The Awkward Path To Getting Lucky. Summer Heacock

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СКАЧАТЬ of groin injuries, so it’s not really about the equipment.”

      There it is. Penis therapy. I’m tempted to hunt Constance down and inquire about the specifics.

      Sighing, I offer, “I’m sorry. That was horribly impolite. I’m feeling a bit twitchy about all of this.”

      “Understandable,” he says kindly. “Give me just a minute to get caught up on your chart, and we can get started.”

      I tap my toes to the beat of some unidentifiable pop song I heard on the bus ride over, and he reads silently. He seems like a nice enough guy. A bit dude-bro, to be honest. The sleeves of his oxford are rolled up, his tie is too loose and he’s wearing cargo pants. He’s buff enough for me to assume that he spends his time between patients using all the equipment in the pit to get in extra workouts.

      “So,” he says when he finishes reading, “this has been going on for about two years? Can you tell me a little bit about what was happening in your life then?”

      I frown at him. “Why?”

      “Because,” he explains slowly, “if I know what might have triggered the disorder, it can help me customize your treatment.”

      My face forms into an awkward smile. “Uh, well. I was going through a really busy time, starting up a business, and so, well, you know, it’d been a while for my boyfriend and me, intimacy-wise, and when we tried, it didn’t work. A few weeks later I went to the doc, she said vaginismus, and here we are.”

      He starts writing notes in my file and casually asks, “What’s your business?”

      “Oh, um, it’s a bakery? A cupcake shop. Cup My Cakes.”

      His eyes light up. “Is that the shop Shannon Brimley owns?”

      “Yes!” I reply, excited to be talking about something that isn’t my vagina. “We started it together. She’s my best friend.” A horrid thought pops into my head. “Wait. Are you...were you her vagina therapist, too? Because I know she went to one when she had vaginismus. And I’m sorry, while she and I are the best of pals and share everything, I don’t think I can share vagina therapists with her.”

      David makes a little popping noise as his mouth falls slightly open. “No. No, I wasn’t her therapist. Our kids go to the same school. She always brings awesome snacks for the PTA meetings. And you guys have really good cupcakes.”

      I slap my hand over my mouth. “Jesus. So I just outed my friend for having broken junk to the PTA?”

      His eyes go wide as he focuses on my file again. “It’s totally fine. So, after your diagnosis—”

      “Her vagina isn’t broken anymore!” I insist. “That was like, seven years ago. As far as I know, her bits are in tip-top shape now.”

      He doesn’t look up from the folder, but takes a deep breath. “I’m very glad to hear that.” Closing his eyes, he repeats, “After your diagnosis, what kinds of treatments did you try?”

      Shannon is going to flat-out kill me dead. “Uh, well, nothing, really. Dr. Snow gave me some pamphlets and stuff I could try by myself and with my boyfriend, but things didn’t go particularly well, and I never got around to the rest of the therapies.”

      Now he looks up. “Never got around to them?”

      My brain is preoccupied with images of Shannon shoving my head into a preheated oven. “Yeah, you know. Things were super stressful with the shop, and our relationship was already a bit strained. Plus it was all so...awkward. Ryan offered to help at first, do the exercises and whatnot, but it all felt too bizarre to him, I guess.” My foot starts involuntarily tapping the pop song again as I push images of Shannon with a chef’s knife out of my head. “I feel really bad, though. You know, this kind of thing can be really hard on a relationship. Especially one that’s not going great to begin with.”

      My stomach fills with the heavy sense of guilt, mixed with a hint of vulnerability, and resentment I don’t understand. “I even told Ryan he could sleep with other people until the problem sorted itself out, but I don’t know if he is. I mean, I know he’s got a date, but maybe they won’t actually sleep together. That could happen, right?”

      David looks rather stunned. “This is...this is not really the kind of information I need to design a treatment plan for you.”

      Feeling exposed, and wondering why in the good goddamn I just shared all that with him in the first place, I indignantly say, “But you’re a therapist!”

      “I’m not that kind of therapist.”

      This is going really well.

      I clench my hands into fists and release them a few times. “Look, I’m sorry. This is all very uncomfortable for me.”

      He sighs. “Why don’t we get the exam out of the way now? I can let you get changed and be back in a minute—”

      “I knew it!” I yelp, pointing at the gown on the tray. “Can I not keep my pants on for one doctor’s visit!?”

      “I’m not a doctor.”

      “Oh, who asked you?” I snap. I’ve lost any grip on social constructs, and I know I’m being an ass-wagon, but I can’t reel the humiliation in enough to stop. Every horrible thing that flies from my mouth just fuels the panic. “Look, I did the exam with Dr. Snow. I’m sure she wrote notes. I’m not doing another one.”

      He drops his head back and lets out an exasperated sigh. “I need to assess the severity of your condition so I can give you a proper treatment plan.”

      “Well, you can assess it with my pants on.” I sit up straight. There is nothing I want more in the world than to flee from this room immediately. “And it’s vaginismus. It’s like blinking involuntarily when something gets too close to your eye.”

      He gives up and sets the file down on the little table by the curtain. “I... I know what the disorder is, Miss Carmichael.” He leans forward and puts his fingers on his temples. “Okay, how about this? Let’s go over equipment and we can discuss techniques. I’ll try to do a generalized plan that you can alter to fit your needs, okay?”

      I cross my legs at the knees and exhale with a haughty sound. I don’t think I’ve ever made a haughty noise in my life. What the hell is wrong with me?

      “That would be fine,” I say.

      My brain is now flashing with images of Shannon and David taking turns chasing me with brûlée torches.

      He shakes his head ever so slightly and walks over to the tray. Carefully removing the backless gown and setting it on the exam table, he wheels the tray over near me.

      If I were to walk into a dungeon made explicitly for torture, I can say with absolute certainty that this tray would be in there.

      It looks like a larger, more horrifying version of what sits next to you at the dentist’s office. Everything is sitting on a large piece of blue gauze lined with plastic. Dilators of varying sizes, clinical-looking bottles of lubricant, and very scary silver devices.

      There’s not a sparkling purple item in the lot, and it all smells of СКАЧАТЬ