At the Gynaesthetician

The doctor looked the sixteen-year-old over, appraisingly. She was not pretty. Her nose was slightly off-centre, she had too many freckles, and her hazel eyes were small and beady. She was decidedly overweight, with a small chest and far too thick thighs. Clearly out of shape. He curled his lip and looked away in some disgust. What a waste of time, to assess someone like this. They should just lump all the under-fives together in one caste and be done with it, let them mix as they liked. Sometimes, a genetic accident gave a pair of fours or five a child who was a six or seven, but it was far too rare for there to be much point.
Himself, he was a handsome man, with dark brown hair and ice blue eyes. They all were, these men who made decisions. How can an unattractive person assess attractiveness? And intelligence only takes you so far without beauty, after all. Which was how Imogen already knew she was destined for the mediocre, no matter how well she did in school.
The doctor consulted his tablet, looked at her again, top to toe. It made er feel as though she were cattle. ‘Step on the scale, please,’ he said after a moment, and she did as she was told. He made a humming noise, made a note on the tablet. ‘BMI . . . Twenty-nine. Verging on obesity.’
Even though she already knew that, Imogen’s heart sank as he said it. Destined for the scrap heap.
This was not, of course, the final assessment. This was a placement test for the First Time Programme. Later, when she had finished secondary school, there would be other tests. IQ test, fertility test, another physical examination, the works. After that, there would be no turning back. The doctor left the room. He hadn’t told her to step off the scale, but she did anyway. The examination room was chilly and she hugged herself where she stood in her camisole and knickers.
A few minutes later, the door opened and a nurse walked in. She was slim, beautiful, sexy in her short, white nurse’s uniform. She sat Imogen down in a chair, checked her blood pressure, drew a couple of vials of her blood. Then she said, ‘Follow me, please.’
Imogen wondered what kinds of tests the boys went through. Did the boys who would end up in her caste have to endure having these gorgeous nurses paraded in front of them, women the likes of which they could never have? Must be painful, if so.
The nurse took her into another examination room. This one had a gynaecologist chair in the centre, and Imogen was instructed to remove her underwear and sit. Imogen hesitated. She had already been informed that she’d have to get naked, but she didn’t like it. Her hands shook as they hovered over her waistband.
Imogen didn’t like looking at her own body, let alone having other people look at it. In school, after P.E., she’d often foregone showering once she had hit puberty. When she got told off by the teacher, she began to stay behind until everyone else had finished, turn out the lights, and shower quickly in the dark, so she wouldn’t have to look at herself. She hated the curves of her body, hated her breasts, and most especially hated what was down there.
‘Come on, we haven’t got all day!’ said the nurse impatiently. Imogen closed her eyes and slipped off her knickers, feeling her face turn warm.
Trying very hard not to look at herself, she sat in the chair and put her legs up in the stirrups, as instructed. The nurse brought out the wax and proceeded to remove all of Imogen’s pubic hair. It stung. Imogen cried a little, quietly. Then the nurse left the room without a word. At least this room was warmer. Not daring to move, and not having been instructed to get up, Imogen stayed as she was.
It only took a minute or so for the doctor to come in. Same one as before. He was closer to Imogen now, and she could see his name tag clearly, even though they had made her take off her glasses to better see her facial features. His tag read Dr. Patrick Johnson, Gynaesthetician. He was followed by the nurse, who held a tablet, ready to take down any remarks he might have.
He pulled on a pair of disposable gloves and sat down on a stool before the chair Imogen was in. She shut her eyes again. The knowledge that he was looking right into her . . . thing . . . made her very anxious. She tried to take deep breath. It won’t be long, she told herself. It’ll be over soon.
‘Overlarge inner labia . . . Uncircumcised clitoris,’ said the doctor. The nurse tapped her screen. ‘Somewhat sloppy-looking.’ He looked at the girl, trying to catch her eye, but they were shut tight. He spoke to her directly for the first time since instructing her to get on the scale. ‘You’re sure you’re a virgin?’
Imogen flushed deep red. Opening her eyes, she met the doctor’s gaze. She swallowed, ready to reply, but before she could do so, he had inserted two fingers coated in lubricant inside her, feeling about a bit. She shut her eyes again and whimpered. It hurt a little bit, but more than that it was humiliating. She felt like she might be sick.
‘Medium tightness,’ the doctor stated.
Next came the speculum. The metal felt cold. Dr. Johnson shone a light inside. ‘No tearing of the hymen. Virgin.’
Why did you even ask? Imogen wondered, but said nothing.
He brought out an ultrasound wand, to examine her cervix, uterus and ovaries. He then did a pap smear, before removing the speculum and performing a quick rectal exam. Imogen had taken a laxative twelve hours previously and not eaten since, as instructed. It still felt deeply embarrassing.
‘Patient’s rectum is acceptable,’ he said, and the nurse tapped her screen again.
The doctor stood up and turned away, taking his gloves off and binning them.
‘Get up, please,’ said the nurse. Imogen’s back and knees felt stiff as she got out of the gynaecologist’s chair. It had not been built for comfort. She stood on the floor, barefoot, her bottom bare, feeling embarrassed, exposed, and foolish.
The doctor turned to face her again. ‘Top off, please.’
Once again, Imogen hesitated. She reached for the hem of her camisole with shaking hands, closed her eyes, took it slowly off. The room suddenly felt very cold and her nipples budded.
‘Cup size?’ he asked, addressing the nurse. She consulted her chart.
‘Eighty-five A.’
‘Bit flabby for an A-cup,’ said the doctor, shaking his head. ‘Right. Overall assessment: Patient 105694, Imogen Hall, is chubby with small breasts and somewhat irregularly shaped inner labia. Face symmetry of sixty-six percent. Freckles. Thick thighs. Confirmed virgin. Moderately tight vaginal canal. Preliminary caste rating: four, awaiting results of blood tests and pap smear. Anything to add, Sandra?’
The nurse consulted her chart again. ‘Other than being somewhat overweight, the patient is in good physical condition. Blood pressure is normal, family medical history is clear, save for a great aunt who had breasts cancer.'
The doctor nodded. ‘Suggested improvements: Diet and moderate exercise. Labiaplasty, liposuction, nose job and breast enlargement, for the potential of a caste rating of five at next assessment.’ He looked Imogen over once more. ‘Laser eye treatment is also advisable. Or at least switch to contacts.’
He left the room.
‘Please, get dressed,’ said Sandra the nurse. ‘I will escort you out. Your final results will be mailed to you in a week.’
Imogen still stood with her eyes closed. ‘Can . . . could you turn out the light?’
Sandra frowned. ‘Why?’
Imogen swallowed. ‘I . . . I don’t like, you know, seeing. My body.’
Sandra sighed. She couldn’t blame the girl. She wouldn’t like looking at her body if she looked like that either. ‘Sure,’ she said, walked over to the door, and switched off the ceiling light. Only the emergency exit glowed green, giving enough light to navigate the room by.
Imogen finally opened her eyes and reached for her clothes.