Chapter 1
Shelley
The thin layer of paper beneath me crinkles as I shift on the bench, trying in vain to make sure both of my bare cheeks are covered by the flimsy half-robe the doctor’s office provided. I flip through a boring gynecology magazine I took from the display on the wall, thinking about how I’d rather be just about anywhere else on the planet. When I stumble upon a familiar name, I suck in a short breath. Josephine Wilson and I were on the high school track team together for years back in Idaho. I’ve seen her talking about her work on social media, but I had no idea my old friend’s research was getting this much attention.
The headline readsPrimary Parents Don’t Put Out: An Equal Workload Achieves Higher Success Rates, In and Out of the Bedroom. It’s a well-cited and nuanced discussion, examining the silent effects of female domestic labor on relationships, which is exactly what I would expect from Jo. She’s out here with a doctoral thesis helping thousands of couples navigate the orgasm gap in their long-term partnerships. Meanwhile, I wouldn’t even qualify for her studies, because I’ve never been in a relationship longer than three weeks.
I snap a photo of the article and text it to my sisters. Madison responds right away.
Mads: Whoa, that’s cool! We know a real-life scientist.
There’s a knock on the door, and I put the phone down as my new doctor enters with a nurse following behind.
“Ready to get started?” Dr. Dupree asks.
I nod as if anyone can ever be fully ready to be held open with metal tongs and probed under fluorescent lights. Should I have waxed for this? I swear, sometimes taking care of my health feels like submitting to some kind of perverse alien abduction.
“I understand we’re here today because you reported some changes in your arousal and sexual satisfaction during your annual exam,” she says.
“Yep. That about sums it up.”
Her probing only takes a few minutes. Then Dr. Dupree peels off her gloves and tosses them into the trash can. “Everything looks fine here. I’d say it’s good news, but this also means I don’t have any definitive answers for you yet.” She rolls her stool a few feet backward, over to her laptop, where she types something in my chart.
I lower my feet from the stirrups and sit up, wincing at the gobs of lube squishing between my legs. “That’s good, I guess.”
Except it means I’m no closer to understanding why my body is a traitor, and now I probably need to schedule even more appointments if I want to solve the mystery of my own vagina and why she hates me.
Just call me Nancy Drew. I should be in my Family Law class right now, but instead I’ve spent the morning spread eagle over a paper sheet on a cold table, and I’ll have to present my professor with a doctor’s note just because I want to be able to rub one out like a normal person. Unfortunately, the Magic O is still elusive for me.
I wish this weren’t a big deal and I could just shrug and move on with my life, but I’m too young to be drier than the flaking skin on the bottom of my great-aunt Mildred’s feet. My body doesn’t respond the way it should, which makes me feel broken, and it makes dating impossible. It’s hard to connect with other people when I’m in my head the whole time I’m being touched.
“You don’t appear to have any physical abnormalities, but I see there’s a stimulant listed here, along with your birth control. Sometimes these medications do have sexual side effects, unfortunately, as I’m sure your prescribing physician has discussed with you. No matter the cause, what I can do now is offer you an estrogen cream to increase arousal and pleasure. I think there’s a good chance it may help.”
“Okay. A cream sounds easy enough. Is it expensive?”
“Usually under twenty dollars for the cream, depending on your insurance. And I’d like to run more bloodwork to give us the best picture of what might be going on. I believe that will be fully covered. We can do it here before you leave.”
I cringe. I hate needles. “And if this medicine doesn’t work?”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, I’m hopeful it will be the boost you need. You could also consider a change in your other medication if you think it might be helpful.”
I blink at her. IfIthink it might be helpful? She’s the doctor here. What do I know?
“I’ve seen a shot come up in my searches, but I never gave it serious consideration,” I tell her. See: fear of needles. “And honestly, I never thought to bring up my sex life with my psychiatrist.” Going off my ADHD meds is not an option. Law school is intense, and the level of competition is high. I won’t be able to get through the rest of the semester if I can’t focus. If Iexercise a little more and eat healthy foods, my body should be able to do this stuff on its own, right?
Except, obviously, it isn’t. So…
“Can you tell me more about the shot some people get in their G-spot. Do you think I’d be a good candidate?” I gulp.
“That would likely be a question for a plastic surgeon or a med spa. The shot you’re referring to is more of an augmentation and not something we offer at our practice. It’s an injection of hyaluronic acid. It claims to last up to four months, but I haven’t seen any studies on long-term use. Is that something you think you might pursue?”
Do I want to find yet another doctor so I can pay them to inject acid straight into my G-spot on the off-chance I might be able to feel something down there? I don’t know. Needles? Vagina? Big yikes. I clench my thighs at the thought. I’ve seen how much pain my mom is in after her IUD insertions, and it sounds like this might even be worse.
Dr. Dupree adds, “I do have to warn you, the shot is generally considered an elective procedure, so I don’t believe it would be covered by insurance.”
“How much does it cost?”
“My best guess? Between one and two thousand dollars,” she says in her professional, matter-of-fact tone.
