for her, she found just the things to inspire some phony-baloney mother-daughter moment .
I came home to find her on the couch next to our neighbor, Suzi2, from across the street. They were both sitting straight up, kneestogether, hands foldedâa serious talking-to posture. She was trying to not crack a smile as the camera in her head started rolling on this pivotal moment in her life as a mother. The Intervention.
âI found these in your room.â
Three little square condom envelopes sat on the coffee table in front of them.
âYouâre home,â I responded flatly, fighting the urge to pick up a nearby lamp and smash it over my own head.
âStormy. Are you still virginal?â Both women were fighting off a full-on giggle fit. I guess they had found my stash as well.
âYes,â I lied. âMom, did you smoke my pot?â
âWe flushed your drugs straight down the po-po,â she lied, fully snickering now.
âGreat. Thanks.â I walked into the kitchen to get something to eat. Her performance continued as she shouted from the couch about how WE were bringing ME to the gynecologist to get me on the PILL.
Fast forward to where my heels were dug into the cold metal stirrups and my stomach was in my throat. We girls often find ourselves on our backs, legs cranked open, hoping for the best. During sex: âPlease donât be another douche bag.â In childbirth: âPlease be healthy . . .
and look like your father.â Our gynecological visits are no exception. Most of the time, in these episodes of legs akimbo, one simple hope is, whoever is dealing with us down there, is at least cool . . . and not looking like someoneâs creepy old uncle, like my last gynecologist did.
No problem. Act cool. Count ceiling tiles.
The creepy doctor was actually humming as he thumbed through my girl parts like a damp paperback. I was pretty sure I wanted to die. This guy will see Iâm not a virgin and tell my mother.
I could just picture her making a spectacle to the horror of women and girls waiting for their own round of personal, and somehumiliating, tests, discussing her bold confrontation with her wild teenage daughter whoâs been using food and now sex to cover up her feelings of insecurity. âItâs so hard for Stormy, but I understand. My nanny was a Satanist and she used me in some terrible rituals when I was just a baby. Oh, my heavens, it was awful. Just. Awful.â Grab-squeeze-hold.
I was up to twenty-odd ceiling tiles when I realized Dr. Creepy wasnât really talking. Does he see something weird? Heâs gotta know. He will totally be able to tell. Will he tell my mom? Isnât it a law or something? Shit, Iâm going to have to have yet another hideous talk with my mom, and it will probably take place at Friendlyâs. God damn it. Every time she comes home from being locked up . . . ow! Is his whole fucking hand in me??
âSo, what dâyou use normally?â he finally said from between my shaking knees.
âHuh?â
âG-K-S?â He actually smirked at my open and brightly lit sexbits.
âWhat . . . um . . . what is . . . I donât know what . . .â
âGreasy kid stuff,â he said to my insides.
Great. My very first gynecologist is clearly a pervert, and thinks heâs down with what the kids are sayinâ these days. Fucking great .
âOh . . . um . . . ha-ha . . . no . . . um Iâm still a . . . um . . . a virgin. Yeah,â I said to the ceiling tiles.
âUh-huh. Little pressure now.â Was he chuckling? He moved the speculum, then I heard a click and something pinched deep behind my belly button, like a ragged toenail getting caught on a wet sock.
Later in the car, headed to the drugstore with a prescription for birth control pills in my hand, and a dull aching in me, Mom and I, again, smoked in silence. Thankfully, we did not go to Friendlyâs. She had already put on
I came home to find her on the couch next to our neighbor, Suzi2, from across the street. They were both sitting straight up, kneestogether, hands foldedâa serious talking-to posture. She was trying to not crack a smile as the camera in her head started rolling on this pivotal moment in her life as a mother. The Intervention.
âI found these in your room.â
Three little square condom envelopes sat on the coffee table in front of them.
âYouâre home,â I responded flatly, fighting the urge to pick up a nearby lamp and smash it over my own head.
âStormy. Are you still virginal?â Both women were fighting off a full-on giggle fit. I guess they had found my stash as well.
âYes,â I lied. âMom, did you smoke my pot?â
âWe flushed your drugs straight down the po-po,â she lied, fully snickering now.
âGreat. Thanks.â I walked into the kitchen to get something to eat. Her performance continued as she shouted from the couch about how WE were bringing ME to the gynecologist to get me on the PILL.
Fast forward to where my heels were dug into the cold metal stirrups and my stomach was in my throat. We girls often find ourselves on our backs, legs cranked open, hoping for the best. During sex: âPlease donât be another douche bag.â In childbirth: âPlease be healthy . . .
and look like your father.â Our gynecological visits are no exception. Most of the time, in these episodes of legs akimbo, one simple hope is, whoever is dealing with us down there, is at least cool . . . and not looking like someoneâs creepy old uncle, like my last gynecologist did.
No problem. Act cool. Count ceiling tiles.
The creepy doctor was actually humming as he thumbed through my girl parts like a damp paperback. I was pretty sure I wanted to die. This guy will see Iâm not a virgin and tell my mother.
I could just picture her making a spectacle to the horror of women and girls waiting for their own round of personal, and somehumiliating, tests, discussing her bold confrontation with her wild teenage daughter whoâs been using food and now sex to cover up her feelings of insecurity. âItâs so hard for Stormy, but I understand. My nanny was a Satanist and she used me in some terrible rituals when I was just a baby. Oh, my heavens, it was awful. Just. Awful.â Grab-squeeze-hold.
I was up to twenty-odd ceiling tiles when I realized Dr. Creepy wasnât really talking. Does he see something weird? Heâs gotta know. He will totally be able to tell. Will he tell my mom? Isnât it a law or something? Shit, Iâm going to have to have yet another hideous talk with my mom, and it will probably take place at Friendlyâs. God damn it. Every time she comes home from being locked up . . . ow! Is his whole fucking hand in me??
âSo, what dâyou use normally?â he finally said from between my shaking knees.
âHuh?â
âG-K-S?â He actually smirked at my open and brightly lit sexbits.
âWhat . . . um . . . what is . . . I donât know what . . .â
âGreasy kid stuff,â he said to my insides.
Great. My very first gynecologist is clearly a pervert, and thinks heâs down with what the kids are sayinâ these days. Fucking great .
âOh . . . um . . . ha-ha . . . no . . . um Iâm still a . . . um . . . a virgin. Yeah,â I said to the ceiling tiles.
âUh-huh. Little pressure now.â Was he chuckling? He moved the speculum, then I heard a click and something pinched deep behind my belly button, like a ragged toenail getting caught on a wet sock.
Later in the car, headed to the drugstore with a prescription for birth control pills in my hand, and a dull aching in me, Mom and I, again, smoked in silence. Thankfully, we did not go to Friendlyâs. She had already put on
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