There are a lot of drama queens out there that will tell you mammograms are “horrible”. They'll tell you war stories about how their friend, Susan, was in the “squished” position when the power went out and she had to stand there “for hours” in unbearable pain. Some even have the nerve to compare this experience with childbirth.
After hearing these atrocities, I expected the worst when I went in for my first mammogram at age 40. I stood there, breast posed on the tray as the robotic spatula piece slowly made it's way down, ready to squish my middle-aged breast into a flattened pancake. Goodbye, sweet breast. You served me well through many a grope. The robot does its squeeze, and I proudly note that my breast size has increased. It's a 2 dimensional shape now, but it's stretched out past the first marked curve, almost making it to the second one. (It reminds me of those stretching exercises where you sit on the floor and see how far you can extend your fingers.) The technician tells me to hold my breath. Here it comes...that unbearable pain... She snaps her X-Ray, and the mechanical arm comes up. That's it? That's the unbearable pain that experienced mammogrammers are talking about? What wimps!
Clearly these women that scare mammogram-virgins with their stories are not comfortable with experimentation and sexual openness. For those of us that are single and don't have access to men who regularly fondling our breasts, the annual mammogram can provide a sexual adventure like none other.
Yesterday was the day. No deodorant allowed. It's OK. Mr. Roboto and I enjoy our natural scents. I wore the hospital gown parted down the middle, just hinting of the breasts beneath. I opened the gown slowly and the technician gently cupped my breast, placing it gingerly on the tray as the robot enjoyed this bit of foreplay. He, of course, was immediately turned on and started coming down on me.
“Hold your breath so I can get a good picture” the technician advised. I did as told, keeping quiet, squelching my urges to moan. I whispered a quiet “oooh...that hurt so good” under my breath once the arm started lifting. Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto. We got into several different positions, doing “it” at different angles, the photographer guiding us through every shot. I worked the camera, knowing my breasts were being handled by a professional.
The session was over too soon. The technician went out to check the proofs while I had a quiet moment with Mr. Roboto. Still flustered from our sexy photo shoot, I was tempted to disrobe entirely and wrap myself around his steely pole. But I felt chilly and somehow, the machine seemed distant. It's funny how one moment he can be squeezing my breasts...the next he's just sitting there, uncommunicative and cold. I had a moment of melancholy. I was just another pair of breasts to him...he'll feel thousands before he touches mine again.
“Would you like to be my Mr. December?” I ask him. He sits there, saying nothing and I wonder if he cares about me at all. Machines....
The technician comes back and tells me the photos are good and I'm free to go.
Even though the robot is immobile, I know he is a complex being. It's not his fault that he has no life. It's not like he can run off to see the wizard like the Tin Man.
Even if I mean nothing to him, I will savor the sweet experience of our yearly rendezvous. He may not love me, but I know he's looking out for me and some day, may even save my life. Each relationship is different and we have to love it for what it is.
Goodbye you hunky robot. I'll see you next year.