The Awkward Path To Getting Lucky

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 (#uab22ad16-deff-5c50-a72b-43434ffdf7d5)

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.

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.”