Way Off Base
An Excerpt From
Shelley
I scream in frustration and pull a pillow over my face to muffle the noise. I can’t do it. No matter what I try, just like every other time, nothing happens. It’s been almost forty minutes, and I give up. My body is broken, and it doesn’t matter how many times or how many different ways I attempt, I’m never going to be able to get there. The Petal Pulverizer toy lying next to me is just the latest in a long line of failed gadgets. Why is it so easy for everyone else? The last two guys I dated told me it was impossible for them to please a woman who doesn’t know her own body well enough to know what she wants. I take the toy and throw it at the wall, but because I can’t do anything right today, it falls short and lands softly on the carpet.
When I spoke to my doctor at my annual exam, she told me I’m probably just too in my head about it and to try to relax. Easier said than done. Then she recommended seeking out a sex therapist. Which I did, and that doctor suggested toys and frequent solo sessions to learn my body. The sex therapist also told me to “stop trying so hard to reach the destination and learn to enjoy the journey.” As if I can just turn off my entire personality. I try hard. It’s who I am. Normally my efforts produce results, like getting into law school at Franklin Monroe. But all my trying means nothing when it comes to getting my body to cooperate.
Could this be any more humiliating?
I pick up my phone and shoot off a text to the group chat with my sisters. Madison answers immediately because she’s the one who recommended the Petal Pulverizer.
Me: That one was also a no-go.
Mads: Dang. I was really pulling for that one. Get it?
Me: Ew. Shut up. I hate you.
I sigh. My siblings love stupid puns, but I don’t have the patience for any more jokes about this. Especially bad ones. When our youngest sister, Mandy, finally chimes in at least she seems to sense my need for them to take me seriously.
Mandy: Nah. You love us. But I’m running out of ideas. Maybe try to get in touch with Josephine Wilson? Isn’t this sort of what she does now?
Me: That’s actually not a bad idea.
Mandy replies with a gif of a cartoon mouse taking a bow and the words “you’re welcome” in huge capital letters underneath.
Jo and I were on the track team together back in Idaho. We were never super close, but we’ve always been friendly in the superficial way where we like each other’s posts online, and we say hi if one of us notices the other out in public when I’m home visiting. Mandy’s right, this is kind of what Jo does now. I’ve seen her talking about her research on social media. She’s working on her master’s thesis, researching the correlation between unpaid female domestic labor and the orgasm gap. I remember one of the headlines she shared recently was Primary Parents Don’t Put Out: Equal Partnerships Achieve Higher Success Rates, Both In and Out of the Bedroom. As a single first-year law student, I don’t really fit her core demographic, but if anyone we know might have a valid, scientific opinion about what’s going on with me, it will be Josephine Wilson.
Right. I can do this.
Before I chicken out, I create a new memo in my voice recording app explaining what’s going on with me and asking for her advice.
Hey, Jo. It’s Shelley Miller. I know it’s been a while since we’ve talked, but I’m following your work and cheering you on from the sidelines. I wondered if you might have some advice? Remember that article you posted a few weeks ago that said up to fifteen percent of women have never, um, achieved a climax? Uh, well, I think, or I should say I know I’m in that camp, unfortunately. And I’m just wondering if you have any, like, professional advice for people in my…situation? I’ve already been to two doctors. I don’t know what’s wrong with me or my body, and I would love to finally get an answer. Do you think we might be able to chat when you have a free minute? Sorry, I know this is awkward. Thanks for considering.”
I take a breath and gather my courage, then type “Jo” into the search area. It brings up my J contacts, and I click her name quickly to send the message, then I slam my phone face down on the bed. Just breathe . Nothing wrong with seeking an opinion from a professional.
It’s not long before the phone buzzes.
I swallow and take another calming breath, trying to be mature about this whole thing. The plan to act like an adult immediately goes out the window when I see the text is from my brother’s roommate.
Jordan: Hey, Shelley. I think you intended this for someone else.
My stomach drops straight through my feet.
No. No no no no no. This cannot be happening.
I sent Jordan that message?
Jordan. As in my professional baseball-playing brother’s best friend and teammate. The guy Mike currently lives with, and the one on whom I’ve been crushing since the first time we met last year. That Jordan? The one with the great smile who makes the most intense eye contact I’ve ever experienced. That’s the one whose name I must have accidentally clicked because it’s listed alphabetically right before Josephine in my contacts? Jordan just heard me say out loud, in my own voice, that I can’t climax.
Awesome.
Me: Sorry. I can’t respond to you right now because my soul left my body and I have expired.
Jordan: OK. R.I.P. But it’s sad knowing you’re gone before you ever really lived.
Me: OMG. Stop. Can we please pretend this never happened?
Jordan: Sure. If that’s what you want. But before I let it go...