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“See, now I know we can be friends.”
I gesture to the bartender, and Ben’s lip twitches ever so slightly. I take a breath and say, “We’ll take two Guinnesses.”
* * *
All in all, this was a weird day.
Back in my apartment, I set the two ridiculously large boxes of sexual therapy devices on my coffee table.
It’s incredibly late, and I have to be up at dawn to be at the shop, but I’ve got only twenty-nine days to beat this deadline. Shannon’s right; this is never going to work if I keep finding reasons to put it off. It’s my deadline, and I need to bloody well stick with it.
I open the boxes and start laying out the bounty. Damn, the gals really spared no expense. I think they’ve overestimated the actual number of vaginas I have.
Flipping through the Encyclopedia Vaginica Shannon printed off for me, I realize that I remember most of these instructions from my doctor. Start slowly, be gentle, go small, work your way up. The vagina is a muscle, I need to retrain it, yada yada.
Okay, so this isn’t so bad. Shannon managed to get through this in three months, and that was with two tiny humans at home demanding all her attention, so I can totally do this in four weeks. It’s like if I tore my rotator cuff or something. I’d have to do all these stretching exercises to get it back into fighting shape. Not that I want my special to be fighting anyone.
Special. Damn it, Liz.
“Make this a calm and relaxing experience. Play soothing music, burn scented candles, take calming breaths.”
I don’t have any scented candles, and I wonder if Netflix would count in place of calming music?
I take a deep breath. I can do this. It says this should be a twice-daily routine, but I’m wondering if I can work it in at bedtime and before work. Brush teeth, wash face, train special.
I grab an armful of the therapy gear from the boxes and walk them into my bedroom. Tossing them on my bed, I start changing for sleep.
I had a good time with Ben. While I feel like an absolute monster of a person for not being more open about the realities of my life right now, I’ve justified the omissions by reminding myself that most people don’t unload their entire life stories on the first date.
Jammies on, I head to the bathroom to scrub my face and teeth. I think back to Ben’s smile. He really does have nice teeth. And that jaw, though. Seriously. It’s criminally defined.
As I give my molars a good once-over, I can’t help but wonder what I’ve been thinking by ignoring such a huge part of my life for two years. While it’s great that my militant drive to succeed has gotten the shop into pretty solid shape, doing so at the complete expense of my romantic life seems a little extreme.
I don’t remember the last time Ryan and I went out for drinks just to go. Sometimes we go for dinner out, and maybe even a movie on Saturdays, but for the most part, we have been in stuck in the deepest rut ever. Like, natural sunlight can’t reach the depths of this rut.
And it’s been nearly four years. Two of which have been wonky as hell and entirely without physical intimacy. Four years in a relationship is an eternity in your twenties.
But I’m about to dance out of my twenties. And two years of special solitude is more than long enough, damn it. So I’m getting my nethers in line, and then things will get back to awesome with Ryan, and we are about to land a high-check contract. I’m going to be one of those women who has it all.
But right now, all I want is some Doctor Who—and to figure out what the hell a dilator actually is, so I can go to sleep.
Okay. This thing says five to ten minutes—depending on my comfort level—lots of lubricant, then yay sleep.
I’m trying really hard to not think about how odd this all is. But it’s medicinal. Medicinal sex toys. That’s something I could totally explain to my landlady if she came strolling in.
The thing I bought at the shop with Butter was too, uh, sizable, so I’ll have to start smaller. Looking at the pile of items, I feel like I’m in the middle of a hidden camera show. Any minute now, my mom will come bursting in with a camera crew and the pope.
Those must be the calming thoughts the instructions talked about.
Relaxing environment. I grab my remote and queue up an episode of the Tenth Doctor. I shut the lights off and take a deep breath, pushing all thoughts of Ryan and Alice and contracts out of my mind. I ignore the fact that I’m pawing at the protective wrap on a bottle of water-based lubricant my oldest friend and coworkers had overnight delivered to our bakery.
I choose the smallest rubber device, which is innocuously flesh-colored, and take a breath. Here we go.
This isn’t so bad. The papers said to try thirty seconds at first. I start counting in my head.
I’m not a prude by any means, but something about this feels impossibly awkward with the good Doctor allons-y-ing across my TV.
I don’t think I made it to thirty seconds, but I go ahead and stop anyway. I put the suddenly less innocuous-looking thing on a tissue on my nightstand and shut off my TV. So, maybe no Netflix. Quiet therapy. Time alone with some Zen-like thoughts. That will be good. I can focus more.
And that was pretty easy, so maybe I’ll try something a little larger in scale.
This one is inexplicably purple and sparkly. I’m not sure if it’s supposed to represent something or if it’s just supposed to be festive, but, hey, whatever floats your special.
I take another deep breath.
This isn’t working quite as well. I’m startled to meet instant resistance, and my mind flashes with the image of an eyelid slamming shut at the sight of a giant purple glittering finger poking at it.
Ow. OW.
“Fucking ouch!” As a reflex, my hand jerks away from my body, and the sparkly purple faux-penis goes flying across my bedroom. I regret it immediately. “What the hell? It wasn’t that much bigger!” I say this to no one, and I really super hope the pope isn’t coming.
I look down at my bed, comforter covered in naughty implements, and a feeling of dread settles in.
I’m never having sex again.
9
Any morning that starts with me in a backless gown and my bare ass on a tissue-paper-covered exam table is not a good day.
I don’t know what I was thinking. Well, yes, I do. I thought I’d dive right into therapy, and it would be all rainbows and lollipops, and my vagina and I would go skipping off into the sunset together.
Instead, the therapy was kind of awful. It was actually quite painful, but I kept trying, and I was up half the night battling my lady bits. Now I’m exhausted and my goddamn special hurts.
And I’ll admit, I’m panicking a little.
I just had to go and give Ryan this stupid deadline. I thought for sure I’d stroll through this whole thing and be ready for nookie and anniversaries with weeks to spare.
Add in the pressure of getting things ready for our presentation to the Coopertown Ravens concessions committee, and I am about two seconds from completely flipping my shit on everything.
There’s a knock at the door, and I say, “Come in!” in an annoyingly happy voice. Why is it so hard to sound normal when you’re not wearing pants?
Dr. Snow comes in and gives me a friendly hello. “Kat, it’s been a long time. How are you?”
“I’ve had better days,” I say, shifting my weight and regretting it as the tissue paper crinkles loudly under my ass. “Look Doc, I’m going to level with you here. My junk is broken, and I need you to fix it, okay?”
She freezes halfway through sitting down on her rolling doctor’s chair. “I’m sorry?”
“Two years ago, you told me I had vaginismus. Well, I still have it. There has to be a pill by now, right? They have, like, fifty different kinds of Viagra. Tell me someone has stepped up to help ladykind out on this one.”
Dr. Snow finally sits all the way down and looks down at her high-tech tablet medical chart. “Okay, give me a minute to catch up here.”
She starts scrolling through my medical history, and I swing my legs nervously on the exam table. I look around the room, desperate for a distraction. On the wall is a large full-color poster of a uterus with a full-term baby lodged inside. I’m probably overreacting, but I feel like that baby is judging me a little bit.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Yes, two years ago I diagnosed you with secondary vaginismus. And—”
“Wait, secondary? I don’t remember that. Is there a first kind of vaginismus?”
Dr. Snow squints at me as though she’s not sure if I’m being serious. I put my hands in my lap and try to look composed. “Secondary means you haven’t always had the condition. You, at one time, were able to have sex without pain. This was something that developed.” She crosses her legs at the knees and balances the tablet on her leg. “Patients with primary vaginismus have never been able to have intercourse without pain, or possibly at all. Some aren’t even able to have pelvic exams or wear tampons, depending on the severity of their condition.”
I involuntarily clench my knees together. That sounds horrible. Here I am, making a screaming fuss over two years, and there are women out there dealing with a significantly more hard-core scenario than me.
This isn’t my finest moment.
“Can people with primary... I mean, can they fix it?”
She nods, and my knees unclench. “The treatment is the same, and in most cases, a full recovery is possible. As is my expectation with you.”
I exhale sharply. “Okay, yes. Say more things like that, please.”
Looking at me sternly, Dr. Snow continues, “So, that was two years ago. You’re telling me you’ve been unable to have sex this entire time?”
“Sort of,” I say, smoothing my gown down over my legs. “I kinda just forgot to deal with it.”
She blinks at me. “You forgot?”
“I was busy! I was getting a new business off the ground, so it wasn’t a big priority, and the whole intimacy thing with my boyfriend sort of took a back seat. Then I realized it had been almost two whole freaking years, and oh my god, that’s a really long time. So I tried to do the therapy like you told me, and it’s not working very well, and I would just really like to get past this and have sex so I can move on, please. I need your help here.”
She’s still blinking at me. “You...forgot to have sex.”
“It slipped my mind,” I say, sighing. “But seriously, though! Tell me what to do.”
She shakes her head a little. “When you say the therapy isn’t working very well, what do you mean?”
“Well, it hurt really bad, for starters. And at first I was able to do it, but then I couldn’t get anything in there at all. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I have a bunch of printouts. I’m following all the directions. We got all the things, like it said on the website.”
“‘We’? You and your boyfriend?”
My stomach flip-flops a little at the word boyfriend, and it makes me all the more uncomfortable. “No, me and my friends. It’s been a group effort. Well, I mean, I’m doing the therapy alone, obviously. But they’re cheering me on. One of them actually went through this herself years back, and she’s been giving me advice. The whole ‘two years’ thing hasn’t gone over well for anyone.”
“You seem really focused on the ‘two years’ aspect of this.”
“Because it’s been two years, Doc.”
“That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself,” Dr. Snow says calmly. “How long have you been doing the therapy?”
“Well. Technically, I started last night,” I admit. Then, a little defensively, “Why do you keep blinking at me?”
“Kat,” she says, setting her tablet down on the counter beside her. “This is a process. If you sprained your ankle, I wouldn’t expect you to have full motor function in a day. It takes time. You can’t rush it.”
“I do know that,” I insist, feeling really pitiful. “I do, but you can’t blame me for being a tad impatient, okay? Look, is there anything I can do to, like, speed things up a little?”
“I don’t recommend speeding anything up beyond what your body is telling you it is ready for,” she says in a measured tone. “If anything, it will make the situation worse. And honestly, it doesn’t sound like you’re approaching your therapy with a calm demeanor, which might explain why you’re having trouble.”
“You’re telling me I should have committed to the soothing music and scented candles, aren’t you?”
“They wouldn’t hurt. This is about retraining your muscles, yes, but it involves your mental state just as much. If you’re anxious, your vagina will be, too.”
Reflexively I pout. “Okay, yeah, that makes sense.”
“Are you sexually active with your boyfriend or anyone else at the moment?”
I narrow my eyes and use every ounce of will I have to push the burning feeling that’s creeping up my neck back below the paper gown. “Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
I sit up a little straighter. “Well, I’m not yet, but I’d like to be, and I sort of have plans to get, um, active.”
“I’m actually afraid to ask, Kat.”
“I just mean I’d like to give things another shot in bed with my boyfriend without it ending in a car crash of flaming vaginas.”
“That’s...very colorful imagery.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
She waves her hand in front of her. “That’s a great goal. Of course, I urge you to practice safe sex, and I’d like to discuss birth control options with you before we finish, as I see you aren’t currently taking anything.”
“Okay.”
“Most important, you need to take this very, very slowly. This isn’t a race. I understand your desire to take control of the situation, but if you try to push this beyond what you’re ready for, you’ll make things worse, Kat. Your partner will need to understand that, as well.”
I nod, ignoring the screaming voice in my head that keeps chanting twenty-eight days left. “Okay. Got it.”
“Did the two of you have any luck with the techniques I gave you on your last visit?”
My eyes glaze over a little, remembering how impossibly awkward attempting the couples section of the therapy pamphlets with Ryan was back when this started. He seemed so put out and uncomfortable with everything.
Ryan’s a very nice guy, and he’d give anyone the shirt off his back, but at the same time, he’s got a selfish streak in him. Sex was easy for him, and he didn’t seem to understand that there were circumstances outside my control that he could have assisted with to make that situation a little easier.
It wasn’t a high point in our relationship.
“Not particularly,” I answer honestly. “Which is why I’m very focused on what I need to be doing first.”
“I can understand that,” Dr. Snow agrees, much to my surprise. “It’s something that needs to be handled in whatever way works best for each individual.”
“Yep.” I nod and try to look like a person whose personal life isn’t a raging case of fuckery.
“And I’d like to refer you to one of the physical therapists over at the hospital. Even if you don’t want them to do the actual therapy, they’ll be able to walk you through the techniques and help you through this process.”
I shake my head. “I think I’ve got it, Doc.”
“There’s no shame in accepting help,” she says, and I feel scolded. “This is a common disorder, and you’re certainly not the first woman to need this treatment.”
“It’s not an embarrassment thing,” I reply, feeling indignant. “I just mean that I know I can figure it out on my own. If I can’t, I’ll take the referral, okay?”
She eyes me suspiciously. “I would feel a lot better about things if you’d at least go talk with one of the therapists,” she says. “You could have an appointment just to discuss applications of the therapy techniques and get support. In fact, you could meet weekly with the therapists just to check in without having them involved in the actual therapy at all. And if, at any time, you feel like you might benefit from their help, you’d already be in the system, and they’d be familiar with your situation.”
I can almost hear Shannon’s commentary on this conversation. Better safe than sorry, she went to an actual therapist, and la-di-da, it all worked out for her in three short months.
I sigh again in defeat. “Fine. I’ll do one appointment, just to talk to them.”
She smiles kindly at me. “You’re pooling all your resources,” she says. “It can’t hurt to have a second line of offense ready if you need it.”
I cross my legs at the ankles and swing them awkwardly. “So, where did we land on a pill, by the way?”
Dr. Snow takes in a slow breath, and I think I can hear her whisper-counting to ten. “Actually, I’m inclined to prescribe you an antianxiety medication to take as needed.”
“I’m not anxious.”
“Are you kidding?”
I frown at her. “Rude.”
“You are a ball of tension right now, Kat.”
I throw my arms up. “I’m not wearing any underwear. My ass is stuck to tissue paper. I’ve got this big assignment at work, and if I don’t figure out how to make perfect little ravens out of frosting, then Butter can’t go see her Noni in Hawaii, Shannon can’t take her kids to meet Mickey Mouse, and Liz can’t go on a honeymoon. And because I don’t think you are fully grasping the severity of the situation—two years, Doc. I don’t need an anxiety pill, I need to get laid.”
“Kat.”
“Fine, I’m anxious.”
“If you’re anxious, so’s your vagina.”
10
Liz slams a bottle of food dye down on her workstation. “I can’t get the coloring right!” she snaps. It’s not a typical Thursday morning in the shop until someone has a meltdown over food dye. We haven’t even hit the morning rush yet, so we’re meeting our quota early.
“On what?” Shannon asks. Butter is paused with her glitter brush hanging in midair. It’s not often Liz’s voice reaches a decibel above gentle breeze.
“The boob-cake,” Liz whines. “The...well, the parts.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to laugh. “The nipple?”
Her face flushes a hot pink. “Yes, fine. And the other parts. Who am I modeling this after? Whose boob does this need to look like? I only know what mine look like!”
Butter shrugs, sending a dusting of glitter across the table. “Make it look like mine. I’ve got nice boobs.”
“You do have fantastic boobs,” I agree.
Shannon makes a face. “I never thought about that. Should it look like the woman who ordered it? Is there such a thing as a basic boob?”
“You see?” Liz squeals. “I don’t want to offend someone!”
I’m sitting at the desk working on sketches for the Coopertown Ravens, so I fire up the laptop. “Should I...Google boobs?” My mind floods with the potential search results, and I frown. “Actually, I see no way that could end well, so maybe not.”
Shannon frowns. “We are a business run entirely by women. We have a plethora of boobs right here. Googling boobs is beneath us.”
“Okay, who did the lady who ordered the boob-cake look like the most?” Butter asks.
Shannon studies us all with one hand on her hip and a piping bag in the other. “I guess Kat? Same kind of pale skin, darkish hair. She was taller and had smaller boobs, though.”
“Thanks.”
Butter waves her hand casually, throwing more glitter around. “So just make a boob like Kat’s. There ya go.”
“I don’t know what her boobs look like, Butter,” Liz huffs.
“Show her your boobs, Kat.”
“Butter.” Shannon sighs.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I say. I stand up, pull my shirt away from my chest and give my ladies a good once-over. I do have to wiggle a little to get the proper lighting. With my hands deep in my neckline and ladies hoisted out of my bra, I hear the front entrance open and scowl. “So help me Odin, if that’s Ben coming in, I’m going to burn this place to the ground.”
Shannon pokes her head around the door and lets out a whoosh of air. “Nope, just customers.” She scurries into the front to handle them, and I get back to my boobs.
“I don’t think he’d dare come back in here when it’s quiet without setting off some sirens before he opens the door,” Butter says, getting back to her glitter-dusting.
“He’d better not,” I grumble. I tuck my dirigibles back into my bra and go to wash my hands. “Even my lack of poise has its limits.” I dry my hands off and join Liz at her station. “Okay, here.” I grab the dye and start whipping up a color of fondant that is as close to the color of my own nipples as I can get. Which is easily the weirdest thing I’ve done this week, cake-wise.
“When I went to culinary school,” Liz says pitifully, “I never thought I’d be trying to match the color of my friends’ boobs.”
“It’s a proud day for us all,” I say, rolling out the fondant. “You can use this for the areola and nipple, I’d think.” Liz makes a horrified squeak. “We’re all adults here, baby. We can say areola. It’s fine.”
“Maybe I should have been a dentist like my mom wanted,” Liz whines and starts shaping the nipple. “It’s not too late to go back to school, right?”
Butter 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.