Mouth
◊ Dentists, you can kiss my ass.
Well, their assistants. Dental technicians, I guess you'd call them. My actual dentist is exempt because he is sweet and nice and wears funky black glasses like hipsters wear now. I have been going to his office ever since the bad old days when I was being tortured by my orthodontist and it was only today that I finally noticed his hair has gone gray.
Anyway.
I woke up too early this morning and gingerly removed my tongue barbell so I could get my teeth cleaned. A chirpy woman who talked to me like I was a nervous six-year-old or a cat that needed to be coaxed into trying a new brand of cat food poked and scraped at my gums with the usual nasty sharp implements. She lectured me about flossing as I rolled my eyes and thought "Yeah, yeah yeah" and imagined her jaws flapping open and closed like a sock puppet's. Then she told me I had the beginnings of gingivitis and I went all serious for about 20 minutes until my kidneys started hurting from suppressing all the backed-up sarcasm.
The technician coated my teeth with gritty stuff that tasted like dirt, trailed my own drool across my chin every time she pulled a tool out of my mouth, kept resting her hand on my eyebrow piercing, lined my mouth with the surprisingly complex and nauseating taste of latex and raped my tender gums with dental floss. I spent the whole time staring past her at the mourning doves in the tree outside the window.
The only way this was different from all the dentist-chair time I logged as a kid was that my gag reflex has gotten a whole lot milder than it was ten years ago. I credit all the time I've spent administering blow jobs in the last few years with that particular improvement, thank you.
I also had to have a cast made of my teeth because my teeth have been shifting. This means having a form filled with evil plaster goo jammed on your teeth and then yanked off hard enough that it feels like your lower jaw will tear away with it.
This also means the ultimate evil: a retainer.
If you'll excuse me, I have to go crawl into a closet and cry on myself now.