Way Off Base (The North Bay #3)

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 reads Primary 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. If I think 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 I exercise 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.

I swallow again and try to keep my face neutral. I’m glad women have options available, but two thousand dollars? And I’d have to do it three times a year. Not just needles, then. Expensive needles. Bet the insurance companies have no problem covering boner pills, though, do they?

Is it worth spending two thousand dollars every few months for a chance to be able to come?

My first instinct is Hell no! I don’t want a shot there, and I’m definitely not willing to pay six thousand dollars a year for the privilege.

Dr. Dupree doesn’t seem super keen on the idea either, since it’s not something she offers to her patients, but I guess I should consider all my options.

Although, I think the cost alone just made the decision for me.

That’s more debt I would have to pile on top of what I already owe.

It’s not like I can call my parents and ask them for money for this.

Then again, are fear and money good enough reasons to give up a chance at healing my body?

“I’ll need to think about it.” I sigh.

“You do that. In the meantime, I’ll write the script for the cream. Can I do anything else for you today?”

Dr. Dupree has a reputation as the best gynecologist in the D.C. metro area, that’s why I was referred here, and even she can’t pin down exactly why my body can’t achieve orgasm.

Behold, my befuddling beaver, folks.

“Why are these decisions so hard?” I groan. This whole situation feels hopeless.

“I can also refer you to a therapist or another psychiatrist,” Dr. Dupree offers. “Sometimes the issue is up here.” She taps lightly on her temple with one finger.

“Thanks. I already have one of each.” I’m out here collecting doctors like Pokémon cards on my quest for sexual satisfaction. Obviously, it’s not going well.

She says she’ll also call in a new script for my birth control pills to the pharmacy.

Then Dr. Dupree leaves, and the nurse stays to draw my blood.

I can’t watch, but thankfully, she finds my vein with no trouble and it’s over quickly.

The nurse nods and says a quick goodbye before leaving me alone to get dressed.

I hastily use a wad of cheap one-ply tissues from the box on the counter to clean myself up before digging out the underwear I hid under my pile of clothes.

Because I’ll let her inside my body, but heaven forbid the doctor sees my striped bikini-cut briefs.

I roll my eyes at myself and step into the panties, pull my maroon shift dress back over my head, and slide my feet into my sandals.

Grabbing my phone, I see my sisters are still active in our group chat. They’re back home in Idaho attending State College, but these dummies are my best friends, and since I graduated last year, I miss them so hard it hurts.

Me: No real answers from the doc. She’s giving me a cream. There’s also a shot I can try, but it’s elective. And crazy expensive. Guess it’s time to try that dumb toy.

Mads: I have high hopes for you. My roommate says the Petal Pulverizer is “life-changing.” That’s a direct quote. And for what they’re charging for the thing, it better take you to the moon and back AND make you breakfast in the morning.

She’s right, the toy was also expensive.

All of my spare cash this year is going toward this self-pleasure side quest, and the lack of success is maddening.

I wish I could follow the common advice to “stop trying so hard to reach the destination and learn to enjoy the journey,” but that would require me to turn off my entire personality.

I try hard. It’s who I am. Normally my efforts produce results, like getting a good enough LSAT score to make it into Franklin Monroe.

But all my trying seems to mean nothing when it comes to making my body cooperate.

Me: We’ll see. I’m not getting my hopes up.

Our youngest sister finally chimes in.

Mandy: When you decide you hate this toy as much as all the others, bring it to the wedding so I can take it off your hands.

I sigh at her mention of the wedding. I’ve always been close with all three of my siblings, but my relationship with our older brother is…

complicated. I love Mike. I do. And I also love his fiancée, Danielle, and the rest of her crazy family.

I wouldn’t miss their wedding for the world.

But our family history is hard. Mike’s doing well now, he worked hard to get where he is.

But watching your big brother go to rehab three times for addiction to prescription narcotics takes a toll, and big life events like this now come with lots of extra feelings.

At least our younger sisters get me. Even though they can also drive me nuts, which Mandy especially delights in doing. (Yes, all the Miller children have first names starting with the letter M. People might call me Shelley, but it’s short for Michelle.)

Me: What is wrong with you? Repeat after me. We do not ask for used vibrators.

Mandy: Sorry for caring about the environment and trying to reduce consumer waste. I’ll sanitize it, obviously. What’s the point of letting it rot in your drawer?

Me: Stop! And who says I won’t like it? Maddy’s roommate says it’s life-changing, remember?

Spoiler alert: Life-changing it is not.

Back in my apartment, as expected, I can’t do it.

Just like every other time, nothing happens.

It’s been almost forty minutes of attempting to stimulate myself with this flower-shaped mini vacuum, and I’m getting sore and chafed, so I give up.

My body is broken, and it doesn’t matter how many times or how many different ways I try, 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, not to mention a waste of one hundred eighty-seven dollars.

Which, since I’m living off student loans at the moment, is money I’ll be paying back in interest for years.

I pull a pillow over my face and scream in frustration before I take the toy and throw it at my closet, but because I can’t do anything right today, it falls short and lands softly on the carpet.

Could this be any more humiliating?

Me: Epic fail. Petal remains unpulverized.

I send one last text to the sister group chat and absentmindedly scroll up through the thread.

Seeing the photo of Jo’s article from earlier gives me an idea.

If anyone I know might have a valid, scientific opinion about what’s going on with me, it will be my old teammate. I should reach out to her, right?

Yes. I can do this.

Before I chicken out, I create a new memo in my voice recording app.

Hi, Jo. It’s Shelley Miller. I have an awkward question for you.

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 saw your article this morning in my doctor’s office.

The one 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 already see a few doctors on the regular.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me or my body, other than it might be a side effect of my ADHD meds, 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. It’s a medical problem. 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 force myself to be mature about this whole thing.

The plan to act like an adult immediately goes out the window when I see the message is from my brother’s best friend.

Jordan: Hey, Shelley. I think you intended this for someone else.