I was born with a mole on my inner thigh.
That omnipresent mole grew as I grew. It was large enough to be noticeable but only if someone had their face between my open legs. That’s where my ex-boyfriend comes into the story.
He hated that mole. I knew he hated it because he complained about it often. The mole was located in the crease of my inner thigh. It was perhaps a bit smaller than a pencil eraser, dark brown and protruding from the lighter colored skin of my body.
It was just a mole, and it wasn’t in the way. That mole didn’t even come close to encroaching upon my vagina or any other part of my intimate anatomy. It was entirely possible to engage in sex, including oral sex, with the mole lying quiet and still in exactly in the same place it had been for more than thirty years.
Unfortunately, my ex-boyfriend’s incessant complaints made me believe my body was unacceptable because of the mole. So I made an effort to remove it myself. I tried to dissolve it using wart remover, even though a doctor had told me it wasn’t a wart. Although I managed to burn a hole in my skin that turned bright red and oozed, the wart itself remained unmoved.
In fact, the acid in the wart remover only made it grow larger.
After my attempt to burn the mole off with acid failed, I turned to Google for advice. Tying a hair from my head around the base of the mole and tightening it to cut off its blood supply seemed like a perfectly logical solution. I tried it and only managed to anger the damaged yet still incredibly hardy mole further.
Now, the crease along the inner part of my thigh hurt and burned all the time, but the mole was no closer to being eradicated than it had been before I learned thanks to my ex-boyfriend that it was a problem aesthetically.
Defeated, I allowed my skin to heal and my mole to retain its rightful place on my body. Unfortunately, my then-boyfriend had other ideas — ideas that he didn’t bother to share with me. No, he was counting on the element of surprise.
I still haven’t forgiven him.
One day, as he performed cunnilingus on me, he stood up and turned on the overhead light. Since I’ve never been a fan of having a light shined directly into my vagina, I protested — but I stopped protesting when he resumed licking. He was doing such a good job that I figured I ought to enjoy it and forget about the overhead light that was on for no good reason, as far as I could tell.
I believed him when he placed a pillow over my face and explained it was to block out the light. Besides, he was still doing a great job between my legs, and I wasn’t ready for him to stop. I got greedy, and it cost me my mole.
He got up again and moved around the room. Since the bright light was on, I left the pillow on my face and couldn’t see what he was doing. He knelt between my legs again, and I suddenly felt a sharp pain on my inner thigh.
I thought he had bitten me. Hard. Throwing the pillow off my face and yelping, I pushed him away to discover that I was bleeding.
He had cut off my mole, leaving a raw wound in my inner thigh that would bleed for three days.
Today, I have a barely perceptible raised scar in the place where my mole used to be. I don’t miss it, but I don’t appreciate having had it sliced off without my permission or knowledge — especially when I was just trying to enjoy what had been an amazing session of oral sex.