Too tightly. Uncomfortably, actually. So much so that Spencer notices. He shifts back, brow wrinkling as he moves forward again. And I’m sure my face matches his, wincing when he meets resistance.
With a careful glance at me, he asks, “Lube?”
I thought I’d been plenty wet already. Enough for him to easily move. But I nod and tell him to get it, because it feels even tighter now.
I understand the physics of sex. I received the sex talk before I’d ever kissed a boy. I have three older sisters who share with me—much to my consternation—intimate details of their sex lives. There are troves of romance novels on my e-reader. And I’m not a virgin. So I know this should work. That even as well-endowed as he is, he should fit.
He pulls out, and the feeling, as that length slides— “Oh my god.”
“What?” he asks, eyes wide at the abrupt change in my voice.
“Oh god,” I whine. Tears gather in my eyes. I breathe, in and out, deeply, over and over. Then, I sob louder, “Oh my god.”
Because that feeling.
That burn.
That is not a good burn.
Spencer, sensing something’s not right, reaches for me.
“Kennedy,” he says.
I push him away. Would kick him in his big dumb penis if everything below my waist wasn’t in complete misery.
“What’s wrong—”
“What’s wrong is you broke it,” I cry out as agony crawls over my skin. “You broke my vagina!”
14
Kennedy
My mom’s laugh cuts through the phone when I disclose that, at the ripe old age of twenty, I have a newfound allergy.
To latex.
With four fully grown daughters, my mom has never been one to shy away from the complexities, and at times downright awkwardness, of the female body. From first periods and teenage acne and mood swings to first kisses and sexual identities and bad dates to morning sickness and breastfeeding and stretch marks, she’s dealt with it all. Her advice is to roll with the punches as they come, and when all else fails, laugh it off.
My lady bits are an itchy, swollen red hellscape of pain. I’m not quite ready yet to appreciate her laughter.
I shift the pillows propping me up in bed, careful not to move anything below the waist. In my lap, papers crinkle. Reading material from the nurse at the twenty-four-hour emergency clinic in town. Everything I need to know about living a life avoiding a material in many common household items.
Condoms are at the top of the list. Information that would have been critical an hour ago. But even more critical would have been that I have this allergy in the first place.
“But you’re doing fine now, right?”
“Mhmm.” I explain that they gave me histamines and a steroid, since by the time I’d arrived at the clinic, my skin had broken out in hives. Because the rest of my body wants to be as itchy as my most intimate areas. “The nurse said there was no risk of anaphylactic shock. They’re giving me an Epi-pen prescription, though, just in case.”
“Well, I’ll make sure to tell Brigid to scrap balloons from the wedding,” Mom says. “To think, all that from one glove.”
She’s not referring to a condom. She thinks it was an actual glove. For a hand. Because that’s what I told her. A late night biology lab, in which a single latex glove had left its mark on my skin. The skin of my hand. Not my vagina.
If it were up to me, I’d have chosen a later date to share this with my mom. A time when I’m past the humiliation and the itchiness. When I can look back on this event and laugh at it with her.
Except I’d left my house wearing only my pajamas and the barest of winter outerwear. I’d had enough forethought to bring nothing else but my keys and phone. Handy, since I’d needed to call my parents for insurance information to fill out clinic paperwork. Not handy, since I’d had to explain why I needed that information.
I wasn’t about to explain to my mother how I discovered a latex allergy, from a condom, on Valentine’s Day, with my boyfriend on a different continent.
“At least your lab partner was able to help,” she continues. “What a nice boy. Be sure to tell him thank you.”
I make a sound of agreement, just as there’s a knock on the open door. I glance over. Spencer holds two styrofoam cups in his hands, pausing when he sees I’m on the phone.
The ‘nice boy lab partner’ in question.
It’s not a total lie. Spencer and I do share a biology course. And he’d definitely been my partner for some pretty fundamental biological things between us tonight.
As for nice… Well, he’d been nice enough to bring me to the clinic. But that’s probably because I’d cried bloody murder ever since he removed his penis from me.
“Nurse is here, Mom. I have to go,” I say, my gaze following Spencer as he takes the empty seat next to my bed.
“Okay, honey, call me when you get home. I hope you feel better,” she says. “Oh—and happy Valentine’s Day!”
I wish her the same, then hang up. Spencer hands me a cup.
“Coffee,” he mumbles.
I take a sip. Then grimace. “This is terrible.”
The corner of his mouth tilts in what might be a smile. “Didn’t say it was good coffee.”
I wrinkle my nose, but honestly, nothing can be worse tonight than what I’d been through already. I swallow the coffee without complaint.
We sit in silence, Spencer and I, drinking rotten coffee and listening to the nurses in the hallway. Despite it being a holiday, the building bustles with activity. When I asked my nurse, she’d mentioned there’s always an uptick in emergencies on days like today. Most of them private in
