9 Things That Happened When I Dated A Gynecologist

When I first started dating a gynecologist, I couldn’t figure out if his job was ridiculously sexy or hideously off-putting. After five months, I certainly had my answer…

Mansplaining took on a whole new form. Mansplaining is annoying at the best of times, but imagine the guy you’re dating mansplaining about your lady bits and birthing in a condescending way and actually (I hate to admit) knowing more than you! Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I don’t think any guy should know more about my vagina than I do.

I constantly worried that my vagina wasn’t up to scratch. Even guys who have had a lot of sexual partners aren’t exactly getting all up in there, having a poke around and taking notes. That was this guy’s job on a daily basis and I was always concerned that he was making mental notes about my vaginal health and comparing it to the others he’d seen that day. I had so many questions that I knew were super inappropriate and I didn’t really want to know the answer to. I wanted to know the prettiest one he’d seen, the ugliest one, and how mine compared. My rational brain told me he was a professional and would never think that way but equally, he’s still a regular human guy, right?

I started to become a vagina germaphobe. He always wore gloves—working in a hospital, hygiene was of the utmost importance—but even still, the thought of him being up to his elbows in placenta and vaginal secretions all day long made me feel really icky. I had to visually watch him wash his hands before he even said hello—and if I’m being frank, I was terrified I’d smell another woman’s vagina on him. Gross.

My friends loved my “dating a doctor” romance more than they did him. A few of my friends met him once, most of them never met him at all…  but they ALL loved him. They were obsessed with the fact that I was dating a doctor and thought this was the most romantic thing in the world. Little did they know his job was more of a curse than a turn-on for me.

He thought sex should happen every night. You’d think that looking at vaginas all day would put him off, but no. He wanted to have sex every night, sometimes multiple times and then again in the morning. It was just too much! I understand that at the beginning of a relationship it’s all very exciting and there tends to be more sex than when you get more familiar with each other but his libido never seemed to wane. It was exhausting and to be honest, some nights I just wanted to chill out and eat my entire pizza without having to worry about having bloated sex afterward.

He had a perpetual fear of someone announcing a call for a doctor. This was a particular fear of his that used to come out when we’d take a plane or have dinner in a restaurant. His fear was that there would be a situation like in a movie where someone shouts, “Is anyone a doctor?!” and he’d jump up and say, “Me!” but wouldn’t really be of any use unless they were about to have a baby or had a chronic case of thrush. Not really much use when IRL it’s more likely to be someone choking or having a heart attack. To be fair, I’d probably have this fear too if I was a doctor of only one very specific body part.

I realized I didn’t want a guy with a busier schedule than me. His availability was really freaking annoying. He would constantly have to change shifts last minute, work ridiculously long hours, and sometimes we wouldn’t be able to correlate our schedules even for a quick coffee for days on end. My job allows me to design my own schedule but I’m also incredibly busy so I really need a guy who can work with my free time and not someone who I have to work around too. Selfish but true.

Since we broke up, he’s now figured out he’s gay. Good for him—he’s figured something out that must have been in the back of his head for a long time. I can’t help but laugh, though. I imagine that perhaps looking at lady bits all day for years was the real swaying point!

I’ll never date a doctor again. As idyllic and romantic as some people think it is, I’ll never date a doctor of anything again. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt as they say, and I know it’s just not for me.

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