Dove let her hands grab one another for support. If she didn’t have a wall of teenage meat behind her, she would’ve run. She wasn’t exactly sure because her heart was pumping loudly in her ears, but she thought the supportive boys behind her were snickering.
“No, I… haven’t used it before.” Dove wondered if she could fit in her own purse.
He obviously was quite proud of his extensive knowledge of pharmaceutical products. He decided to spout the difference between “traditional” yeast infection creams and GYNAZULE?.
“You see it’s administered with one dose in an APPLICATOR. It’s unique because it contains adhesive that will stick to your VAGINAL WALLS, as opposed to running DOWN YOUR LEGS. I think it’s called VAGI-GRAB?. But let me check.” Mr. Fitzwell ignored the large crowd and clicked away on his computer.
Don’t check. Good fucks out loud. DON’T check!
Dove thought the blush she felt on her cheeks might actually give her sunburn. She tried to be savvy. She wanted to be an empowered woman who tossed tampons around like confetti to just anyone, but she wasn’t. She could always try.
“Yup. That’s it. VAGI-GRAB?. So, Ms. Glitch, any questions?” He turned his interested, trying-to-be helpful, sexy eyes back to her red, red face.
Dove’s voice got quieter as she tried to think of something—anything—to ask. “Um. Is it unscented?”
Mr. Fitzwell squinted as if he could turn up her volume by making his eyes smaller. “I’m not sure. Are you allergic to any types of VAGINAL medicines?”
Dove’s mouth talking before her head could shut her up. “Uh… I need to use very gentle soaps because I have sensitive… parts.” Her voice was getting higher and higher.
Mr. Fitzwell looked as professional as a brain surgeon. He clearly wanted her to have the correct information. There were definitely stifled chuckles behind her now. Dove was pretty sure her ass was blushing as well. The crack was sweating all on its own, like it was on a super high diving board about to jump.
“Okay, Ms. Glitch GYNAZULE? is not a soap. It will not work if you put it in and then rinse it off in the shower.” He patted the prescription paper to emphasize his words.
Oh God. We’re talking about me being naked, in the shower with cooter cream. Please world, end. Kill me.
“I know it’s not soap. I just… if it’s scented… I can’t do scented. Flowers and stuff like that. Fruit-flavored soaps make… things… burnish.” She could tell from the peeks at his face Mr. Fitzwell had never stepped foot in a bath and lotion store, wanting to try the array of fun fragrances. Nor had he purchased Peppermint Candy shower gel, foamed up his nether regions, and felt like he had dipped them in lava. Dove crossed and uncrossed her legs at the memory.
Mr. Fitzwell seemed concerned. “Okay, just a heads-up. It’s definitely not good to put any fruits or plant life near your genitals.” He made a V with his hands and formed his own pretend vagina in front of his pants.
Dove covered her eyes and tried to defend herself because now she could hear the sickly older woman beating her supporters with a purse.
Dove’s mumbling got louder with her embarrassment. “I don’t put weird things down… there. Just make sure that the cream’s vagina-scented. Just plain. For vaginas.” She kept her eyes on the counter.
Stop saying “vagina,” you screaming asshole!
The assistants were cooing and ogling pictures on the computer. Mrs. Pills had obviously forwarded images of her newborn baby to her coworkers at the perfect time for them not to come to Dove’s aid. Finally, Mr. Fitzwell asked her for her phone number and birth date.
“You can wait right over there; I’ll have this ready in ten minutes. I’m sure the itching is horrendous.”
Dove shuffled to the hard purple chairs and grabbed a magazine off the rack to hide behind. From the questions and directions he asked, Mr. Fitzwell was obviously Mrs. Pill’s temporary replacement for her maternity leave. Dove peered over the top of her magazine at him. He was stunning and from the way smiled, he almost knew it. His jaw was like a stiff, hard cliff somewhere in Ireland. The kind on postcards. His Adam’s apple was like his throat’s erection. Dominant. He had the sleeves of his shirt pushed up and his forearms revealed. Veins and muscles. From doing stuff. All kinds of sexy, manly stuff. The assistants fluffed their hair when he wasn’t looking and pretended to pinch his butt.
After the football team took care of the lovely grandma, Dove was as alone as one could be in a Save-Mart. Mr. Fitzwell looked over the counter while he was working to see if she was still there. Just before Dove could scurry her gaze away, she saw him look at her magazine and raise his eyebrows in surprise. Dove hadn’t thought to check which magazine she was pretending to be reading. She’d just needed a shield to hide behind. She closed it and looked at the cover. It was a copy of Cosmopolitan with large print over most of the cover:
MAKE YOUR ORGASMS LOUDER, HARDER AND LONGER!
Dove dropped the magazine like it was a snake that had bitten her.