Sure, it’s meant somewhat ironically, but I can’t very well convince residents to remove shame and discuss a subject honestly and openly if I shrink away myself. Didn’t mean I wasn’t thanking my lucky stars that no one anywhere near my age was in attendance as I lifted the microphone.
“Hello, everyone.” My pulse is off and running, spreading heat to my face and armpits, and I exhale a shallow breath and adopt my most chipper tone. “My name is Mia Andrews, and I’d like to welcome you to tonight’s Safe Sex Seminar…”
As far as turnout goes, I’m rather impressed at the significant number of residents seated behind tables in the rec room of the community center—those fliers must’ve worked.
Patting myself on the back gets cut short when the hecklers in the third row yell they’re only here for Boozy Bingo, and how long is this going to take?
Not exactly the show of support I hoped for from my grandmother and her friends, but they’ve been rowdy since I declared the event mandatory and dragged them along ten minutes early to help with setup.
That’s not all, though. This is penance for my refusal to hand over control and live out their regrets while drowning in a sea of my own. I’m trying so hard to throw myself into this new job and move on, but occasionally it slams into me and robs me of air, that loss of my job, my apartment, my entire life and career trajectory.
Sure, it would’ve been nice if Jan mentioned the seminar was on the same day of the week and hour that occupants expected to play bingo, but it’s too late now, so I charge full speed ahead. I’m halfway through theFour C’s of Sexual Safetywhen a clang echoes through the gymnasium, followed by the arrival of the doctor with the delicious dimples.
Butterflies careen through my gut as Dr. Vasquez strolls down the middle aisle, casually destroying the age gap I’d been so appreciative of with a wave and an uttered apology about being late.
“For the STD presentation?” Feedback from the microphone creates an awful screech and amplifies the hitch in my breath. “I think you would’ve learned it in medical school.”
Sniggers round the room, sending my internal temperature rising. The twitch of my thumb clicks past the slides on contraception and communication to land on the section with the obligatory Images of Doom. In my rush to minimize the renderings until I’m ready—or as ready as anyone can be for inflamed testicles, anyway—I’ve also bumped my laptop and nearly blinded myself with the beam of the projector. “I mean, thank you, Dr. Vasquez, for coming.”
“That’s what she said,” someone snarks.
I flatten a hand to my brow to combat the glare but can’t pinpoint the rabble-rouser. My damn laptop is lagging, or perhaps it’s the sluggish wifi ruining my chances with the hot doctor as I click the remote and trackpad to no avail.
Taking a step backward helps the searing eyeballs but turns me into a spectacle, half of the image projected on the screen beside me and halfonme, and did I mention the drippy dick?
No matter how many times I inhale, my lungs just constrict, constrict, constrict. This wasn’t the performance I practiced last night in the bathroom mirror, fan on, so no one else could hear.
Automatically, I glance to the Cronies for help, only to be greeted with smug expressions that proclaim Dr. Dimples’ attendance istheirdoing. And while I’ve often admired the group of powerhouse women, I’m completely drained after a week of contending with them. Refusing to let one mishap or handsome doctor’s presence snowball, I lift my chin and power on through. “This is chlamydia.”
A groan punctuates the air, followed by a “Dagnabbit, I was lookin’ for B7.”
The crowd roars, and while I can appreciate it’s notatme this time, they continue cracking jokes and requesting bingo spaces.
Then drink orders are hollered out to nobody in particular. Tom Collins and gin and tonics are very popular, and there’s a lady with her hair in curlers and a scarf over the top insisting on a Sazerac. I’m not even sure what it is, only that she wants me to “go heavy on the absinthe,” and is that even legal?
That’s about the time I remember I’m the one with the microphone, so I clear my throat and charge on. “Chlamydia is referred to as the silent disease because most infected people have no symptoms.” I enunciate the words and pop my P’s, demanding respect since they won’t just give it to me. “Left untreated, it can also lead to burning, swelling, pelvic inflammatory disease, ectopic pregnancy, and infertility.”
“Infertility?” a female retort-wheezes in an incredulous tone. “Honey, that ship’s already sailed.”
“Thank God,” adds a woman seated at the same table as Dr. Vasquez, and I want so badly to look at him and not look at him that my heartbeat thunders through my head.
“Hell, I consider it a good day if I can get an inflammatory situation going in my pants.” That comes from one of the older men at a table near the back, and I’ve not only lost their attention, I’ve completely lost control.
They don’t respect me or want to listen, and I don’t know how to make them. I’ve bossed around basketball players pushing seven feet and made of solid muscle and acted as a personal drink holder for an assistant coach who really liked to yell. I’ve coaxed disgruntled penguins out of a pool after a wild party thrown by a Fortune 500 company and then lectured the CEO about proper treatment of animals.
Yet I’d take any of those situations over the one I’m in now, because this is like trying to teach physics to preschoolers.
Dr. Vasquez pushes to his feet, and I’m mortified at the thought of him leaving before I can save my flailing presentation. He clears his throat, commanding the room so easily I just stare in awe. “It’s going to be a lot less funny when your genitals end up itchy and oozing, and you have to come see me at the clinic.”
At that harsh reality check, the laughter and chatter fades, and I’m embarrassed he had to say anything while being grateful he did.
I readjust my laptop so the projection fills the screen and launch into ways to prevent the spread. With my nerves under control, I’m able to navigate much better as I rattle off startling statistics about their demographic.
A tiny sense of accomplishment breaks through once I get through three whole slides in a row, similar to those first magical rays of sunshine after a storm.
Finally, I’ve inspired them to at least listen.
“How much longer?” Wanda asks with a pop of pink bubble gum, and I’msotelling her dentist.
