Effing Dykes Presents: What Lies Beneath (Her Fingernails)

This is a Special Guest Post by Krista of Effing Dykes! Effing Dykes is a queer girl blog that’s hilarious and smart and a little raunchy and WE LOVE IT. Probably wouldn’t be a terrible idea to set aside some time and get sucked into an Effing Dykes wormhole, if you haven’t already. Just make sure you come back here to read this post, because it’s special, as aforementioned.

Hiya lezzers!

I’ve got marshmallows and gluten-free graham crackers, so…

WHO WANTS TO HEAR A SCARY STORY??

MWAH HA HAHAHAHA!

Get your buddy. Everybody got your buddy? Good. Hold on tight to your buddy’s hand.

‘Cause this is a true story.

Ahem.

Once upon a time, when I was so newly gay I didn’t even know I was newly gay…

An older lesbian at the now-defunct queer bar called Za’s in Green Bay, Wisconsin (I was totally just there to dance) gave me some advice:

1) Never open a joint checking account with your lover
2) Don’t fake orgasms
3) Make sure a woman’s fingernails are clean.

The wise lesbian was in her late 40’s, an age group so far away from my 19-years-old-with-a-fake-ID self that I couldn’t even imagine what it must be like to be so ancient.

How sad, I thought. Here she is at a bar and she’s old. I hope I don’t end up lonely like her.

Isn’t it fun to be the center of your own universe?

What a little shit I was.

For some reason, though, I walked away from Za’s that night repeating her three rules to myself.

When I woke up, I thought of them.

It was kind of like in The Silver Chair, when Polly and Eustace Scrubb are charged by Aslan to remember The Signs. Don’t act like you don’t re-read your Narnia boxed-set at least once a year.

Anyway! through the years, I always remembered the three life lessons the lesbian had taught me. Her advice made sense.

I never opened a joint checking account with anyone.

I never faked orgasms again after the first few times I did it, realizing I was, in fact, dooming myself to a perpetual cycle of shitty sex by rewarding poor performance with my cries of “ecstasy.”

And I always secretly checked a girl’s fingernails before I slept with her.

Short? Check.

No scratchy edges? Check.

Clean? It’s go time.

But why, sluts? What is the big deal about fingernails? What’s with all the short-nailed lesbian jokes? What?

I mean, alright, I get it. It’s harder to fuck with long nails. You could maybe puncture a lung or something.

But it’s not impossible. I’ve had long nails before for burlesque shows; screwin’ with ‘em ain’t all that hard — you just make sure to use the pads of your fingers.

So why was that lesbian so emphatic about clean fingernails?
You guys, she was SO. EMPHATIC.

I decided to do some debunking.

Surely nothing could really happen to you if you got fucked by someone with dirty nails.

And then I remembered a story so horrible I’d almost forgotten it.

Homos.

Bad shit can happen.

This horror story comes to us courtesy of my good-looking friend “Cai,” who has seen more pussy in heat than a kitty clinic on Free Spay Day.

Ok.

Cai was in Miami when she met a very hot femme we’ll call Katie.

Katie smelled like sugar cookies baking, wore a leopard-print bikini, had gigantic gold hoops that shimmered in the light, and also possessed one of the finest asses Cai had ever seen.

She secretly texted me a picture of Katie at the pool so she could brag, and I texted back, “I would hit that till my hand fell off.”

So, yes, Katie.

Cai took Katie home that night. There had been some serious drinking.

While undressing Katie in the half-light, Cai saw something she hadn’t really noticed before: Katie had cool nails.

In fact, Katie had a long, rhinestone-tipped French manicure. Juuuust like Rihanna.

Cai couldn’t stop the mental image of those nails clawing down her back while she fucked Katie, so animalistic sex commenced.

Cai even let Katie fuck her, even though she ordinarily never lets anybody do that. What the hell, she figured. Going home tomorrow. Never see this girl again. I can get topped for a night.

Let’s fast-forward a few weeks, shall we?

Something was wrong with Cai’s “area.”

Seriously, seriously wrong. It itched. It burned.

Some, um, greenish-yellowish stuff was oozing from it. And when I say some I mean excessive. amounts. of. pus.

Cai refused to go to the lady-doctor.

Because being supportive is what friendship is all about, when she told me, I said, “So you finally got the clap. Whorebag.”

Cai laughed nervously. She went home, googled “the clap” and became convinced that she did, indeed have gonorrhea. She decided to go, for the first time ever (she was 28), to our queer-friendly neighborhood gyno clinic.

They didn’t know what was wrong with her.

They tested her for gonorrhea. They tested for syphilis, herpes, HPV, chlamydia, the works. Nothing.

Cai was in some pain. She needed answers. She had been putting the ‘pus’ in “pussy” for almost a month now.

So they gave her an ultrasound.

AND WOULD YOU GUESS WHAT THEY FOUND.

Vaginal tears. All over the inside of her vag.

Lots and lots of tears.

Cai had been ripped to shreds. Her insides were hanging in ribbons. Looked like crepe paper birthday decorations in there.

And everything – every last inch – was infected.

It would seem that when Katie used her fabulous long nails to give Cai a vigorous drunk-fuck, nobody knew that her nails were also a festering breeding ground for bacterial vaginosis.

Awesome.

Cai claims to have been a stone-cold top ever since.

My best friend wikipedia says you can get nasty infections from dirty nails. Apparently, there are sometimes staphylococcus germs hangin’ out, which can cause anything from skin boils to motherfucking meningitis.

And guess what else?

Pinworm eggs.

S’all I’m gonna say.