out and touch my clitoris. Like I had poured lemon juice into a wound, every movement hurt.
I discovered that I couldn’t even wear my tiny pants when I tried to get ready. When the cloth touched my vagina, it ached. I was forced to put on extra-large running shorts that an ex left behind years previously.
Unfortunately, I had to wait until late afternoon for my gynecologist visit, so I took a sleep in the interim. In order to prevent myself from scratching as I slept, I had to tape gloves to my hands like I had the fucking chickenpox.
I had to push myself to check into my shorts after being awakened by my alarm.
The once-light green hue had changed to an unsettling blue. Not light blue like the color of shaving cream or hand soap under specific lighting conditions. vivid blue. Unpleasant blue. My pussy was deeply penetrated by it, which began at the lips of my vagina. I checked the folds by peeling them open, and the sight nearly made me throw up.
I eventually got to my gynecologist, and she fixed the issue immediately away. She gave me the blue waffle diagnosis. She stated it was easily transmissible and that there was no known cure or even a treatment plan to lessen the symptoms. She was unable to tell me how I had contracted it because it remains latent in some males who look symptom-free to the naked eye.
That implied that my vagina will remain in that condition for the remainder of my goddamn life. That indicated that I would not soon be engaging in sexual activity, not even with myself. That implied that another woman in our planet would not have orgasm.
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Blue Waffle: FAQ
What is the blue waffle disease?
The blue waffle sickness, also known as “blue waffle,” “waffle std,” or “waffle disease,” is a fictitious illness or infection that causes sores and bruises on the exterior of the vagina.
Why is it called “blue waffle”?
A “waffle” is reportedly slang for a vagina, and a “blue waffle” is slang for a serious vaginal illness.
Is blue waffle disease real?
No, the blue waffle disease is an internet hoax.
