The Awkward Path To Getting Lucky. Summer Heacock

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СКАЧАТЬ pops her head back up. “It’s funny,” she says, pointing at Liz. “You can’t say vagina, but you’re out having all kinds of about-to-be-newlywed sex with your fiancé, and then there’s Kat, who isn’t bothered by anything anywhere, and she’s the one with the broken special. There’s some unbalanced universe for you.”

      She goes back to decorating her cake, and Liz and I stare at each other awkwardly for a moment. Shannon comes back in and asks, “Did we get it sorted? What boob are we going with?”

      “Kat’s,” Butter says. “I’ve still got the best boobs, though.”

      “She’s not wrong,” I agree. I curtsy and head back over to the sketch pad on my desk. I’ve got a small pile of royal icing next to it that I’m crafting tiny ravens out of. “Shannon, check these out.” I hold up a tiny bird. “I’m not sure how practical they are, but they sure look cool.”

      “Ooh,” Shannon coos. “These are amazing!”

      “I don’t think I could swing a thousand of them per game, though. They’re stupidly intricate.” I rub my hand over my forehead. “But they’d certainly make us look more badass than the other shops.”

      “Maybe they could be for big events? Like for homecoming or playoffs or something.”

      I shrug. “Could be.” I take the little candy raven back from her and set him on the desk. He is pretty boss. I’d likely go blind or succumb to arthritis in my thirties if I tried to make them on the regular, though.

      But we really need this contract.

      The idea of costing my team this deal kills me. It won’t be the flavors or the cake that does it—we rule on taste. Our online reviews always trump the other shops. My assumption is the only other shop that counts as true competition is The Cakery, but this is a college basketball team. Pretention isn’t going to get them as far as bitchin’ little candied ravens would.

      The art is going to make the real impression, so I need to get it right. Every free moment I’ve had at the shop that isn’t dedicated to staring at my own tits has been set aside to perfecting the toppings to these cakes. Butter and Shannon are whipping up batch after batch of potential flavor combinations.

      I know they’ll nail it. So I can’t screw this up.

      “You nervous about therapy today, Pumpkin?” Shannon asks casually as she slices through a tray of brownies.

      “No,” I say, turning my attention back to my notebook. “Why do you ask?”

      “Because your face is all squinched up.”

      I snort. “I’m thinking about ravens. And besides, the appointment is just for intake. I’m not doing the therapy there.”

      Though Dr. Snow wasn’t super impressed with my refusal even to consider doing an official appointment or two, I left her office armed with new birth control pills and anxiety meds for my special, a stack of brightly colored pamphlets discussing the disorder and how to conquer it, and a new determination to get this shit done.

      I might have missed the moral of her pep talk, but in my mind, if I can just get past this, things will calm down.

      Shannon sighs. “I know you want to do all of it on your own, but it’s really not that bad with the therapist. It’s kind of like a half-hour Pap smear.”

      “That’s what hell is,” Butter says, pointing her glitter brush at Shannon. “Hell is an infinite Pap smear. That’s not how you talk someone into going to physical therapy, girl.”

      “I’m with Butter.” I shudder. “And I can handle it on my own. But I’ll keep the endless Pap smear on the back burner.”

      Shannon glares at us both, but I turn back to the desk and resume working on my ravens.

      “It’s okay to ask for help, you know,” she mutters into her mug of coffee.

      “I do,” I say, narrowing my eyes at the majestic candy bird resting on my notebook. “I’m asking the universe to help this raven not take seventeen minutes to make, but still look this awesome.”

       11

      I’m still wearing my pants, and my ass isn’t stuck to tissue paper, but there’s a backless gown on a tray a few feet away that’s not instilling hope in me.

      The physical therapy pavilion is nothing like what I expected. It’s the size of a gymnasium, but with carpeted floors and equipment everywhere. When I walked in, I saw the whole gamut of those in need. A little old lady pulling what looked like giant rubber bands away from the wall. A small child with braces on his knees walking between parallel bars. A businessman doing awkward-looking stretches on a table.

      Earlier, in the waiting room, I couldn’t help but wonder how many women there were waiting for special therapy.

      Now, I’m wondering if there’s a comparable therapy for men.

      If so, I imagine it would involve...lifting, somehow.

      This line of thinking is making me question my own sanity in a big way.

      I’m in one of the private rooms off to the side, as I’m assuming vagina therapy isn’t something they’d want to parade in front of the elderly and small children.

      On the other hand, as the owner of a broken vagina, I’m not sure how comfortable I am with there being only a cloth curtain serving as a door to this little room.

      Perhaps something with a dead bolt would be better suited.

      The curtain whisks back, and a man appears. “Hi, Miss Carmichael,” he says with a smile. All I can think about is how mortified I would have been if I’d had my feet up in the stirrups, on display for everyone to see. He didn’t even knock!

      “I’m David, and I’ll be getting you started here.”

      “Are you the intake guy?”

      He sits on a rolling stool a few feet away. I see the therapy table over there, but I’m not budging from this chair. “No, I’m your PT. Now, let’s look at your chart.”

      I blink at him for a moment. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re the vagina therapist?”

      His eyes dart up to me, and he squirms on his stool a little. “Well, I mean, I’m a physical therapist, and that’s one of the types of therapy I do, yes. Although if you’d be more comfortable with a female therapist, we can absolutely reassign you.”

      I shrug. “It’s not that. I was just wondering what would make a guy want to grow up and be a vagina therapist.” Some frightening mental imagery hits me and I mutter, “Actually, never mind. I have an idea of the appeal.”

      He lets out an affronted laugh. “Like I said, I’m a physical therapist. This is only part of what I do. It’s something I was trained in, just like I was trained in all sorts of other therapies.”

      I suddenly realize exactly how rude I’m being and feel СКАЧАТЬ