Author's note: Apologies to my readers for the long hiatus! While this story is obviously fiction, I've had an important year in my real life as well.
*
My name is Emily. I'm a 33-year-old woman with an anxiety disorder.
About a year ago, I was briefly hospitalized after a nervous breakdown. In the process of recovering, I made some major life changes: I abruptly dumped my boyfriend of 6 years, quit my dead-end job, and moved back to NYC.
I also - finally - came out as bisexual. For the moment, I'm not interested in seeing men.
I'm tired of yearning for a different life. I'm done trying for a baby I don't want. My body is mine, and I'm making choices for myself now.
Once I moved to New York, I began re-establishing myself. My new job is going well, I've gotten a wonderful therapist, and I've been reconnecting with friends. Soon, I might be ready to start dating again.
Life is getting better every day.
But even still... late at night, there are moments when the old panic rushes back.
* * *
I cut my hair short a few weeks ago, and I'm still getting used to it. I tug at the ends absently.
"I'm almost done unpacking," I tell my coworker Lisa. "Exhausting weekend, though."
The two of us are sitting on hard stools in the office kitchen, eating lunch at a small table near the microwave.
"Honestly, I'm happy to help," she says. She's talking with a mouth full of crunchy salad. "We're like neighbors, remember?"
I smile. "Sure, I'll call you next time."
Lisa's a web developer, a skinny Asian woman with long hair. When I started at my new job, we became friends almost immediately. She's wearing a pink t-shirt and jeans. It's a casual office.
She swallows and takes another bite. "Also," she announces, chewing, "I'm inviting you over for dinner soon."
"You can cook?"
"Me? Of course not!" She grins. "That's what I married John for!"
We laugh, and I almost choke on my ham sandwich by accident.
I'm a technical writer. I dress conservatively, but lately I've been thinking about getting a tattoo. Today I'm wearing a white collared shirt, khaki slacks, and tennis shoes.
"You know," Lisa says, "I think we're actually free t-"
She cuts off abruptly, and her face tightens with pain.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
Lisa lurches to her feet, nearly knocking the stool over.
"Need the bathroom," she croaks. "Sorry."
She staggers out of the kitchen, clutching her lower belly. Probably indigestion, I think.
For the next ten minutes, I'm alone at the table. Lisa's half-eaten salad sits across from me. I finish my sandwich and read the news on my phone, and a few coworkers come and go.
When Lisa reappears in the kitchen, she looks sweaty. She's limping back to our table, and I notice that she's put a sweatshirt on.
"Everything all right?" I ask.
She sits down carefully, wincing as she settles onto the stool. "Guess I'm all right," she says. "We've got those bugs at our apartment, though. It's getting really bad."
"Bugs?" I ask. "Like roaches?"
"No, the..." She glances around the empty kitchen and drops to a whisper. "The 'f'-bugs."
"Fuckbugs?"
Lisa flinches, then slowly nods. She's normally very outspoken, but any hint of sex talk makes her uncomfortable. I think she's religious.
"I'm sorry, I thought you knew," she says. "Everybody in Queens is getting them."
I lean forward on my stool. "Well, I'm curious now. What are they?"
Lisa shrugs and looks away. "I guess they're similar to bedbugs," she says, "except they're attracted to a woman's... uh...."
She gestures to her crotch, avoiding eye contact.
"Seriously?" I can't help wrinkling my nose. "That's gross. They actually crawl up -?"
"They're harmless," Lisa says quickly. "Mostly harmless, anyway. The real problem is that..." She lowers her voice again. "Well, they mess up your cycle. And John and I are trying to start a family, you know..."
"Oh!" I sit back, surprised. "You're trying to get pregnant?"
I say this too loudly. Lisa shrinks back, embarrassed.
"I shouldn't talk about it in the office," she mumbles.
"Sorry, that was stupid of me -"
"It's fine." Lisa stands politely and packs up her salad. "Anyway, we should get back to work."
I nod. Despite my social blunder, I'm still burning with unasked questions. Why did 'fuckbugs' make Lisa run to the bathroom? What exactly did they do to a woman, anyway?
For the rest of the afternoon, I sit at my desk googling phrases like, "Fuckbugs apartments," "Fuckbugs Queens NYC," and "Bugs woman menstrual cycle infestation." You get the idea. I find a couple of ashamed, glancing references in personal blogs, but nothing with real information.
I waste so much time, in fact, that I end up working late in the office that night. It's dark when I finally get home, and I feel exhausted.
* * *
Lately I've been sleeping much better. I treat my anxiety with therapy and meds, and now I actually look forward to bedtime.
I simply think about my breathing, like I learned in mindfulness videos. I'm naked beneath my brand-new bedsheets, relaxing in total darkness.
Gradually, I become aware of my body. My feminine energy. As my thoughts fade slowly into dreams, it speaks to me.
My feminine energy, it seems, is mostly interested in sex. I've been so horny lately.
I masturbate every morning for at least a few minutes, like a ritual, but it's not the same as having sex. I haven't connected physically with anyone in nearly a year. I miss it.
It's more than just libido. There's a yearning emptiness inside me... an ache. I'm longing to be filled up inside.
I squirm in my sleep, eyes lightly closed. I get aroused easily nowadays.
My sensitive skin brushes against the cool bedsheets. My dreams pulsate with a wordless longing.
The curve of a woman's back... her plump lips...
And then - unmistakably - I feel a presence between my legs. Something is trying to penetrate me.
"Mmmm..." I groan in protest.
I start dreaming about my ex-boyfriend. He pins my shoulders down, forcing himself inside me. Despite my arousal, I don't want this. My body craves it, but -
Stop! I think silently.
Suddenly, the old terror is seizing me again.
Visions of his cock - his stabbing, poisonous cock - fill my brain. I'll get pregnant, I realize. Trapped with him. No escape forever.
My body is shaking. My heartbeat is erratic. My knees squeeze together painfully. It's the same panic that almost killed me a year ago.
And then, just as quickly as it arrived, the fear slips away. Something retreats down my leg, and it doesn't come back.
I sigh, relieved. My eyes are still closed. After a moment, I relax back into deeper sleep.
In the morning, when I'm washing down there in the shower... well, I find a small bug bite between my thighs. Everything else seems normal, though.
* * *
My friend Allie opens her apartment door. Her two small dogs, Jeffrey and Wilbur, both rush out to greet me.
"Oh my god!" Allie cries. "Emily, you cut your hair! You look great!"
"Thank you!" I laugh. The dogs are jumping all over me. Standing in the hallway, I'm trying to fend them off while I hug Allie.
I've brought a bottle of wine, and we order takeout. Allie and I have been friends for more than 10 years, although we briefly lost touch when I was living upstate.
Allie's life seems effortless. She's a graphic designer and musician - a first-generation Korean-American. She's a tiny woman, short and skinny, with hipster glasses and wrist tattoos. She looks young for 33. It's a warm night, and she's wearing a white cotton dress and socks.
I'm always shocked that she's single. I guess it's tough to be a straight woman in New York. Her apartment is modern and clean... although I notice a faint moldy odor that I can't quite place.
Allie and I sit on the couch and eat dinner together. The dogs climb across our laps, hoping for scraps. We're talking and laughing, catching up.
Eventually, I get to the question that's been on my mind since yesterday.
"So what's the bug situation in Queens?" I ask between bites. "Should I be worried?"
Allie shrugs. "I never see roaches in my apartment."
"My coworker told me about these... bugs. Fuckbugs, she called them."
She laughs. "Fuckbugs?" she asks. "Are you sure you heard that right?"
"Yeah. She said everyone in Queens is getting them." Briefly, I repeat everything that Lisa told me at work.
Allie keeps giggling. "That sounds like a weird porno movie, Emily!"
She reaches across the table and refills her glass of wine. I refill my own glass, too. "Yeah," I agree, blushing. "I know it sounds weird."
"I definitely do not have 'fuckbugs,'" she declares. "I've never even heard of them!"
"Good!" I smile with relief. "I thought I was going crazy for a while."
Soon, we change the subject.
"I don't know," I'm telling Allie. "My therapist says I'm not ready to start dating. I wouldn't even know where to look."
Allie isn't listening, though. She's stretching against the back of the couch, touching the sides of her chest.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Yeah, sorry." She lowers her voice, even though we're alone. "My boobs are really sore lately. I feel gross. My period's like a week late."
Allie looks a little bloated, I notice.
"There's no chance you're pregnant, is there?" I ask.
"That would require having sex." Allie laughs bitterly. "I haven't been with anybody since Dave!"
"Join the club." I smile. "I'm almost at the one-year mark."
"We should go on Tinder together." She closes her eyes, still massaging her breast. "I don't even want a relationship right now. I'm just..." She sighs with a low, gutteral sound. "I'm just dying to hook up again, you know?"
"Yeah," I say wistfully. "I know."
* * *
It seems like we've barely turned the TV on, and suddenly Allie is shaking my leg.
