Dr. Stud

That doctor is a jerk.

I mean, he wasn’t mean or anything. I realize that. But was that whole exam even necessary? I don’t think so. I think he was just messing with me since I blew him off at the hat shop.

Gallery. I mean my gallery.

After my appointment, I rushed to the pharmacy. The old man at the counter seemed completely surprised to see me, and even more surprised that I expected my prescription to be ready. I mean, I was the only customer in the place and the pills come prepackaged. What on earth could have possibly been taking him so long?

But with my mother’s voice in my head scolding me for my Manhattan manners, I just smiled as politely as I could and promised to come back later. Surely I wouldn’t just spontaneously ovulate because I missed my pill this morning. I know I can take two tomorrow and be fine.

I hurried back to the cabin to work on gallery business, but my mind was buzzing with energy, refusing to settle in an orderly way. I flipped through images of the works I should expect for the show, trying to imagine a plan for the walls. That’s my biggest task right now: setting a gallery plan.

That’s all I should be doing, and it’s something I’m good at.

So why can’t I concentrate?

Sitting is uncomfortable. I’m still damp and swollen from my exam. After a little while, I decide to grab a beer from the fridge and take my laptop out onto the back porch. Maybe the ocean breeze will settle my nerves. But quickly I find out that the breeze is actually going the wrong way, sucking the oxygen from the house out to sea.

It’s hardly helping at all.

Back inside, it’s a stew of childhood smells and visions and memories. Everywhere I look there’s a piece of my life looking back at me. The shells we collected from the beach. This afghan on the futon that Grandma Ann crocheted in various shades of blue. I remember sitting at her feet and wrapping the afghan around me as she worked on the other end.

I wonder why I don’t recognize Dr. Warner? I suddenly think, seemingly out of nowhere.

He’s definitely several years older than me, but if he’s from Willowdale I’m sure I should’ve seen him around. And when I was a teenager, I certainly would’ve been curious about someone who looked like that. I certainly would’ve been curious about the son of Boss Warner, considering all the rumors that swirled around him…which, I suppose, aren’t even rumors. It’s true.

I remember Didi trying to explain this to me on several occasions, but I did not want to hear about it. Ladies would talk about it every once in a while, maybe at barbecues or after church meetings. They’d whisper with their foreheads tipped together, their eyes bright, their lips pursed. Lady treatments, just like Didi said. A remnant of Victorian gentility, some pseudoscientific hocus-pocus about backing up humors in the body or something like that.

Total baloney.

Like I’m supposed to believe the lady equivalent of “blue balls.” How can that even be a thing? Everybody makes a big deal out of sexual satisfaction, out of the magic of orgasm. If you ask me, they all know the Emperor has no clothes.

Totally naked Emperor.

Oh my God, why am I even thinki

ng about this? I scold myself. Knock it off! Focus!

I glare at the pictures on the screen, trying to imagine them on walls, lit by color-corrected LEDs. But in moments, I’m fixated on the whole “lady treatment” phenomenon.

So the rumors are true, and now I know for sure. I had forgotten about it until Didi mentioned it, but now I have confirmation. Dr. Warner believes in lady treatments. His dad before him offered lady treatments. That is a fact. And everybody in town went to him. Also a fact. Like my mom…

Okay, can you please focus? I practically scream at myself. Grab a pencil! Draw a diagram! These paintings are not going to hang themselves!

As soon as I stand up from the sofa, I feel another gush of wetness soaking my panties through. Just thinking about lying there on that exam table, my legs in the stirrups, that machine pulsing between my thighs…

“Oh no,” I hear myself say as the room begins to swim in front of my eyes. Blindly I reach out and find the wall, leaning heavy against it to steady myself. It’s still in me, I can feel it. That nest of hornets, that vibration deep in my core. That warmth, spreading and pulsing.

Was that it? Was that the feeling that Dr. Warner was driving me toward? It seemed so strange at first, but then his professional manner lulled me into automatic feelings of security. I played along until it got too hot. I thought I was going to pee my pants or something and had to stop it, had to do something.

What if I hadn’t?

I suddenly remember Didi mocking me, telling me that I’m too much of a control freak to have an orgasm. Could she be right about that? I haven’t felt that way before, exactly, but I have felt similar things.

Have I been holding myself back this entire time?

What if that was my chance, right then? I mean, I’m only here for nine more days. Then I can head on back to Manhattan and let Willowdale become a distant memory again. Go back to my real life. What if the lady treatment really works?

Boot steps on the front porch startle me back to reality and I stand up straight, shaking my head to clear it. I need to get back to reality, back to focusing on the work in front of me.