“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? W
hose 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.
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 a flush of embarrassment. I’ve got to get my nerves under control or someone is definitely going to slap me.
He adds, “One of our other therapists, Constance, is a woman, but she’s our reigning champ 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.
The Awkward Path to Getting Lucky Page 7
