By Tara Millette and Natalie Sayth

What was the start date of your last period?

Some women are great at clocking these things. All I bother to remember is it happened out at lunch. I bled through my knickers and snatched a grandma’s jumper to tie around my waist. My bum looked like a feminist Rorschach test.

Are you sexually active?

I’m actively trying to minimize cellulite jiggle. I fancy myself Lady Godiva on a horse.

How many sexual partners have you had in the last year?

I can tell from your raised eyebrows that that’s not the number you were hoping for. Believe me, I’m disappointed, too. I prefer prime numbers, just find them so satisfyingly deviant.

Do you use protection?

Yes, I make them pull out by sunrise.

Scoot down.

Make way for stubble!

More.

Savor the natural beauty. I don’t have enough to feed my guinea pig, let alone bleach my arsehole.

Even more.

I’ll put my right cheek forward. That’s the only one I had enough of a La Mer sample to moisturize.

Speculum going in.

Shouldn’t we smash a bottle of champagne on its bow first?

This will be cold for a second. 

So warm it up, you soggy bag of dicks!

Quick pinch.

Ooo, kinky 😉

Swab going in.

Doctors have invented six kinds of erectile dysfunction pills, but for me to know if I have chlamydia they still have to jam a dry cotton stick up my twat.

I’m checking your ovaries now. You’re going to feel two fingers.

Child’s play.

By the way, folic acid is great for fetal development and gynecological health in general.

Then I’ll just eat spaghetti squash for the rest of my days like every other woman and pretend that it’s actual pasta.

What birth control do you use?

I make them pull out by tea time.

Are you interested in becoming pregnant?

I’m interested in how women have subjugated themselves to men for the history of our species just to ensure we continue to exist. You’d think after 200,000 odd years, women would have caught on that it’s all just a scam to keep us subservient, but here we are.

Perhaps it’s best you don’t, at your age.

Fuck off, I still want the option.

I’d have to run a test to see how many eggs you have left.

Splendid. Let’s indulge my irrational fear of infertility when I’m not even sure I want to procreate in this sham of a world. Everything’s too hot, screaming men are back in fashion, and Alan Rickman’s dead, but yes, test me, you halitosis-drenched white raisin.

You’re not living in sin, are you?

No, but five out of seven isn’t bad.

And what’s your current method of contraception?

They pull out by twilight.

Who knows, you could make a great mom.

But an even better astronaut!

What does your husband think about you not having kids at 35?

I don’t know; let’s call him. Do you have the number for Idris Elba?

Have you considered freezing your eggs?

Just makes them harder to scramble.

I’ll give you two months of birth control at a time, I think. Then we can reassess.

I would call you a controlling misogynist who enslaves women for their uteruses, but this is honestly a good rule of thumb for all of my relationships.