TRIGGER WARNING: This fictional story involves someone harming herself out of impatience with her vaginismus dilator therapy and then making several other bad life choices as a consequence. Readers who experience vaginal pain may wish to skip the first page or so. Vaginismus, emotional health, drug use, and dilator therapy are serious challenges, and I don't want to hear about any of you hurting yourselves. It is not funny. It is not safe. It can make things worse. Listen to your doctor, and not a writer of internet erotica! If you have pain with sex, you are not alone and you need to tell your doctor and keep telling doctors until you find the right one for you. Take care of yourself better than Gillian does!
The Intern, Part 4 (Finale)
Annnnnd then I screwed it all up. What? Stop whining, and don't even try to say I didn't warn you. I told you in Part 1 that I had no patience. I told you in Part 3 that I would screw this up. You think I just say stuff like that? You think that's some kind of recipe for a healthy relationship? It's called foreshadowing! Now, it's time for the shadowing. I know I shouldn't say this in an erotic fiction story, but Life is short: Don't be fooled into thinking love will turn your bullshit into rainbows. I had the best, most perfect guy in the world in love with me, so you know it was only a matter of time before I did something that pushed him completely over the edge. So, here's what happened...
After demonstrating that I had passed my first vaginismus therapy challenge for the doctor, I was given a set of medical grade silicon dilators that came numbered from 1 to 8. Size 1 was smaller in diameter than my finger, and they progressively increased in diameter to Size 8, which earned raised eyebrows and a mildly impressed nod from Greg. They pretty much looked like color-coded, smooth, dildos. The idea behind them being that I needed to start at Size 1, lube it up and hold it comfortably inside me for 10 minutes a day, and over time, work my way up to Size 8, after which time I would be ready to fuck my boyfriend and then write some Scully/Skinner fanfiction, because those two were totally begging to be stan-ed in erotica. I had my goals: sex, and Sculler (Skunny? Silly? Need a better portmanteau.) fanfiction.
So, let's say you had impulse control issues, no patience, and had already endured ridiculous amounts of pain in your life, so much so, that pain was a rather ho-hum concept. Then, let's say that there were 8 numbered dildos standing between you and the patron saint of vaginal orgasms. Given the option, what number would you start at? 8, right? Me, too! Except that when I experimented with the Size 8, it caused enough pain to make me vomit and pass out on my bathroom floor. Same thing happened when I tried Sizes 7 and 6, you know... after I cleaned the bathroom floor. But get this: Size 5 made me vomit, *but* I didn't pass out! See? Science works! So, that was how I ended up going to work on an empty stomach, with makeup covering some nasty bruises on my head, and the bright green, Size 5 dilator jammed up my traumatized vagina, with every intention of keeping it there all day. What could go wrong?
It was the day of the big annual something-or-other. The day when all the suits wore their suitiest suits for each other, and the hair product guy kept shooting his cuffs so much that he looked like he was having seizures. The parking lot was extra full with luxury vehicles because the bored directors were there. Or something. The bored directors were the rich guys and the admirable lesbian that listened to mind-numbing presentations about the company and told the suity-suits on C-level what to do.
It was a big day to be a food-delivering intern. I was stressed and in far more vaginal agony than when The Leader of my parents' executive self-actualization program (actually a sex-cult) tried to take my virginity shortly after I got my first period. Wait - I didn't tell you that yet, did I? Yeah, sorry. It takes me a while to open up sometimes. It's just an awkward conversation to have, and most people can't grasp why some guy who used to con people into buying timeshares suddenly became some kind of Messianic leader. I can't figure it either. He built this group of brainwashed people around him and he'd send them out like an army. The army would get someone you admired to hook you in and make you feel special, but you were only in ways that *they* could see. Nobody else in the world would appreciate your specialness, but them. They even had followers wear badges that showed what level of specialness people had attained. I mean, did they think this shit up after a middle school fundraiser?
Then, to help you become extra special, they would give you the privilege of paying them gobs of money to confess all sorts of things to them in these recorded sessions... so you could realize your potential... you know, unlock that spastic spiritual vagina that you can't have sex with. Or give them ammo to blackmail you... or something. They asked things like "what is your deepest darkest secret?" and "what would you stand to inherit in the event your mother / father / spouse died?" It was that last question that got me in trouble.
My mom's parents were old money. They had gobs of it - as in, they were rolling in Scrooge McDuck-sized piles of gold money. When my parents ran off to follow The Leader, my mom's parents disinherited her and set up an untouchable trust fund for me. That was really was cool of them, but when my mom paid to confess about my Scrooge McDuck gold piles trust fund, The Leader suddenly thought it would be a good idea to make me special with the gift of his mystical sperm. Probably to get me pregnant and have a hostage they could use against me to get the trust fund. Problem was, I was pretty much an unmystical pain in the ass from Day 1.
First, I started snickering whenever I saw them award someone with a badge. Or, when someone talked with me about what I should do to attain the next specialness badge level. Or, really, anything to do with badges. You can't see "Treasure of the Sierra Madre" and then *not* slip into a Mexican accent when people start wearing or talking about their stinking badges. It's, like, required!
Then, there was the whole Asimov thing. The Leader would say all these really deep and profound things to followers as if he had just plucked the wisdom out of the universe, when really Isaac Asimov had given those profound thoughts to the universe long before The Leader was even born. So, I started quoting the book and page number under my breath each time that asshat defiled my favorite author's work. Apparently, the followers found it unsettling. I mean fine, enslave my parents, manipulate their psyches, and brand their privates with your initials, but when you mess with Asimov, you go too far!
The last straw came when I did a market analysis on sex-cult practices, just so that we could actualize our potential and I started offering helpful advice on what imagery and rituals were most effective in recruiting people of low self-esteem and manipulating them into ignoring their conscience and critical thinking responsibilities. Well let's say, the Leader got a little testy when I unfavorably compared his "executive self-actualization program" strategies to those of other sex cults... but then again, I got him in the testes when he tried to take my virginity, so maybe we're even. Plus, I testified against him in court for sexual assault of a child and for making my goddamn idiot parents disappear after they helped me escape and now, he's in prison. Gillian: 20,000, The Leader: 0.
And no, Greg doesn't know. And I have no idea how to tell him. I mean, I can't even say that I'm in... you know... love... with him and that I hope that he never dies before cloning is perfected so that I don't have to keep his corpse preserved in a coffin-sized Coleman cooler in the closet. How do you even preserve a corpse? What did they do with Lenin? I mean, have you *seen* that guy? There's just no way to tell Greg about my childhood and come out of it sounding like a normal person. For that matter, I should probably leave out the whole "corpse in the cooler in my closet" thing, too. See why I suck at relationships? In fact, that's why I'm pretending to be asleep right now, so I can keep Greg from breaking up with me. Mature, I am not.
So, anyway, when I drove into the parking lot on the big food-delivering day, I was in excruciating pain, what with my car and its bad alignment vibrating the Size 5 dilator in my spastic hoo hah and making it go arrrgh. After I parked, though, I went digging through my purse for some Ibuprofen or Tylenol or anything, but there was nothing at all because I had switched purses without moving the pain relief stuff. I had nothing for pain relief. Zip, zilch, nada.
I delivered the food for the morning meetings and then went back to my cubicle to curl up like a shrimp and rest my head on my desk. The cramps were horrible, but the dizziness and stabby throbbing in my head was worse. I was starting to think that maybe I should have gone to the hospital about my head hitting the bathroom floor multiple times, instead of smearing some MAC foundation over it and calling it good. Life is short: something, something... head injuries.
