Over the next two weeks, Joel and I don’t try again with Operation Penetration. We don’t even talk about it. We just go back to hanging out like before, as if the sex fail never happened. I know it’s been on both of our minds, though, and every time we’ve been in bed together part of me has been braced for him to suggest it again. With Christmas looming I decide I should make an appointment to see a doctor.
I text Joel to let him know, then head to the bus stop so I can make the call in private. I pray the receptionist doesn’t ask for details. What would I say? My vagina is broken? Gynaecological issues? I’m about to tap “call” when my phone vibrates.
Joel: I dunno if the doctor is necessary. Isn’t it just a bit tight?
Well, that’s not helpful. A supportive “good luck” would have sufficed.
Rose: It’s not normal
Joel: You can do what you like
A fresh wave of frustration hits me.
Rose: Thanks for the permission
I’m so close to chucking my phone back into my bag and putting the whole thing off but something stops me. Joel might want to downplay it, but it’s no use pretending this problem is going to miraculously fix itself. I need to take charge. My body, my rules. I press “call”.
I pace the pavement, listening to the irritating trill of the hold music. What if they try to give me a male doctor? I’m about to wimp out when the receptionist picks up and asks how they can help.
“I’d like to book an appointment, please, after school hours if possible. My name is Rose Summers.”
“Monday at five with Doctor Capewell?”
Shit, that’s in three days. My thumb twitches by the hang-up button.
“Is that a female doctor?”
“It is. Can I have a brief explanation as to why you’re coming in to see her?”
The dreaded question. Why do they always ask that? It’s none of their business.
“Are you still there?”
“Women’s problems,” I say like an utter moron. Why am I talking like a thirteen-year-old boy?
“Great, that’s all booked.”
I text Joel telling him it’s done, but he doesn’t reply.