Audrey Exposed

Chapter 1

(Audrey)

Everything about the night was set up to be
perfect. I made sushi for dinner, wrapping each roll carefully in the green-black seaweed before coating it with a thin layer of rice. I even added the tiny sprinkles of sesame seeds on the edges. Ginger salad and a full pot of sake made the meal complete.

I set the p
laylist for romantic because it’s Valentine’s Day after all. And Dylan, oh, man, Dylan’s always such a charmer. Flowers. Candy. A long, thin box wrapped with a bow. Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

Or isn’t.

The flowers are the focal point
on the table, surrounded by our empty dishes. The candy remains unopened. I’d been saving it for dessert, not wanting to procrastinate (okay, I really wanted to procrastinate.)

“You’re so sexy,” Dylan says, fingers at the elasti
c of my thigh-highs. The shiver he elicits makes him grin. He rolls each one down gently.

Don’t. Panic
, I tell myself. However, it’s already happening. I wipe my sticky palms on the sheets; and wonder if he can hear my heart hammering in my chest or if he notices the way that my legs keep inching together.

“A
re you okay?” he asks, noticing, that not everything is okay. “We can stop anytime.”

“I want to do this, Dylan.” I mean it, despite the quiver in my voice. I
do
want to do this. I do. “Keep going.”

He moves
away from my lower body up to my breasts. Safer territory. We’re both familiar here. Up here, his hands feel good, his mouth even better. I take a deep breath and sigh, the nerves set aside for the moment. He swirls his tongue around each nipple and I arch my back, lifting toward him. My hips rut against him instinctively and he presses back from the encouragement. I didn’t mean to encourage. But it’s  natural. Why wouldn’t he assume so? He’s hard and ready and with a nervous swallow, I decide I’m ready to be ready, too. I want him. He wants me. This is natural. This is good. We love each other. Everything about this setting is perfect.

Perfect for sex. For making love.

“I’m ready,” I tell him, hands shaking like a leaf.

“
Are you sure?”

God
, he’s sweet. So sweet. Perfect with his floppy hair and thick framed glasses. His patience.

I nod and lift my hips, giving him permission to remove my almost non-existent panties. He does
so, quickly, as though he knows I may change my mind. But I won’t; not this time. I won’t. I’m ready.

He pries my legs apart (yes, they’re stuck together like magnets) and I force them down to the sides. Dylan climbs over me and I try to lose myself in his body. He has a nice body. Not like Channing Tatum or one of those guys on a CW show
, but he’s slim and fairly fit. His skin is nice, a pretty brown to match his eyes.

“A little wider, sweetie,” he says
, nudging my legs further apart. I don’t like that. Not at all, but I swallow my fear and shift them away. A little. As much as I can. He kneels between us and pushes forward.
This is it, this is it
, I chant in my head.
This is…Ouch! No!
The instant his dick touches my body I tense.

And breathe.

Just breathe, Audrey. Breathe.

You can do this. You
can
do this.

Panic rises in my chest and I clench my jaw. “Do it
, already. It will be okay.”

I’m a mess of conflicting emotions. My clit wants to be rubbed. My vagina wants to be left alone. My heart wants to connect with the man I love. And Dylan? I see the lustful gleam in his e
ye. He wants to fuck me. He loves me, but he’s also horny as hell. I’ve held him off for so long.

He’s over me now,
the hard tip of his dick near my opening. “Ah,” I gasp, when I’m stabbed by his probing head. It knows what to do. Why doesn’t my body know what to do as well? Why? Why can’t it do what it’s supposed to do?

Deep breath.

Inhale. Exhale.

I clamp down on my lip and stare at the ceiling over Dylan’s shoulder
, counting the cracks zigzagging like spider-webs.

Stab.

Poke.

Push.

It’s just the tip, but I feel ripped apart. I feel tearing in my flesh. I could be bleeding, right? God, I’m bleeding. I glance at Dylan and he tries to smile but it’s swallowed by his clenched jaw. “I’ve got to keep going,” he says. “But you need to relax.”

“I am
,” I lie, as tears well in my eyes and one escapes, slipping down my cheek. I have no idea what relaxed or not relaxed is right now. All I have is an incredible sense of panic. And terror. And the feeling that my insides may split open.

“I’m barely in.”

“Push harder.”

“Babe, I am.”
He pushes and probes, but my vagina has shut down like a steel trap. He grimaces and sits up a little. “I’m getting soft.”

The absurdity of the moment strikes me. It’s taking so long
that he’s no longer hard. I’ve killed his boner. Something I thought, after all these months of feeling it pressed against various parts of my body, was an impossibility.

He sighs, pulling
his flaccid tip out. I barely feel it because it was barely in and he’s barely erect.

I’m horrified.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s okay.” He reaches for me.

I shift away. He spoons against my back.

I feel sick.

“We’ll try another time.”

Fat tears roll down my cheeks, absorbing into my pillow.
I’ve already decided we won’t.

*

“Fuck you, Valentine’s Day,” I say, mumbling through a giant spoonful of chocolate mousse. The doorbell buzzes and I drop the spoon into the half-empty bowl. I tighten the belt on my robe before opening the door. I’ve turned and walked back to the couch without looking to see who’s there. Reese is the only person who would be on call for her best friend on Valentine’s Day. I think we both knew where this night was headed before I even got here.

“Oh
, honey, what happened?” she asks, trailing behind me taking off her coat and hanging it by the door. Her husband, Alex, has a shift at the hospital tonight so they’re celebrating tomorrow.

I pick up my spoon and give her a look. “Do you really need to ask?”

“I thought you’d figured it out this time.”

I slump back and lick a
smear of chocolate off the handle. “Me too, but here I am. Again.”

Reese
glances over my shoulder and I can tell she’s assessing the scene of the crime. I live in a one-room loft, the bedroom separated by a long sheer sheet of patterned fabric. It’s pushed to the side and she can easily spot the lit candles and the cut paper hearts I’d scattered on the floor leading from the dining area to the bed. The bed linens are slightly rumpled, enough to tell Reese the story I can’t bear to repeat myself.

“Fucking Valentine’s Day. It’s
as if the whole day is rubbing in the fact I’m defective. I hate it,” I cry.

“You’re not defective.” Her hand strokes down my back.
In a tentative, careful voice, she asks, “How far did it go this time?”

I stand and unknot my belt, dropping my robe to the floor.
Reese’s eyebrows spike to the top of her forehead. “Shit, Audrey, you look fantastic.”

“I know right?” I hold my arms out so she ca
n get a better view of the black and red push-up bra and a matching, sheer, ruffled mini skirt. Typical slutty Valentine’s Day lingerie. I thought it’d help me get in the mood. It fits well, my body is pretty toned from working out, and I straightened my reddish-brown hair so it hung in a solid sheet down my back. I point to a small heap on the floor by the bed. “The thigh-highs and panties did get removed.”

“Okay, so you got pretty far.
”

“Yeah
, and we made out for a while. I really thought I could do it this time. The mood was set. I drank a fair amount of sake to loosen up. Dylan did everything right. He was totally patient, so caring, but when it was time to actually…” I make a face. “You know…”

“Sex. You were actually going to have sex.” God,
Reese is so blunt. Normally, I love her straight-forwardness, but right now, I just can’t. My hands shake and the taste of chocolate rises in the back of my throat. I grab the robe to cover myself. She frowns, worry etched in her face. “Oh, girl, I am so sorry. I’m sorry. I know this is really hard for you.”

“It’s not your fault. I’m the one that’s broken.”

“You are not broken,” she argues.

“I am broken. Just ask Dylan. He tried to…well we trie
d, really tried. It hurt so badly; and God, it was so embarrassing. My vagina is broken.” This comes out in a sobbing cry because, even though I can snark about it, inside I feel like I’m drowning. Why wouldn’t I feel like a loser? I’m a twenty-four year-old virgin with a broken vagina. I can’t even give that shit away.

“Well
, where did he go? What happened?” She grabs a roll of paper towels off the kitchen counter and tears off a sheet. I take it and wipe under my eyes. Black mascara smudges on the paper. She waits, a little too eager if you ask me, to hear what Dylan did wrong. She’s not his biggest fan.

“He’s gone. I totally panicked. Like a full-blown anxiety attack. He was sweet. He tried to talk me down
; he told me it was okay.” I lean back and sigh. “I’m exhausted, Reese. I can’t keep doing this with guy after guy… really great guys. I can’t ask them to stay with me when I have all this ridiculous baggage. At some point, even Dylan will want more. It’s not like he hasn’t had sex with his other girlfriends. I want him to want more. I just don’t think I can give it.”

His history is another reason I’m panicking. Dylan was sexually active with his last girlfriend (and the one before that). He left her
for
me. Why would he do that? Even if he loves me, there’s no reason for him to sacrifice his sex life when he has other options.

Reese is
quiet next to me. Which is unusual. We’ve been friends since freshman year of college and she’s the only person who knows about my problem; well, other than the guys I attempted and failed to lose my virginity to. I can’t bring myself to tell anyone else. It’s too awkward and embarrassing.

“You need to see a doctor,” she says. Her brown eyes hold mine and I can tell she’s serious. In that,
she’s going to make me do this
kind of way.

“No,” I say, but I’m tired and I don’t have a lot of fight left in me. “Who would I go see? The last doctor I tried to
discuss this with made me feel like shit.”

“You’re going to my doctor
. I’ll go with you and we’ll figure this out.”

My body breaks out into a sweat
, under my arms and on my palms. I feel sticky and hot at the idea of going to the doctor and talking about this. Not to mention the exam, pure panic washes over me, and I whisper, “I can’t.”

“You can and you will. I’m making the appointment tomorrow.
She’s great. I think you’d feel comfortable with her.”

“No, really
, don’t bother.” Gynecologists and I don’t mix well, at least historically; maybe because of all the metal probes they tend to use.

“Babe, you have to do something. This is ruining your life, and I refuse to sit by and watch it happen anymore. I can’t take the dick for you; but I will do what I can.”

“You didn’t just say that.” I fight the laughter building in my chest. “I really don’t want to,” I say
, but I see the way her jaw is set and clear intent in her eyes.

T
here’s no use fighting her.

“I’ll go with you,” she says, as though fear is my only problem.
What she doesn’t understand is that yeah, I’m afraid of doctors, being naked in public, and discussing my anxiety; but worst of all is my fear of failing once again.

Chapter 2

(Audrey)

I write my name on the paper cup with a wax pencil and push it through the little door in the wall between the bathroom and lab. When I
walk into the hall, a nurse in pink and blue-checkered scrubs waits for me with a smile. “Follow me,” she says, and I consider making a break for it. If I don’t go now, then I have to do this again. I’ll have to take off my clothes, put on a paper dress, and wait, mostly naked, on a table for the doctor to come in. Then she’ll ask a gazillion questions and probe me with cold things; and I really just want to go home. It’s possible, I think. They can’t make me stay.

Then I remember
Reese sitting amongst the pregnant women in the waiting room; she’ll catch me and make me come back. Damn her.

“You
can change behind that curtain,” the nurse says. “The doctor will be in soon.”

The minute t
he nurse leaves, the latest wave of nerves wash over me. My hands shake, clammy with sweat, as I remove my shirt and jeans. I take a deep breath before I gather the courage to take off my bra and panties. I’m just not comfortable being naked around most people. Okay, any people. Even doctors. I’m also not comfortable with people being around my lady parts or with poking sharp objects like speculums. I shudder from the idea of speculums
and
the cold. I just know there’s an industrial size tube of lube around here somewhere, which is
slippery
and I can’t control slippery things from accidentally trying to impale me in the vagina.  A fresh surge of tears fill my eyes and defeated, I wrap the paper robe around myself, covering as much of my body as possible.

It takes me three tries to get on the table without losing my rob
e. I manage to mount on the side with a fast hop, one hand on the robe closure, the other on the paper-covered table. The paper tears under my butt and that’s when I see my sock-covered feet. Fuck it all. I’m still wearing socks. Two different ones. I weigh my options, keep them on or take them off?

“Miss Carr?” a voice says on the other side of the door while knocking. My stomach clenches
. For a minute, I think I may puke, but there’s no time. The doctor is here.

*

“I’d like to give you the name of a specialist,” Dr. Weir says, once I’m dressed and in her office. We had a tense moment in the examination room and from the persistent shake of my hands; it’s obvious I haven’t gotten over it yet.

“What kind of specialist?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.

“A sex therapist I know works through the university. She’s running an experiment right now and I think you may be a perfect candidate.”

“An experiment?” I don’t like the sound of that.

Dr. Weir scribbles a name and phone number on the back of a card. “Yes, specifically for sexual disorders. I really think she may be able to help you with your anxiety.” I’m silent, weighing my excuses. That’s right. I’m already looking for a way out of this nightmare, especially, after the violation of my hoohaa. My insides still hurt and it’s just another harsh reminder that I’m irreparably broken. Why? The doctor is able to get past all my barriers. Sure, it wasn’t comfortable, I cried the whole time, and she had to use the smallest speculum, but she was able to get inside. My vagina
isn’t
completely broken. It just won’t accept a dick. Maybe I’m allergic to cock.

She glances up from the paper and gives me a sympathetic smile. “Audrey, from my examination, I’ve determined there’s nothing physically wrong with you. Whatever you’re going through is an emotional response.”

Of course it is. What’s worse than having a broken vagina? Being crazy
, that’s what.

“In light of this,” she continues, “
I think seeing a therapist will be the best way for you to conquer your anxiety and be able to live a happy, healthy life.”

I consider what she says for a minute and take the card. “At least you didn’t tell me to drink a glass of wine and get over it
, like the last doctor I spoke with did.”

Her lips crease into a line
for a second; but otherwise, she maintains neutral expression. “I’m sorry that happened to you. Sometimes even medical professionals can be ignorant. Seriously, please consider reaching out to my colleague. I don’t think you’ll regret it.”

I say the only thing I can.
“I’ll think about it. I promise.”

*

The elevator chimes and a group of people spill out into the lobby. I’ve been here for ten minutes, having come straight from work. I stand here watching the car come and go, up and down, over and over. Each time, a missed opportunity to change my life. I look at my watch; I only have ten minutes before I miss my appointment.  That is something I don’t normally do.

“
Are you getting on?” A guy asks from inside the elevator car. His hand holds the doors from sliding shut. I note that we’re close in age. He’s cute. On a normal day, I’d be more than happy to share such a small space with him.

“Not yet.” I give him a weak smile.
“But thanks.”

He steps back and we face ea
ch other. He offers a stunning smile before the doors close. Dammit, Audrey! This is exactly why you’re here! Guys like that. Guys who are cute with dimples and curly dark hair and eyes like Henry Cavill. Guys you want to have sex with. No. Guys you can’t have sex with, but maybe, want to learn to have sex with.

My pep talk motivates me to push the button one last time. The car arrives empty
. I jump on, pressing the button for floor eight, before I can change my mind. As the elevator moves upward, I lean against the back railing and breathe in deeply. I catch a hint of a warm scent, an unfamiliar cologne, and wonder if it belonged to the guy who rode up before me. I think about kissing him, pressed up against the fake, paneled walls of the elevator. He looked strong enough to lift me up, his fingers seeking my warmth underneath my skirt.

The elevator chimes and I blink,
my face hot from my daydream. I’m motivated by my own primal urges to deal with my problem. That is, until the doors slide open. Then the feeling of panic settles back in my stomach so hard that my hand grips the door for support.

Whatever
, I tell myself. I can do this. I want to do this. I step off the elevator and into the hall, searching for the office number 803. A small marker says, “Behavioral Sciences,” with the number underneath. Without hesitation, I enter the office. Well, a lobby filled with soft, tinkling, music and a gurgling stone fountain on top of a small table.

Oh,
shit. This woman is a hippie.

I wait for ten minutes before a woman with
long, braided gray hair and thin, wire-framed glasses comes through a door that opens into the waiting room. “You must be Audrey,” she says, with a warm smile. “I’m Dr. Markson.”

“Hi,” I say, offering her my hand. It’s awkward knowing that she knows why I’m here
. I feel like I have an arrow pointing to my broken vagina, announcing my defectiveness. “Nice to meet you.”

“Come into my office and we’ll talk a little.”

I follow her through the door and into an eclectic, cluttered office. A big window on the back wall provides a lot of light and draws attention to the small, downtown area of the college. Comfortable looking furniture is arranged in the middle of the room. Rows of books and trinkets line bookshelves against the walls. I catch a whiff of incense and tinkling, windchimey, music.

“Sit wherever y
ou’d like,” she says, and I attempt to make myself comfortable on a small gray chair. Dr. Markson sits across from me on a chair with a batik print. “Let me explain a little about our program here and then I’ll ask you some questions. This will help me determine if you’re a good candidate for our experimental therapy program.”

“Okay.”

“First, as with all therapist-patient relationships everything that happens here is confidential. Because this is an experiment, there will be a select group of graduate students who will see your results; but they are bound by the same confidentiality.” She pulls out a small pad and marks something with her pencil. “I’ve spent the last thirty years studying sexual anxiety disorders. Many methods have been used, most utilizing medication and cognitive therapy. For a while, hypnotherapy was popular; but, recently, I’ve been focusing my efforts on techniques relying on exposure therapy. Are you familiar with the term?”

“Not specifically,” I say. “But I could guess. You expose your patients to dif
ferent levels of their fear until their anxiety is gone.”

“Exactly,” she says with a smile. “No therapeutic method is the same for each patient
; but when Dr. Weir told me about your specific symptoms, I felt you might be a perfect candidate for a trial I’ve been preparing to run.”

“
How so?” I wrinkle my nose, feeling the beginnings of an incense induced headache coming on.

“Well,
your history says you have no known history of abuse or trauma, correct?”

“Correct
,” I say, answering the question I’d asked myself a million times. “At least, not that I’m aware of.”

“That’s unusual because often sexual anxiety is directly related to an event in one’s life. Often as a child or following a violent event.”

“No, I’ve thought about it. I can’t come up with any sort of memory that says something bad has ever happened to me.”

Again, she jots something on her pad.
“Can you describe your first sexually related anxiety attack?”

I nod and start to describe the first of
many personal failures, but stop to say, “Can I just go ahead and explain that I’m going to cry while we talk about this?”

“I understand
that this is a very difficult subject for you to discuss. There are no judgments here. Ever.”

“I hate it. I hate crying about something I can’t control.”
I take a deep breath and steady my hands on the armrests. “I was sixteen and had been dating a boy for about a year. Things had progressed to the point where we both wanted to have sex. I thought it was a good idea    and that I was ready. Nevertheless, when the time came, I just froze. Literally. You know that term cockblock?” she nods. “That’s what happened. My vagina blocked his cock and the little bit he put in hurt like hell, as though he was ripping me in half. I guess if he’d tried to push it, something may have happened; but the pain was too much and my body just shut him down.”

“How did that feel? Emotionally?”

“I felt horrible. Like a complete failure. I mean, all anyone ever warns a girl about is being a slut; and here I was trying to have sex, and I couldn’t do it.” Tears well in my eyes and I feel like such a loser. Why can’t I stop crying about this?

“How did the boy respond?”

“It was awkward. Obviously, we were young, probably too young to be having sex in the first place. We tried once more and it was worse. I had a full panic attack in addition to the pain. We broke up not long after that.”

“Can you describe the pain for me?”

“It hurts. As if something too big is going into somewhere, it shouldn’t.  I’ve accepted the idea of pain, but my body just won’t let it happen. Like literally, it shuts down. Then I start panicking about if this is going to happen or how much will it hurt, so I freak out before we even get too far.”

“How many sexual partners have
you attempted to have?”

“Three. My first boyfriend,
and then I tried to hook up with a guy at a frat party my junior year. Thank God, he was drunk and didn’t really realize what was going on.” I shudder at the memory. “I thought, maybe if I just took the pressure off and did it on a whim, it would be easier. I thought maybe he would just do it and I’d have no chance to back out. I was wrong.”

“Who was the third?”

I wipe away a tear. “My ex, Dylan, we just broke up over this. He was really sweet about it and we tried several times, but…”

She
waits for me to continue, and finally says, “But what?”

“But he deserves better than what I can give him.”

Dr. Markson wrote several things down on her pad. “Did he break up with you?”

“No.” In fact
, he’s been calling, trying to get in touch. I ignored all his messages. “I broke up with him.”

“Just a couple more questions.
If you had to describe how having this anxiety makes you feel, what would you say?”

“It makes me feel horrible
, worthless, and broken. I have this body and the desire. I want to have sex as much as the next girl, but something about me is flawed. I hate it.” I’m sobbing real tears now and Dr. Markson hands me a full box of tissues. I take a few and blow my nose several times. God, I must look like hell.

“You’re very brave,
Audrey.”

“Yeah, right,”
I say, feeling like I’ve just been put through an obstacle course for my emotions. I don’t say it aloud, but the last thing I feel is brave. I feel like the biggest wimp ever. I’m scared and pathetic. Coming here was a bad idea.