Page 3 of My Turn Petal
“Morning to you,” he greets back from the other side of the line, “Did you wake up on the right side of bed?”
“Is there a darker side to the moon?” I joke.
“Oh no. Is this your dark era time? Did Aunt Scarlet come to visit you?” Jude, my best friend, ever since our days as kids in kindergarten, is quick to understand my humor.
“No, I’m not on my period.” Instead of it being a horror show in itself, I don’t feel pain these days—it’s only fair.
“Good. First, I saw your post from last night and you did an insane job.” He shouts to the speaker. “You only get better.”
“Thanks, I really nailed it.” I don’t know what I would’ve done without him. He knows everything about me. Even the details I neglect to share with my family or other people I’m getting close to. Jude never fails to lift my spirit and be a shoulder I can lean on, especially when he has his own responsibilities and relationships.
“Well, listen to this, according to Mila—my lovely girlfriend.”
Picking up the hint she is there with him, “Hey, Mila,” I say.
“Hey, Frankie.” Her tiny voice filters in and it sounds like she’s brushing her teeth.
“In two and a half months, on Valentine’s Day, your favorite band is coming to New Jersey.” Jude’s joyful voice comes back to the surface.
I comment, “And…?”
“We need to find you a suitable date for this thrilling occasion.” He explains.
Sighing, I take a long sip of my tasteful coffee, “Good luck.”
“We will help you have some fun. You need to get out more, lately, you’ve been stuck between tattooing and being cooped up in your apartment.”
Yeah, living with a condition is time-consuming. Between wanting to get better, working, and fixing problems there’s not much time left. I also need a full session of a good night’s sleep because as a tattoo artist, my clients come first. I need to set my priorities and prepare accordingly.
Exhaling another breath to the world, I hone in on the laces weaving the front of my black boots.
Instead of getting slammed to a wall on Valentine’s Day, I’d spend it wallowing at my unfortunate circumstances same as I’ve done for the last decade.
“So anyway, I need to get ready for work but think about it and we’ll find you the perfect date. I’ll talk to you later.” Jude finishes the friendly chat and ends the call.
I hate being trapped under the strings of my condition. One day can be a progressive one and another could be a major drawback. Being dependent on something is the worst feeling in the world. I dedicated my life to never having to rely on anyone else but me.
And with my condition it all depends.
On what?
My psychological state. According to all experts and all the research I’ve done for years. At twenty-seven while I’m still positive I can overcome this, women have done it all over the globe—my energy is running low.
It’s not that I don’t want to have sex.
I do.
God I do.
So fucking much.
Yet my body won’t let me.
Welcome to my life. Sexless. Vibrator-less. Well. Not true, I do own some vibrators to pleasure my clit—yes, I love orgasms. Yes, I love pleasuring myself. Yes, I want mind-blowing, earth-shuddering, ballistic-missile sex with someone.
Hard and merciless.
Slow and sensual.
