He talks to me during the entire appointment as if I’m not naked on a table with my feet in stirrups, as if he’s not looking at parts of me that only my husband looks at and even then, usually in the dark. He looks up from his work and meets my eyes. Once, when I had a yeast infection, he said, “It’s as angry as a swarm of bees down here,” and I couldn’t keep from laughing. I mean, face it: gynecological appointments are uncomfortable. We’re trained to be embarrassed about it all, about our bodies and their needs and their imperfections. When the body parts in question are connected to sex, it’s even more embarrassing. I cannot count the times I’ve blushed at the gynecologist, my face getting hot and a bead of sweat trickling down my armpit, and then blushed even more as I wonder if other parts of my skin besides my face are turning red.