The Itch “Down There”

My darling co-worker Angel told me yesterday that she had an itch, you know, “down there.”  Angel is never shy about telling me all the sordid details of her sex life, so we talked a bit and she agreed with my speculation that it was probably related to her relations with her current beau, a very nice Pakistani Muslim man who “…wants to be religious, he does.  He just can’t control his urges, that’s all.”  The woman in the office with whom Angel’s feminine concerns would normally be shared was out sick, hence all this information was laden on my shoulders.  After consulting a mutual friend, it was decided that Angel would go and get a dose of something to clear it up, and would I take her to the pharmacy?  Of course I would – I couldn’t just abandon her in her hour of medical need now could I?

At the pharmacy, we discover that there appears to be no over-the-counter oral medication for this particular malady.  Angel starts to panic, as she cannot bear the thought of a suppository.  My befuddled query, “Have you never used a tampon?”  Her emphatic response, “NEVER.”  We pause a moment while we both consider the absurdity of our situation.  I wonder how she can allow a man to insert his yeast-ridden DICK up there but cannot bring herself to shove a wad of cotton up her love canal.  Suddenly a brilliant idea takes shape in my cranium.  “Why don’t you ask a pharmacist if you indeed need a prescription for an oral medication?”  My little dumpling is paralyzed with fear at the thought of actually discussing her predicament with someone other than a close confidante.  Gallantly, I offer to do the talking.  She accepts, and we approach the counter.

The female pharmacist is visbly concerned that the male aspect of the duo in front of her is asking questions about this most gynecological of issues.  I’m certain she suspects ME to be the cause of Angel’s vaginal woes.  Silently, I curse my avoidance of blonde highlights, body jewelry, and rainbow colored anything.  Sadly, she confirms that a prescription is required for the oral medication.  She lays to rest my fear that suppositories are not as effective as a pill.  It seems that with the single-dose version of the suppository, my little cabbage will be good as new in just about 24 hours. 

Wonder of wonders, Angel has no problem with presenting her purchase at the register thereby unashamedly announcing to the (non-medical professional) store employee at the counter that she needs to take a break from her recreational activity of choice for a day or so.  The purchase made, the bag, thankfully, is opaque, and we can leave. 

Ah, the joys of a gay man working with women.