Lucrezia Magazine

Curtis’s words of concern echoed in Penelope’s mind. He could be right, after all. A hormone imbalance sounded logical. After all, why else would she be incapable of getting wet -- let alone having an orgasm -- with Curtis, no matter how many positions, creams, gels, toys, and fantastical scenarios her boyfriend diligently employed in an increasingly desperate effort to spice up their lovemaking? They had been dating for almost eleven months, and nearly everything about their relationship was marvelous. Their friends envied the way they finished each other’s sentences with bubbling enthusiasm, the way they moved through with world with such ease and evident compatibility. They even looked right together – Curtis with his lanky dark red hair falling across his ears, and Penelope with her blonde pixie cut, flecked with gold highlights. When they kissed, their interlocking heads were like a swirl of strawberry ice cream and honey. It was a beautiful thing to see. So beautiful, in fact, that no one would have ever suspected the stale, stunted, imbalanced disaster that was Curtis and Penelope’s unfortunate sex life. Like all the men who had come before him – so to speak – Curtis could effortlessly rut himself to ecstasy between Penelope’s accommodating thighs, but she had yet to respond to his reciprocal efforts at satisfying her. After nearly a year of fruitless, lapping exploration, both Curtis and Penelope were beyond the point of frustration. There were no excuses left, no avenues to traverse. Nothing, it seemed, would get Penelope off.

At this point, a serious medical affliction seemed the only explanation for her otherwise inexplicable frigidity. And so, with no small degree of embarrassment and anxiety, Penelope drove herself to the gynecologist for a battery of blood tests.

Would the vials of ruby liquid drawn from the taut area beneath the tourniquet on her forearm truly reveal the answer to a lifetime of unending sexual mediocrity? Penelope hoped so. Even if the tests ultimately revealed that there was no cure for her plight, at least she would gain some closure – at least she would be able to state firmly and unequivocally, “I am physically incapable of having an orgasm due to untreatable hormonal imbalances.” It was a tremendously depressing possibility, but any answer would be better than the perpetual question mark that clouded Penelope’s mind every time she made love to Curtis: “what is wrong with me?”

Penelope was balancing on her shoulders when she received the phone call from her gynecologist’s receptionist, one week later. Her cell phone rattled against the glossy wooden floor of the yoga studio, and she slunk out of the room in hot embarrassment, trying to ignore the furious glares of the would-be yogis whose limber bodies were contorted into various inverted positions around the room. Out in the hallway, she wiped sweat from her neck and forehead, cursing herself for not remembering to turn off her phone before class. Now she would miss the final relaxation exercise, and would be forced to spend yet another evening devoid of inner peace and tranquility.

“Hello?” she inquired brusquely, flipping open her cell phone with unnecessary violence.

“This is Samantha, from Dr. Stevens’s office,” a mellifluous voice replied. “We have your blood test results. Would you like them faxed to your office?”

“No, no, I’ll come by to pick them up,” Penelope answered quickly. She was already stuffing her feet into a pair of open-toed sandals and fumbling into her jacket sleeves, one hand still pinning her phone to her ear. “You’re open ‘til five? I’m on my way.”

Relaxation exercises be damned – it was time to find out what the hell was wrong with her unresponsive clit.

***

Dr. Stevens’s receptionist smiled widely from behind her gleaming white desk. Her hoop earrings jangled playfully as she reached into the top shelf of a filing cabinet and removed the precious documents that would seal Penelope’s sexual fate.

“We have your results right here,” she said calmly.

Penelope snatched the paper greedily, her eyes scanning the page for the scrawled physician’s comment that would elucidate everything she longed to know. Rows of blood cell percentages and incomprehensible chemical figures poured down the page, but nothing leaped forward as particularly odd or noteworthy. In fact, one word was stamped repeatedly down the entire length of the right-hand column: “Normal.”

“I don’t understand,” said Penelope bleakly, handing the document back to the grinning receptionist.

“Well, you’ll be happy to know that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you!” the receptionist replied, nodding vigorously and swinging her earrings like globular pendulums. “Everything checked out perfectly. Your hormone levels are well within the parameters of normality. Congratulations.”

“There must be some mistake.” Penelope shook her head, pressing her palms onto the counter and leaned towards the receptionist conspiratorially. “I…” her voice faltered as she sought the humiliating words. “I can’t…”

“Can’t what, dear?” the receptionist inquired, her dark, liquid eyes the very picture of concern.

“I can’t…have an orgasm.” The word sounded so clinical, and caught in Penelope’s throat. She glanced furtively over her shoulder, and breathed a sigh of relief that no one was eavesdropping in the empty waiting room behind her. The receptionist showed no outward reaction to Penelope’s confession, but whisked a pale green business card from a glass dish next to a jar of peppermint candies.

“We refer a number of inorgasmic patients to Dr. Stevens’s associate, Dr. Wedgeman,” said the receptionist, offering the card to Penelope with a kindly smile. Penelope glanced at it dubiously.

“Dr. Wedgeman – Psychotherapist?” she asked incredulously, scanning the card’s delicate lettering. “Thanks for the suggestion, but I don’t need a shrink.”

“Dr. Wedgeman specializes in sexual health, sensual exploration, and mental wellbeing,” continued the receptionist in an unfettered tone. “Her techniques are revolutionary. We hear nothing but rave reviews from her patients.” Despite the well-intentioned woman’s thoughtful gesture, Penelope was nonplussed.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, though she had every intention of forgetting about the misguided matter as soon as humanly possible.

***