Founded in the fall of 1991, Laurel Moon is Brandeis' oldest, national literary publication. Each issue we publish features original work from undergraduate students.
“Let me know if it hurts.”
It does, quite frankly, hurt. The physical therapist’s finger prods at the outermost area of her labia. It’s a burning sensation, like shaking dry sand out of a wet bikini bottom. Itchy.
She nods, lets the PT know that it hurts, but not too bad. The hurt is never ‘too bad.’ She lets the doctors know that it’s livable, that she’s trucking along just fine, and that, yes, she does see a therapist for her emotional health once a week.
It’s extremely pricey, this therapy stuff.
Her stilettos sit in the corner of the room, next to the chair where her dress lies, folded neatly. She placed her black lace panties inside the dress so the PT wouldn’t see them. Sometimes she plays with the idea of just leaving her underwear strewn out on the chair, but she never does. For some reason, she feels that it would be embarrassing. She lets this woman see the inside of her vagina once a week but can’t bear for her to see her undies. It’s weird.
The PT didn’t comment on the outfit or the fresh mark on her neck when she entered the office, just smiled politely and asked her how her weekend was. The first time she pulled something like this, about half a year ago, the PT couldn’t help but raise her eyebrows.
“Clubbing on a Sunday?”
“Yep.”
“God, I miss my twenties.”
There was a light smile and a quiet moment of camaraderie, and then it was all over. She got on the table and let the woman prod and pry and then was time to leave until her next Monday morning appointment. Seven AM to the vagina doctor. Nine AM to work. That’s the way it went for her.
The PT put her finger in deeper.
“I had sex last night.”
“Was it painful?”
“A little. I couldn’t tell if I was just psyching myself out though.”
“Mhmm. Let me know if this hurts.”
She doesn’t let the PT know that she scoured four different bars last night looking for a man to fuck. She doesn’t let the PT know that it was an incredibly hard search, since nobody goes out on a Sunday night anyway. And she certainly doesn’t let the PT know that she eventually resorted to swiping through Tinder, before settling on a man eight years her senior who worked for some vape startup.
She arrived at his place at around midnight, and he was already shirtless, watching a rerun of Holes on his television set. He briefly showed her around the apartment, his collection of books by Charles Bukowski, and talked about how he hoped to sell out to Big Tobacco.
“It’s the advertiser’s fault- you know, that kids buy it and stuff. The purpose is to help people. All the lawsuits are extremely unjustified.”
They fucked to Shia LeBeouf digging in the desert.
She stole a vape on the way out. It tasted like cherries and Windex.
Sundays like yesterday’s Sunday come creeping around the bend every once in a while. She’s lying in bed, getting ready for the week to begin when the thought comes. When was the last time she had sex? After a quick search on her period tracker she is out of bed and applying mascara at a rapid pace. Maybe it won’t hurt this time. If it doesn’t hurt this time then she won’t have to go to PT the next morning. If it doesn’t hurt this time she won’t have to spend hours on the phone with the insurance company, telling the person at the other end that no, I don’t know what it is yet. Vaginismus or Pelvic Floor Dysfunction or something. But I need the therapy, the therapy helps and I need you to cover-
The sex hurts every time.
She can remember a time before sex hurting, a time when life was measured in late-night car rides and twin beds, when teenage boys fell at her feet for a brief moment then turned their backs so suddenly. The only pain was what came after penetration. The retreat, the repercussions.
She was fifteen when she decided she was going to be a sex-positive feminist. It was a sign of her times, after all. The social media infographics and TV shows were saying it. It was cool to have sex, it was empowering. She was going to be a Cool Empowered Feminist who took no shit and loved her body, she decided.
What she didn’t seem to understand is that boys don’t mind Cool Empowered Feminists when they want sex. All they had to do was sit for a few minutes and listen to her recite jargon that she heard on a white millennial woman’s blog and then they could do whatever they wanted. Just because she scoffed at the term ‘slut’ didn’t mean they couldn’t view her as one. They used her for five-minute orgasmless sex in the back seats of their mother’s Honda and spread her nudes to the football team and she thought she had it all figured out.
And now she was the one in pain.
Those boys, now young men, probably spent their Sunday nights talking about bear-hugs and stock market crashes and tits over a beer at a sports bar. They probably spent their Monday mornings at vape startup companies or, if they were lucky, interning at wall street. She was at the doctor’s office. Unfair, it seemed.
The PT finishes exactly when the hour is up and begins to upsell something called a pelvic wand.
“We sell them at the office- the same price it is on Amazon!”
Bullshit.
She buys it anyway.
The packaging isn’t discreet. Not at all. Honestly, this magical pelvic massage tool looks a lot like a giant dildo. It’s pink and has glitter on it.
She will carry it with her on the subway.
She will carry it with her on the subway in her low-cut dress and her high high heels and the men will stare. How could they not?
She will accept it. She will accept the leers and groans and hand-to-groin-motions. She will relish the winks and smirks and soccer-mothers-disapprovals. She will enjoy the catcalls and lecheries and ‘come-home-with-me’s’ as the 6 train rattles towards her desired destination.
It is the only type of love that comes without the sharp sensation of pain.