The Awkward Path To Getting Lucky. Summer Heacock
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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.”
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