Frankenclit part 1

A few months back, I was fooling around with my boyfriend one morning after a particularly rambunctious night in the dungeon, and I winced when he licked me. He likes a bit of a gasping reaction, and I do too, but I winced more than either of us typically enjoy.

He bit my thigh and looked up at me. “Too rough last night?”

I looked at the bruises on my thighs and upper arms, and laughed. “You may have to go easy on me for a few days. It felt like my clit was going to pop out in your mouth like a marble. In a good way.”

“That is NOT how female anatomy works, Kitten,” he said. “Here, I’ll show you…”

And then it happened. It popped out in his mouth, just like a little marble. I’m not sure which of us was more surprised. There was no bleeding, which seemed weird in retrospect. It didn’t hurt anymore.  The look on his face was really something. A combination of she-told-me-so and oh-my-fucking-god-this-did-not-just-happen.

We put it in a baggy, and put the baggy in a cup of ice, and headed off to spend the day in the ED.

He could not have been more apologetic. Or traumatised. He was shaking so hard that I had to drive. Does that seem wrong to anyone else? It seemed wrong to me. He should have been driving, right?

“I don’t think it’s your fault, Scout, but you know what this means don’t you?”

“Yeah–I am NEVER going down on you again.”

“No, that’s not what it–HEY! You broke it. You bought it. Sorry, I know this is traumatic for you, too. You’ve probably never had someone’s clit pop out like that. Ew, and it was right in your mouth, too. You’re probably going to need to get some therapy for that, because a lifetime of no oral sex is really not an option for me. Anyway. All I meant is that you are going to be buying me a very fancy dinner tonight.”

“That goes without saying. Anyone who loses their primary orgasmic unit gets a really good dinner. It’s only fair. You seem to be taking this awfully well.”

“It is too surreal to be worried about it, and it doesn’t hurt at all. Don’t you think it should hurt? What if they can’t make it work again? Do you think I should be driving? What if I suddenly bleed out and go into shock? More importantly, what if I never have an orgasm again?”

“I am so sorry. This has never happened before, no matter how intense the scene was. Maybe the clamps were on too tight last night?”

Amazingly, we got to the ED before either of us could start to freak out too much. I explained the injury to the ED staff.  That was embarrassing. I made sure everyone understood that the clamp marks and other assorted bruises were entirely consensual. That was also embarrassing. No one in the ED gave a crap about that. They’ve seen it all before. The only thing that anyone seemed at all shocked about was the little pink marble in the baggy. People bring in severed parts fairly regularly, but not that part.

The clitoris, apparently, does not just pop out like a marble. I was some sort of anatomical freak.

“Can you fix it?”

Well. They were going to have to call in some specialists. Really? BDSM clit damage specialists? Is that even a thing? No, apparently it isn’t. They were a little puzzled about what sort of specialist to call, so they called in everyone they could think of. Although it was a traumatic injury to me, trauma surgeons are really more used to massive bleeding and head injuries and ruptured things. Amputated limbs. There wasn’t really anything to indicate that there was any trauma, not even a drop of blood. No injuries showed up on any of the imaging studies. My blood work was totally normal. They called in a regular surgeon who thought they should contact a gynecological surgeon.

She was as perplexed as anyone else.

The surgeon proceeded to explain to me that the little pink button we all love is actually much more than that. It’s more like a very small penis, and the clit is the tip of it,  like the glans penis.  The rest of it is inside. The external part isn’t separate, but part of a larger whole. It doesn’t just pop off. It requires what most of the world refers to as female genital mutilation, or a clitoridectomy. It involves a lot of cutting, at a minimum. Some sort of major traumatic tear. There would be lacerations and blood. Most of my clitoris was still present and apparently uninjured. Aside from the recreational bruises, there was no sign of injury except for the missing pink pearl. 

The part that popped off showed no sign of injury, and apparently didn’t look like it had ever been attached to anything. Anyone. It was completely smooth, and had not a single scratch on it.

I was suffering from an injury that no one seemed to think was possible.

But there it was, in a baggy. I wanted it to be put back on.

The trouble was, there was no evidence that it had ever been attached to me in the first place.

“So you think I just stopped in at the clit bank and checked one out? Of course, it’s mine. Where else would it have come from? Can’t it be tested or something? Is there so much clitoris fraud that you won’t take my word for it?”

My boyfriend put his arms around me, and entwined his fingers in my hair to calm  me down while they explained that they were sending me home. There wasn’t anything that could be done right then. We could resume sexual activity as soon as we wished, but they recommended a more vanilla approach for the time being. They could not tell me how the injury would impact sexual response , but it seemed likely that there could be extensive impairment.

Based on the looks we exchanged, sexual activity was right above eating shit as something either of us felt like doing any time soon.

The gynecological surgeon would consult with other specialists and determine a plan. My clit would be stored in the lab for possible future reattaching.  She would call me with the names of some psychologists we could see who specialize in sexual trauma.

“You’re driving,” I said to my boyfriend, “because as soon as we get in the car and pull out of the fucking driveway I am going to have an emotional meltdown the likes of which you have never seen. You can join me when we get home.”

He kissed me, and handed me his bandana to cry into.

“That’s why I love you, Scout. You never leave the house without a pocketknife and a bandana. You are always prepared.”

“I love you too, Kitten. I promise not to be nice to you tonight. I know you hate it when I am nice to you just because you’re crying.”

“You say the sweetest things. I think this time you can go ahead and be as nice as you want. I suspect I might need it.”

We hugged each other tight, and he opened the car door for me. He got into the driver’s seat, put on his seatbelt and we pulled out of the Emergency Department driveway.
The tears started to fall, right on schedule.

“Scout?”

“Yeah, Kitten?”

“I’m hungry. Can you take me to le Pigeon?”

“Sure, anywhere you want. Are you sure you feel up to the wait?”

“I think you will be able to convince people to let us jump ahead on the list. You have a very hysterical looking woman to point at while you do the talking.”

“I do my best work with props.”

“I love it when you use me to get tables at restaurants.”

We had a great meal, and cried some more when we got home. The next day,we got a call from the gynecological surgeon with some interesting news. 

There was a guy in New York who specialized in biological bionics. He thought he was at a point where he could soup up my clit and implant it again. 

He couldn’t promise full functionality,but it should be close. We packed for what would turn out to be a very long trip.