Chapter 2
Nine years ago
When Hot Boy from Spanish Class sticks a finger up my vagina, three knee-jerk reactions occur in rapid succession:
I scream “SHIT” at the top of my lungs as a flash of blinding pain shoots through my reproductive system.
I knee Hot Boy from Spanish Class in the balls.
I scream “SHIT” again as I realize I’ve just kneed Hot Boy from Spanish Class in the balls.
On the one hand, the embarrassment that immediately floods my system cleanses the inexplicable pain from my vagina. So that’s a huge win.
On the other hand, Hot Boy from Spanish Class is now on the floor, doubled over in pain. And if the force of my knee corresponded to the level of pain I felt, then…oops. Or rather, ouch.
“Shitfuck,” I say, kneeling down on the floor of the third-floor single-use bathroom in Hall Hall (Hall Dormitory, but no one calls it that), where we hid about six minutes ago to make out.
It’s gross, but it’s more private than the common room, where there’s a herd of drunk freshmen enjoying our first Saturday night of college.
The aforementioned crowd wasn’t stopping several other pairings from making out right then and there, but that’s a level of confidence I haven’t reached in my seven days of college.
I’m sure it’ll come with time and practice.
I don’t know his name, but he’s hot, and I’m a little drunk (albeit less now), and there’s no adult supervision for the first time in my life, and, most important, my roommate Jo and I have an ongoing competition to see who can hook up with someone first. We both went out tonight planning to win.
Not a home run, necessarily, but definitely a couple of bases.
So, about eight minutes ago, it was with a competitive spirit that I locked eyes with Hot Boy from Spanish Class and hit him with the Do You Want to Get Out of Here?
Spoiler: He did.
Another spoiler: He’s probably regretting that decision.
Oops.
Ouch.
We spent the following eight minutes using our hands and lips with the confidence of people who don’t even remotely know each other and will, in all likelihood, never have to talk to each other again.
And I probably wasn’t going to want to even before the unfortunate kneeing-of-the-balls, because his stubble scratched my face in a really uncomfortable way that’s probably going to give me acne, and his lips were kind of dry and crinkly, and his breath smelled faintly of cheap beer.
We’re talking Natty Light cheap. Also, his hands felt a little sticky, and I’m not sure whether it was from sweat or alcohol or an indeterminate third option, but I’m still trying really hard not to determine the answer to that question.
Maybe that’s just what kissing college boys is like. It wasn’t the most pleasant experience of my life, although it was perhaps more pleasant than the awkward high school dance kisses that make up the bulk of my experience with boys thus far.
In summary, was it shaping up to be the sexiest hookup in the world?
Not even remotely, no. But being desired makes me feel desirable, and I like feeling desirable—and so when he gripped my left thigh and hoisted my leg up to his waist, leaving my dress pooling around my hips and my lacy underwear exposed, I thought, hell yeah. And I told him as much.
Because, again, he’s hot. And I was trying to get some. (And also, to win this competition.)
And then when his fingers kept moving upward, finally reaching the top of my thighs, a jolt of nervous excitement and pleasure shot through my body and I, once again, thought, hell yeah.
But being the overeager eighteen-year-old boy he is, he didn’t slow down there. No, teenage boys aren’t exactly known for being masters of foreplay. And so, he only allowed me one millisecond of pleasure before he slipped his middle finger inside my vagina.
Cue the kneeing of the balls.
“Shitfuck,” I repeat, jolting back to the present as I tentatively reach a clammy hand toward his shoulder. “Shit. Fuck. I’m sorry.” My curses come out breathy and weak like I’ve been punched in the gut.
“What the hell?” he grumbles as he pushes my hand away.
He’s crouched on the floor, and I’m trying not to think about the amount of piss and puke that’s probably coated these pea-green tiles over the years.
And, unfortunately, there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his face, and he has that pained glint in his eyes that’s reserved for people who are about to be physically ill.
That clear the area look. There’s a very real chance he’s going to add a fresh coat to the floor’s germy varnish if he doesn’t pull it together.
“I thought you said that was okay,” he huffs, his voice muffled by his forearms. I feel bad for him. Should I be feeling bad for him, since he hurt me? But also, he didn’t mean to hurt me. Is it even his fault? I don’t know what’s happening.
“I did,” I assure him, biting my lip so hard my mouth starts to taste metallic. Inhale. Exhale. “It was, I mean—I did say that. I’m—I mean—I’m sorry. It was a gut reaction.” I can’t stop my brain from saying: a crotch reaction, perhaps? Inhale. Exhale. “Are you okay?”
He slowly unfurls himself, and his eyes flick over to the toilet, as if my prediction may be about to come true. But thankfully, he looks away and peels himself off the floor limb by limb. With a penetrating glare and no additional words, he limps out of the bathroom.
The door shuts with a deafening click, marking the end of my first college hookup.
I drag myself off the floor and manage to find the mental wherewithal to lock the door before stumbling over to the sink.
Bile rises in my throat, and it’s unclear whether it’s from alcohol or from whatever just happened.
I swallow it down, but it leaves the taste of Natty Light and stomach juices mingling in my mouth.
Shitfuck is right.
All the blood in my body has seemingly rushed down into my reproductive system, even though his finger only made contact with maybe one inch at most. My heart beats in my chest and in my uterus, pounding, pounding, pounding, like something’s about to burst out of me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
This was supposed to be a casual hookup. This was supposed to be inconsequential. This was supposed to feel great. Or at least, like, good. I even would’ve settled for okay.
“You idiot,” I murmur as I raise my head and peer warily into the mirror. My raspberry lipstick is smeared around my lips, and my mascara hasn’t fared much better. Paired with my formerly-sleek-but-now-lifeless dirty-blond hair and the two hickeys forming across my collarbone, I look…well, bad.
I splash cold water on my face, letting my regrettably non-waterproof mascara streak down my cheeks and mingle with droplets of concealer and lipstick. After wiping it away with one of those brown paper towels that repel water, my face is red and raw, but the color hides the tears.
The muscles in my gut are still so tight that I’m starting to cramp up—something akin to menstrual cramps, but I’m not on my period, and as far as I know, there’s no blood down there. I peek to double-check. Yep. No blood.
There’s no physical mark to show for my pain.
It’s the same kind of discomfort as a clenched jaw or a stiff neck. As if my body is holding the remnants of some past trauma or some severe sexual anxiety I didn’t know I had. But is it even possible to have physical symptoms of anxiety without feeling mentally anxious?
That doesn’t make any sense.
I rack my brain. Sex is supposed to hurt the first time, but this wasn’t anything close to sex. This was something closer to inserting a tampon.
Except I can’t wear tampons—I’ve never been able to get one in.
When you grow up in Florida and spend all your time at the beach or the pool, you start wearing tampons basically as soon as you start bleeding.
I was first faced with this dilemma at Katie’s thirteenth birthday pool party.
My mom gave me a tampon and told me to read the instruction booklet that came with it, but when I got to the bathroom, I could not for the life of me get it inserted.
For a few insane moments, I was convinced I didn’t have a vagina.
But upon closer inspection with a handheld mirror, I was definitely trying to insert the tampon into the right spot.
It just wouldn’t fit—it was too tight. I discussed this with my middle school best friend, Hannah, the next day, who told me (with all the wisdom of an eighth grader who has a boyfriend with whom she’s shared several kisses) that tampons would work better once I’d had sex.
Not that I really knew anything about sex, but that sounded about right to me, and Hannah seemed like a trustworthy source of information.
Although, as I learned a few months later when I found her crying in the bathroom and had to run to my locker to find a pad for her, she hadn’t actually started her period yet.
Then there was my friend Marissa, who told me her mom said she wasn’t allowed to use tampons until she was older.
And then there was also Maya, who didn’t know you were supposed to take the plastic part off.
She went through an entire swim practice with a piece of plastic shoved inside of her before she realized it wasn’t absorbing blood.
All of that said, I’ve never worn tampons, no one taught me or my friends how to wear tampons, and I’ve never thought twice about it. We all hate tampons! That was a uniting fact of our girlhood! Maxi pads all day, baby!
Turns out my issue with tampons was more complicated than the tampon itself. It (foolishly, apparently) never occurred to me I’d have the same problem in…other situations involving my vagina.
I take a deep breath and throw back my shoulders. I’m a mess, but my boobs still look good in my black spaghetti-strap mini-dress.
At least there’s that.
Buzz. My phone vibrates in my bra, sending a surprised jolt through my body. Cursing, I fish it out and open up my messages.