Page 31 of Intoxicated
Chapter 10
CHER
There is nothing shameful about what I’ve done. That’s what I tell myself –and you –as I hold my head up high, don my sunglasses, and stroll into the clinic on the corner of Walk and Shame.
Wait. I said that there was nothing shameful about it. Huh. Not my fault if these streets intersect and that’s where the sexual health clinic is. I didn’t lay down the grid that makes up Portland. Nor did I name them. If I had, I would’ve renamed half the Alphabet District. We’re living in an age where Stark Street has become Harvey Milk Street. Anything is possible.
Like me committing a huge sexual snafu and now needing the expert advice and testing of some of Portland’s most competent physicians.
Look, we all know I screwed up. Fucking Drew wasn’t bad enough. Oh, no. I had to go and get off on the Bareback Extravaganza complete with Bonus Creampie for dessert because I don’t love myself, probably. You know, the kind of thing you fantasize about late at night, alone in your bed, where you press a vibe against your clit and moan into your pillow?
Ah. Okay. Tough audience. I see that I am literally theonly woman who has ever done that.Uh huh. Sure.
I hope you enjoyed your voyeuristic journey into the dumbest sex I’ve ever had. What turned you on more? Watching me get pounded into submission while a jerk like Drew Benton fills me up like he’s getting ready to decorate a cake? Or was it those rippling ab muscles that flexed every time he slightly moved to the left or right? Let me guess. The hot part was watching me realize what a mistake I had made.
Well. We’re moving on from that. After nearly a whole week of beating myself up and deciding what to do next, I’ve concluded that the best way to move on is to get a clear conscience before I jump back into dating. Most of my really rich boyfriends require an STD test up front – depending on how worldly they are, anyway – but I don’t know when the next jackass will be. So. Here we are, putting my insurance to work.
It’s the kind of clinic that goes out of its way to make everyone feelsafeandcomfortable.Pillow cushions are strapped to the chairs. Tasteful pamphlets are organized by color in a large display beneath the TV playingFriendsreruns. While Phoebe prances about in yet another example of exquisite ‘90s fashion, two women fill out their forms, one of them biting their nails while the other looks like she’s about to get the worst pap smear of her life. I’m not due for one, and I tell the receptionist as much as she hands me my forms and I give her my insurance card.
Every time I turn around I’m met with the picture of a baby. Either the super pink, wrinkly newborn kind, or the happy, fluffy, three-month olds that smile because they have so much shit in them they’re about to gleefully explode in streams of baby diarrhea. At least the demographics of these babies has improved over the years. Whether they’re white, black, or Asian though, they’re all exhibiting the same big, round eyes, puffy cheeks, and happy demeanors that are meant to make sure all feel safe and warm.
Gag me with a spoon. Or, better yet, gag me with the clinic pen I’m about to ram down my throat as I prepare to construct an extensive list of my family’s health maladies.
Father’s side: strokes, testicular cancer, and dementia. Mother’s side: extreme narcissism. What do you mean that doesn’t count? Fine. High blood pressure. Are you happy now, doctor?
I finally lift my sunglasses up my head so I can read the small print. Of course, now that I’m answering questions about my period – due in three days, hooray, me – past sexual experiences, and concerns I have about my health, I’m thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong. What if Drew Benton is such a man-ho he’s infected me with God knows what? What if I’m –gasp –pregnant? Doesn’t matter, because I have an IUD. We’ll leave it at that.
Still, even if I can rationalize that I’m fine and this is simply for eternal peace of mind, I chew my nail like the woman next to me and pray to God that I’m not being punished for sexual idiocy. I have to ask myself if that fuck was worth it, you know. Say I’ve got chlamydia. Would the treatments, side effects, and sheer embarrassment I carry around be worth that lay? Will I look my doctor in the eye and say,“Yeah, totally worth it!”
We both know I want to say no, but dignity tells me I should say yes. It’s the principle of the thing. I was wound up. Drew is – was – hot as hell, especially when he whipped out his beautiful cock. My anger manifests into horniness when I’m ovulating, which I’m pretty sure I was doing, or at least finishing when I marched over there. I’m a real riot after reading the political news. As soon as I calm down, I’m liable to hop on a guy’s lap and scream how good it feels to get the rage fucked out of me.
We’ll go with that.
I’m still trying to understand my thought process last week. When I got home, doggedly defying what had happened, I went straight for the shower and had a good, long soak. Instead of distracting myself, however, I kept replaying those fifteen minutes in my head. From the moment I kissed him until I felt the rush of his heat inside of me.Boom. Boom. Boom.One instance after another, each one hotter than the last. I don’t know how a woman can be both sexually satisfied for a whole weekandabsolutely abhorring herself, but that’s been me. I’m sure it’s some kind of punishment that I deserve for being a whore.
The buzzer on the door alerts us that the receptionists have let someone in. I continue to mind my forms before I’m called back with them half-finished. With any luck, I’ll be swabbing a Q-tip in my vagina within twenty minutes.
I’m slightly surprised to hear a male voice murmur to the receptionist. Riiiight. Some men are bright enough to come to these places. I hear they do great deals on cock-checks. What are they called again? That thing where they stick a finger up your ass and check the ol’ prostate? There’s nothing like a guy who will give you a tour of his prostate. Then again, depends on how the guy wants you to do it. I had an older boyfriend a couple of years ago who only got off on pegging. Luckily, I make a decent Domme, although I would never charge for it. When a guy wants me to scream at him and call himsissyso he can come, I’m inclined to indulge.
Honestly, if I were to become a dominatrix, it would definitely be the financial kind. That may be something I look into as I age out of being good sugar baby material.
The form asks me for my insurance number. Again. Ijustput my card away, so that means slamming the clipboard into the empty seat next to mine and digging through my purse.
I happen to catch the eye of the guy who has sat across from me.
Jesus. He looks a lot like Drew.
