There were a few horror stories embroidered into the sexual tapestry of April’s life to choose from. Happily married with children now, April is pinnacle of matriarchy and motherhood. Her cooking is unreal, her maternal instincts are unparalleled and the girl still looks like a straight-up 10/10 on the school runs! But she would absolutely be the first one to tell you that she was totally wild in her younger days – thankfully for all her friends because it makes her totally understanding without being judgemental, brutally honest without being hurtful and utterly hilarious (if you spin the tale right).
For this story I had to pick my favourite of her exploits and that, without doubt, is The B.V. and Shower Incident of 2010.
Bacteria Vaginosis, in April’s words, is a vaginal infection that makes your flute stink like something has crawled in there and died. As someone with no sense of smell, she horrified me when she told me about this new and devastating affliction which is seemingly otherwise side-effectless (excluding a greyish discharge which can look a bit like ectoplasm but that’s not in everyone). April went on to say that it is caused by a PH imbalance, usually caused by overwashing the vulval area (steer clear of those feminine wash products, ladies) and is worsened during intercourse when the entire room fills with the aroma of carcass, death and pure rot.
Before BV had walked into April’s life, back in 2010 she was out painting the town red, most likely on a Monday night or something equally as crazy and she met an attractive male to go home with. April is a total babe; long, straight hair down to her bum and a teeny tiny 5ft4, skinny with humongous fake boobs that sit like two perfectly rounded boulders on a permanently tanned chest. She had any man she wanted and on this particular night, she wanted this particular guy.
On entry to his home she asked to go to the toilet so she could freshen up. But once there, perched precariously on the porcelain, a new and unsavoury scent curled into her nostrils.
‘What the fuck is that smell?’ April asked herself, brushing off the thought that the stench might possibly be coming from her. But it became abundantly clear as the smell wafted outward in all-consuming waves, filling the room with the scent of death and rot, that it was in fact April’s puss that was causing the unpleasantness. She’d been dancing fiercely and running hither and thither in her inebriated glory – it was unlike her to smell so badly but it wasn’t outside of the realms of likelihood that she’d be less than fresh after an evening of partying hard.
Calling through the door and feigning nonchalance as she did so, April shouted, ‘mind if I have a quick shower before…?’ She didn’t need to finish the sentence; they both knew what would be happening when April reached the other side of en-suite door and she couldn’t have her labia perfuming the room with carcass and infection for that to take place.
The guy didn’t mind and he reciprocated April’s calls by delivering the instructions of how to utilise the shower through the door. Breathing a sigh of sweet relief, April disrobed and stepped into the welcome, warm confines of the shower.
Restored to her freshly scented state minutes later, April turned off the blissfully warm water and noted she had sobered up by this point. Perhaps the panic of her unpleasant aroma had ignited sobriety in her like a body-odoured smelling salt or perhaps she had just not topped up the alcohol consumption in a while; either way she couldn’t deduce a valid reason why she couldn’t open these fucking shower doors.
Push, pull, slide and slam as she might, poor little April with her beautiful long, dark hair and her miniature Barbie figure could not get those doors to budge. She knew if she pulled or pushed any harder the glass would smash. She was trying so hard to get out she could see the doors bending slightly at the opening but they simply would not give! Like a white, non-Disney Pocahontas framed within this cuboid sanctuary-turned-prison she began to panic in all her naked splendour. Growing hot as the steam from the shower subsided and her body air dried she panicked that she might never get out of this damn cubicle.
Obviously, after much trying and failing for what felt like hours, the doors eventually gave way and April was able to step out – now completely dry – and reassemble herself in working order. The hellish smell no longer filled the room and she caught sight of her perfectly made-up, beautiful face in the mirror as she sauntered toward the door where she hoped her awaiting man had not fallen asleep. This night was salvageable and she was determined to get hers!
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he asked, laying like one of Jack Dawson’s French girls on his bed, waiting for her. She remembered now why she had returned home with him; he was quite the specimen of a man with his muscles and his dark hair with eyes to match.
Blaming her delay on her previously drunken state she brushed all memories of the anxiety in the en-suite to one side and began pulling out all of her best moves on this handsome gentleman. Things were going well…exceedingly well, in fact. Until…
There was that smell again! It filled her nostrils and seemed to snake it’s deathly fingers down her throat and fill her lungs until every breath she took exploded this rotten fragrance into the bed. It was everywhere; consuming her senses. As soon as the guy had entered her the smell had wafted out of her cervix; she imagined her vagina like a pot of slime – the more he poked and prodded his penis around with rhythm and energy the more this smell secreted from the sides of his penis and all around him. His ball sack acted like a fan, dispersing the smelly atoms outward as they escaped, reaching the air and multiplying in intensity. The stenching particles floated all around them until breathing in became akin to burying your face into the open chest cavity of a gunshot victim who had been dead for a fortnight…outside…in a heatwave…in the jungle.
And yet, inexplicably, the guy continued. He pummelled at April, erupting more and more of this tangy emanation with each stroke of his hips. Not wanting to draw attention to the fact that the room had become perfumed by the decaying flesh of rats April lay back and thought of England, praying to God it would finish soon. The smell of her vagina was bringing the alcohol back up and she wasn’t sure that his ejaculation would help with that.
When, at last, the ordeal was over the gentleman politely opened a window in order to ‘cool down’ which April obviously knew to be code for ‘get the rotten smell of your fanny out of my bedroom’ and rolled over to sleep what was left of his drunkenness off. April quietly dressed and returned home, frantically googling what on earth could have caused such a hideous occurrence to have befallen her vaginal health. It was only in conversation with a close friend some months later that April finally heard enough to piece together the fact that it was B.V., that demonic vulval epidemic, that had caused the putrid stench on that fateful night. It was in the same conversation that April learned the very worst thing you can do when such an affliction takes hold of your lady parts is frantically wash with as many perfumed goods as you can lay your fake-tanned hands on…this merely serves to increase the infection ten-fold.
So the moral of the story is this: Your vagina can pretty much take care of herself. Overwashing will definitely do you some serious harm so let your minge do what minges do and sort its own PH balance out. A little soap and water to keep fresh on a daily basis is more than enough. Take care of your vulva, and your vulva will take care of you. But more than that; if you go home with a guy after a drunken night out and you get stuck in his shower for around 30 minutes after noticing your labia smell like putrecation, desperately trying to release yourself…take it as a sign that it’s not meant to be and get the hell out of there, sisters!!