I had to think about what she was saying for a while before understanding her. She sat stiffly, staring at her computer as she spoke. She was using clinical terms instead of trying to use simpler words that most people would understand. It was obvious she was upset about something and was using the words as a wall. "Um... I only know that I'm allergic to balloons, but I didn't blow any up or even see any last night. Besides, they really only make my lips get swollen and a few blisters sometimes. It's not that bad. Nothing like this."
"Were you exposed to any other materials that contained latex?" she asked, still not looking up from the screen.
"I don't..." I said, not really knowing what she could be talking about. As far as I knew, I was just allergic to balloons.
"Your reaction was indicative of a prolonged exposure to an allergen, most likely more than just skin contact. It is more indicative that the proteins of your allergen were introduced through an open wound," she said, raising her eyebrows as she talked to the screen in front of her. "Were you sexually intimate tonight?" she asked.
Oh my God. I had just lost my virginity and now I had to talk about my girl parts with a doctor? Begging for a quick death, I stammered "I don't... understand what..."
"Balloons are made from latex, a derivative of the rubber tree. You are allergic to latex which is used in many products, not just balloons," she said, angry for reasons I couldn't understand. "You should have been told this for your own safety when the latex allergy was discovered. This should have been addressed when you discussed birth control methods with your doctor. Hasn't your gynecologist ever discussed—"
"I haven't... I don't have a... one of those doctors. Um... my mom said that I didn't need to do that until after I was married," I stammered.
Dr. Dahl closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them, finally met my eyes, the anger in her face was slowly being replaced with something like pity. "Melanie, you were brought in with severe hives and swelling in the genital area. The reaction was mostly likely caused by contact with a latex condom." She watched and nodded briefly as the look of realization on my face and my attempt to disappear under the covers of the bed confirmed her suspicions. "There were also several lacerations... small cuts... in the area. Those can happen during sex that is vigorous, when there is a size difference between the partners, when a woman is not sufficiently aroused prior to penetration, or when the woman has not been intimate before," she said. "In this case, those lacerations are probably how the latex proteins were introduced into your bloodstream, causing the more severe anaphylactic reaction. You've stabilized, so we can send you home. I'm prescribing you an anti-histamine to use for the next week, a cream to use to relieve the hives, and two epi pens that you should keep with you if this ever happens again. In the future you will need to use polypropylene or other non-latex condoms. I would advise you to avoid lambskin, though, because they don't protect you from viral transmissions, such as HIV."
The most uncomfortable conversation of my life continued for what felt like an eternity. I could barely bring myself to say the names of the body parts that would require creams and what to watch for as the swelling and hives went down. All I knew was that the horrible stinging burning sensation in my nethers would fade to itching and then eventually to a blessed normal feeling that I had not appreciated enough when I had it. Then, since Dr. Dahl took personal offense at being made to explain things to ex-virgins during the first few weeks of school "every goddamn year," she took it upon herself to give me the basics of female health and sexual responsibility, along with a handful of pamphlets that I would make certain my mother didn't get a chance to see.
My parents drove me back to the apartment and offered again to bring me back home so they could care for me, which I refused repeatedly. "Look, it was just an accident," I assured them, "I'll know in the future to avoid surgical gloves when I have a cut on my lip," I lied, hoping they wouldn't notice that I could barely walk without discomfort. I kissed them goodbye in the street because Dad didn't want to pay for parking, and took my things up to the apartment. I entered, half-expecting to see Kurt waiting for me while Suki, my lifesaving roommate, flipped through TV channels faster than any sane person would, but it was silent and empty inside. There were no messages on my phone, making me realize that yet again Kurt and I had not exchanged contact information. Feeling bereft, I showered and went to bed, planning to look for a job the next day.
The next morning, I padded out to the kitchenette and took a banana from the fruit bowl and made coffee. Suki was flipping through channels, giving each of the perky news personalities only a fraction of a second to pitch their shows to her. "Hey! You wanna watch anyth—ooh perfect for you! Itchy and Scratchy!" she said, putting the TV on The Simpsons. Tossing the remote aside, she walked up and leaned over the counter grinning while watching me putter around the kitchen. "So... how're ya feeling?"
"Um... better, thanks," I said, pouring her a glass of milk and mixing in some Ovaltine. "Thanks for... you know, calling for help, too," I said, putting the glass in front of her. "What happened? How did you—" I began.
Suki snorted, "Mel, you were swollen, red, and wheezing in your sleep. You looked like a blood sausage. Mr. Six Used Condoms in the Empty Kleenex Box was nowhere to be seen. He came back with ice cream just after they'd taken you away," she said, putting her silicone straw into the Ovaltine and drinking half the glass.
"Blood sausage isn't really red. It's more of a brownish black, actually," I murmured.
"Uh huh..." she said, tilting her head to look at me sideways. "Yeah... cuz I really wanted to talk about blood sausage after all that. My virgin roommate bangs a guy she meets at a frat party six times, nearly dies, and then I have to throw the guy out again before her parents—"
"Kurt came back here? He was at the hospital when I woke up, but he left when the doctor came and I didn't see him after that. What did he say? Why—"
"Oh yeah, fuckboi showed up again, but he was completely blitzed. There was no way I was letting that mess in or cleaning up whatever he left. I told him to take a hike and call you when he sobered up. Are you really into that? I woulda thought you—"
"He doesn't have my number, Suki! How am I supposed to—" I bit my lips and tried to calm down. It wasn't Suki's fault. Why would Kurt have gotten... whatever 'blitzed' meant... right after he left the hospital? How would we find each other again this time? I sighed, reasoning that Kurt knew where I lived, so at least he could show up at the apartment, now. We had shared an incredible night together. We were in love. I was sure I'd hear from him soon.
But I didn't. I gingerly walked to the student union, always looking over my shoulder or craning my neck around corners, hoping that Kurt would be there, but he wasn't. I applied for a few campus jobs within walking distance that paid well enough and fit my personality. I picked up my used textbooks at the bookstore, but there was no sign of a lanky guy with kind eyes anywhere. I checked the student directory to see if I could find him that way, but there was no registration for Kurt Soenson or Kurt Wyman.
I returned to the apartment and invented reasons that I needed to be sitting by the window looking outside for the rest of the day. My newly deflowered mind came up with reason after reason for why Kurt didn't come to me, each of them belonging to the plot of a bad romantic comedy. I couldn't even plan my day because I was worried that I would miss him if he came to the apartment. I knew how pathetic I was being and it made me sick, but I just couldn't stop myself. There was nothing romantic about being vigorously deflowered and then left alone with nothing but your thoughts for days afterward.
Other thoughts began to creep into my mind as the days passed without any sign of Kurt, thoughts that came to me in my mother's voice. Well, why would he come back? He got what he came for didn't he? Six times on the first date. Men never want you once they've had you, you know. It's just biology. He probably has quite a few other girls to visit before he gets around to you again... if he gets around to you again. They're probably thinner than you, too.
After about a week of this, Suki staged a gentle intervention. "You've been sitting around here every day doing nothing while you're made up like a fucking supermodel and it's killing my dracaena trifasciata!" she yelled, waving at the plant I had moved to the floor from my window sill perch.
"I thought that was plastic..." I mumbled.
"It is!" she yelled. "You're killing a goddamn plastic plant with this bullshit! Now go wipe that stuff off your face, go to food services and work your way through a pint of frozen yogurt and find someone else to fuck like a normal person!"
I had no reason to argue, much less any spirit, so I did. Makeup-less for the first time in 160 hours, I wandered over to the food services building, filled up the large cup with chocolate soft serve, put on all the unhealthy toppings, and sat down at a table alone. When the uneaten fro-yo had melted into a poop emoji in front of my unmoving eyes, Kurt's cousin Paul slid down next to me with a tray carrying two baskets of French fries. "Melanie, I thought I'd never find you. Look—" he cut off as another guy joined us at the table. Paul paused, then slumped back low in his chair, spreading his knees wide. "So uh, it was good to see you again at the party... you have a good time?" he asked, casually dipping a fry into my melting fro-yo.
Confused at Paul's sudden change in demeanor, I just blinked at him, then nodded. I looked up at the other guy who met my eyes, smiled and nodded once, extended his hand to me which I took numbly. He shook my limp hand in a firm grip, said "Tim," and then sat down and began eating a tuna sandwich and reading something he'd written on a notepad.
Paul's eyes darted to Tim and back to me, "So, uh, yeah... we should catch up sometime soon. We'll do some Netflix in my room. Your pick. Why don't you come by the house tonight?" he asked, leaning forward and stroking my back as he dipped another fry into the fro-yo poop emoji.
I thought about the offer. I was a cast-aside slut. I was a used condom shoved in an empty tissue box. I didn't want to be seen. I didn't want to make awkward chit-chat with Paul. I just wanted to go back to the apartment and sleep for the next three years. "I... I have to study," I said, quietly.
"Even better. You'll study, I'll pick the movie," he said, smoothly. Paul was always smooth. Tim looked up from his notes, looking darkly at Paul before he glanced at me and returned to his reading. "Besides, I think you forgot something at the party," Paul said in a low voice, rolling his eyes when I finally looked up at him, "something you probably miss..." he finished, pointedly.
I blinked. Then, I blinked again. It finally occurred to me that Paul was trying to tell me something he didn't want Tim to know... probably something about Kurt. Kurt... who had fooled me into thinking I was everything to him and then made sure I knew I was nothing to him once the deed was done. Had I dreamed that he was at the hospital singing to me? Why had he even bothered coming? So that his signals would be good and mixed? Was that how guys got girls to eagerly fall into bed with them and still have low expectations for anything else? Still, a big part of me craved closure, even if it was only a pathetic lie to scoff at later. "Um... yeah, okay," I murmured.
