“Me, it doesn’t bother so much. I’m actually looking for the goodies,” I teased, referencing another one of Petey Pablo and Ciara’s masterpieces I knew she’d recognize.
And it worked, surprising her so much that she almost didn’t make it to the kitchen to answer her phone before it stopped ringing.
I really wasn’t much of a mystery, but she was convinced I was.
With the way I craved her company, I planned to enroll her in the accelerated education program and keep her there until she had me mastered.
The terrace door clicked shut as I answered Will’s call. “Hey, stranger, I’m surprised you’re awake right now.” Elbows resting on the banister, the sounds of an already popping Upper East Side hustled and bustled below me. “Rough call shift?”
“The ER was hopping last night.” Will’s raspy, exhausted voice filled my ear. “From the random text I got last night, it appears you had an interesting evening. Night on the town with Cass?”
“Huh?” I tilted my head to the side. How on Earth would my brother know about my night?
“Oh, come on, Gigi.” He chuckled softly in my ear. “Have you checked your text messages?”
My face twisted into utter bewilderment. “Text messages?”
“You sent me a text message. To which I did attempt to respond, but honestly, I didn’t have a clue what in the hell you were talking about.”
I tried to recount last night’s events, but my brain still had a residual Benadryl fog.
“Check your messages.”
I tapped the screen, putting Will on speaker, while I scrolled through my text conversations.
Me: WILL CAN AN OC GIVE A BENNY!*&
Will: I’d like to buy a vowel, Pat.
Will: Gigi? Hello????
Will: Your Masturbation Camp PTSD is flaring again, isn’t it?
Will: You’re going to be so fucking sick in the morning.
Will: Seriously, text me if you need anything. I’m pulling an all-nighter in the ER.
Masturbation Camp. My adolescent nightmare that Will won’t let me forget about.
Since my mother was a sex therapist, my introduction to sexual health was not the norm. Three days after my thirteenth birthday, I got my period. While most mothers took their daughters to the drug store to buy pads or tampons, my mother signed me up for Camp Love Yourself.
Before your mind wanders to weird and disturbing places, I should explain that we weren’t sitting around naked, diddling ourselves to Justin Timberlake music videos.
It was a two-week summer camp focused around teaching teenage girls about sex education, as well as encouraging girls to explore their sexuality in a healthy and safe way. Which explained why my older brother called it “Masturbation Camp.”
My empowered and liberated mother was a strong advocate for Camp Love Yourself and their pro rub-yourself stance. “A few rounds of masturbation a day keeps the babies away, Georgia Rose. It’s proven that you’re less likely to give in to your teenage hormones if you’re exploring your sexuality through healthy, self-love methods.”
Needless to say, my experience at “Masturbation Camp” had been about as horrifying and awkward as you’d expect.
It had taken me a good three years to get past the emotional trauma from sitting around a campfire, singing “Kumbaya” with counselor Feather (yes, that was her legal name), while she encouraged us to roast vagina-shaped marshmallows for s’mores. This was one of those life moments where, even ten or fifteen years down the road, I was still wondering if it had really happened.
“Seriously, Wilbur? How many years are you gonna hold on to the Masturbation Camp bit?”
“Forever,” he responded, laughing. “That shit will never get old.”
I sighed. “You’re the world’s worst older brother, you know that?”
The insult deflected off of him with ease.
“So, what in the hell were you up to last night?”
Glancing down at the text messages between Will and me, memories from last night hijacked my brain, taking it hostage.
The dance. That kiss. My lips. Benadryl. Kline’s bed.
My jaw hit the terrace, my eyes going wide in shock. The details were hazy, but the basics stood out enough to worry me.
Did I really get naked in his bed last night?
“Gigi? You still there?”
Moments and snapshots from twelve or so hours prior flooded my head. “I’m sexy and naked and ready to fornicate.”
“Oh, no.” I covered my mouth with my hand.
“What’s wrong?”
“Bye, Will.”
“Hey! Wha—”
I ended the call. I didn’t have time for his shenanigans or the hour-long physician’s lecture that would have occurred had I told him about my allergic reaction. No doubt, Will would’ve been furious I didn’t go to the emergency room last night.
This moment required an immediate call to Cassie. The line rang three times before she answered, her voice drugged with sleep. “It’s kind of early, Wheorgie.”