One time, as we sat together in the waiting room of a uro-gynecologist whose name really was Dr. Flesh, we overheard two young teenagers, also waiting to see the aptly named doctor, engaged in energetic conversation.
The girls were talking loudly, interrupting each other and giggling. Richard and I, not being native Bostonians, could barely penetrate their thick
The other one quizzed her. “When did it happen?” “Did it hurt?” “Do your parents know?” “PSDS, I don’t ever want to have that. It hurts!”
We struggled to figure out what “PSDS” was. It sounded gynecological (especially given our location), but we couldn't be sure. We listened more closely and heard the second girl ask, “How did he do it?” “Did it bleed?”
Richard and I quietly agreed that they
Richard and I quietly agreed that theymust be talking about either a first sexual experience or a new form of venereal disease.
At that moment, the second girl leaned over the first, pulled her hair away from her ears, and said, “Well, good for you. They do look really pretty.”
Richard and I both started laughing. “PSDS.”
(N.B. This is actually a twist on a story told to me by my brother-in-law)