Still naked and shivering from the cold of the speculum, I began to cry deep sobs of relief.
As predicted, the test came back negative. I was tested six times during the next three years by four different doctors. They always came back negative for HPV with no signs of genital warts.
Finally, one of my gynecologists said, “Weren’t you tested five months ago?”
“You can never be too sure,” I replied.
She told me the guidelines had changed and the annual pap smear and HPV test was now recommended every three years. Studies had found that a positive HPV diagnosis was causing too much psychological damage to young women and, in most people, HPV was transient.
Or in other words, people were losing their fucking minds over an HPV diagnosis that would become undetectable.
I stared at her for a second, incredulous.
“I was one of those people,” I said.
I was angry, again, at the fucking health-care industry. I was angry at myself for allowing my own diagnosis to grow and expand so deeply into my personal narrative.
That anger returned when I was talking to Dr. D’Souza.
She listened intently, letting me tell the story in its entirety.
When I was finished, she said, “That’s very traumatic. I’m sorry you had to go through that. No wonder you’re afraid.”
I appreciated her empathy. It was traumatic, and I hadn’t dealt with it, so it was creeping back into my life almost a-motherfucking-decade later.
“Wanting to be safe is rational and responsible. Feeling deep fear around STDs, using tampons with vinegar, and rejecting partners who have been tested is irrational. Do you see the difference? It’s the same logic as this, ‘If I go to gym, I will be healthier.’ That’s a rational thought. ‘If I don’t go to the gym, I will be unhealthy and die.’ That’s an irrational thought.”
It was hard to figure out where the line was. For years, I had convinced myself that I was being cautious and that was smart.
If I was going to evolve as a person, I had to be honest with myself that my fear was crippling me.
I listened as she gave me a strategy to combat my fears. It involved a series of questions to get to the bottom of whether the thought was rational or not and then using logic to calm myself.
It seemed almost too simple.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I wanted to be “cured” of my fear around STDs. I wanted to get off Skype and immediately be better. “Hello world! It’s me, Olive, totally fixed and ready for sex.”
That’s not how therapy or life works, so I wrote down Dr. D’Souza’s questions skeptically and studiously.
We had a few more Skype sessions and I started to realize how far down the rabbit hole I’d gone.
Back when I had been diagnosed with HPV the Internet knew nothing about it except that it “was a virus that lasted forever,” which obviously turned out to be false. A decade later, an Internet search revealed other women who had done similar things to their bodies. Women who had had parts of their labia removed. Women who had ended relationships or sworn off dating.
When I read these stories, I found strength in knowing how alone we’d all felt.
I also started forgiving myself for the things I had done when I was young and scared.
I promised that I was never, ever going to treat my body like that again.
Dr. D’Souza and I knew that talking about it could only go so far though.
I needed to test her strategies in action.
Luckily, I didn’t have to wait too long.
Ben, the sexy Brit, came back to town.
He had finished his road trip across the United States and was flying home out of New York. He had three days to kill in the city before he left. We had stayed in contact while he was traveling. He’d send pictures of himself on a ranch in Texas and then later by Hollywood Boulevard.
We met up at another sports bar. He looked tanner and a few pounds heavier but still handsome.
“Turns out the prettiest American girl was the one I met first,” he said when he saw me. Still a charmer.
He paid for dinner and held my hand. Even though we both knew he was leaving, it felt like a real date.
We met up the next night as well. After dinner, I invited him back to my place.
With great enthusiasm, we undressed and picked up right where we had left off.
We were on the verge of 69’ing when I felt the panic creep in. It was slow at first, just a thought, “What if he fooled around with someone on his trip and got an STD?”
The panic started at my brain, crept slowly down my arms and legs, and filled my feet and fingers until my body was merely a vessel for anxiety. It was the only thing I could think. He’s going to give me something and then he’ll be gone.
I squirmed away from him.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
What would Dr. D’Souza tell me to do right now? I thought.
First I had to check in with myself: Did I want to keep going?
The answer was yes.
Next step, ask a question to get the truth.
“Um, have you been tested recently? Like, did you fool around with anyone else on your trip?” I asked.
“I was tested before my trip and no, I didn’t fool around with anyone else,” he said.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath.
“Are you, um, sure?” I asked again.
“Sure, about being clean or fooling around with someone else?”
“Both?”
“I’m sure about both,” he said.
“Because, like, honesty is very important. Are you absolutely sure?” I asked for a third time, fidgeting with my hair.
I could feel it. I was on the verge of jumping off a rationality cliff into a pool of panic.
After he confirmed for a third time, I excused myself and went to the restroom.
Even though his dick had only been in my mouth for a few seconds, I opened the white, chipped medicine cabinet and grabbed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
I looked at myself in the mirror and saw someone who was very, very afraid.
Afraid of intimacy. Afraid of tiny, invisible germs. Afraid of living.
The face staring back at me was sad.
My knuckles turned white as I clenched my hand around the bottle like an addict.
I didn’t want to do this anymore. I couldn’t do this anymore.
Other people weren’t doing this.
I splashed my face with water and took deep breaths like Dr. D’Souza suggested. I imagined the questions she’d ask, playing out the dialogue silently in my brain, flushing the toilet at the same time so Ben wouldn’t get suspicious.
“Is this a real fear?” she’d ask.
“Maybe, if your partner is lying,” the wrestler chimed in, back in full force, veins bloated and expanding by the minute. It was his final attempt to ruin my life.
I unscrewed the cap on the bottle.
I wasn’t going to let him win. I imagined Dr. D’Souza asking me again, calmly, “Do you believe your partner is lying?”
“No,” I said firmly, out loud.
“Then is this a rational fear?”
“No.”
I screwed the cap back on the bottle.
I looked at myself in the mirror again and repeated, “I refuse to let irrational fear run my life.” I said it over and over again until the message started to sink it.
I placed the bottle on the edge of the sink and took a few more breaths.
I was finally able to calm myself down, not because of the technique but because I didn’t want this to be my story anymore.
I was tired of being the girl who was terrified of STDs.
I was done.
I had to be done.
I returned to the bedroom slowly, trailing my finger down the wall as I walked.
“Sorry about that,” I said, crawling back into bed with Ben.
&
nbsp; “Now, where were we?” I asked, leaning in to kiss him.
We fooled around this time and instead of fear, I let myself feel pleasure.
We still didn’t have penetrative sex though. Baby steps.
With Ben’s arm around me, post-orgasm, I listened to his light snores and realized I had done it.
I had faced my fear of STDs.
I had finally worked through my shit and was ready to be a fully functioning erotic goddess with no issues. Come at me boys!
Yeah, right.
But I had successfully taken action against my fear at least once. That counted for something. That was progress.
Like I said, baby steps.
FETISH FERVOR
The Queen of the Foot Fetish Scene was a petite redhead with a firm handshake and a bubbly smile.
I met her at a trendy coffee shop in Midtown Manhattan. Even though it was our first time meeting, I had already seen a man devour an ice cream sundae off her foot. Whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and the works dripping between her toes.
Her name was Barbie Berdini and she was basically the Kim Kardashian of feet. She had created a foot empire. Her YouTube channel (where I had watched the aforementioned sundae-ing) was immensely popular. It was filled with videos of her feet in silky nylons or flip-flops, toes always perfectly pedicured. Sometimes she’d seductively crawl into the room, or the camera would focus on her butt before moving in for a close-up on the bottoms of her feet. Even though it wasn’t my thing, there was no denying that she was stimulating.
Her fans wrote comments about how she was a “goddess” and “an angel baby from heaven.”
No one ever called me an angel baby from anywhere.
In between my gut-wrenching therapy sessions I was still learning about sex and I was fascinated by fetishes. I had never given myself permission to explore or even fantasize in that way. After the BDSM class, and how fun it had been to dominate, I wanted to see if I was into anything else kinky.
Foot stuff had never been on my radar in any sort of sexual capacity.
I’ve had gross feet all of my life. Dry, cracked. At a party in tenth grade, a boy offered to give me a foot massage, saw my feet, and said “Yo, nevermind.” I’ve kept them covered ever since.
Despite my own foot calamity, feet are one of the most popular fetishes.
I wanted to know why.
So here I was, with the Divine Foot Goddess herself.
Barbie ordered a cappuccino, I ordered a coffee, and we sat down, surrounded by businessmen in suits, to discuss the very serious matter of licking a toe.
Barbie was wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt with a cartoon picture of her face above the words “The Barbie Show.” Her bright red hair matched her red lipstick. She was wearing sneakers and appeared to be about my height, no taller than five feet.
I had only seen her wearing sexy outfits and stiletto heels, so I was disarmed by the casualness of her appearance. “Thanks for meeting with me!” I said.
“Of course!” She smiled brightly, full of warmth and energy. I could already tell we were gonna be friends.
Before I could barrage her with questions, Barbie adjusted her chair, moving her feet away from me. “I’m sorry if it’s smelly. I’m prepping my socks for resale,” she said.
I sniffed the air subtly but couldn’t smell anything but burnt coffee and macaroons.
“You’re prepping your socks?”
She clarified: “I sold these socks for a hundred and fifty dollars. The buyer wants the socks to smell like my feet, so I have to wear them around for a few days before shipping them.” She said it with a glint of good humor in her eyes, acknowledging that it was unusual without being apologetic.
Ironically, Barbie was sitting underneath a purple and pink poster that said, “Follow Your Passion.” She had done just that, and now she was selling her socks on the Internet for a hundred and fifty bucks.
If I were sitting underneath a poster it would have said, “Still Figuring Shit Out.” I thought of all the trips to the laundromat and sighed. To think, all these years I could have been selling my old dirty socks.
“Also, I swear I don’t always wear a T-shirt with my face on it. We’re filming new episodes for our YouTube show tonight,” she continued, smiling.
I was impressed. Like the rest of us, she was grinding away trying to build her empire. She was the Queen not only because she was beautiful but also because she was a smart businesswoman.
I wanted to know how someone became the Queen of the Foot Fetish scene. I imagined her right out of college, wearing a suit from H&M and sitting in a bland corporate office. One day, after an unproductive meeting, she shoved all the papers off her desk and yelled, “Screw you! I’m ALL IN on feet!”
But Barbie was easygoing and down-to-earth. She didn’t seem like the paper-flinging, screaming-as-she-exited kind of gal.
“So, how did you get into all this?” I asked, taking a sip of my coffee.
She smiled, pearly white teeth contrasting the dark lipstick.
“Well, one of my first boyfriends liked feet and I realized that I did, too,” she said.
She told me a story about how they explored the fetish together in the backseat of his car and she realized how much feet turned her on. Even after their breakup, she continued to explore with her next partner.
Halfway through her story, the woman sitting next to us glanced up, obviously intrigued. She pretended to continue reading her book, but I could tell that she was still listening, mesmerized like I was by Barbie’s candor.
“What do you like about feet specifically?” I asked.
I couldn’t think of a single reason to like feet beyond functionality (they helped me walk, stand, do yoga). Lips were kissable and wet. Hands were smooth and soft. What redeeming qualities did feet have?
Apparently a lot.
Barbie liked the way they felt (smooth and wrinkly). She liked the way they tasted (sometimes sweaty, sometimes like soap, sometimes like skin). She and her community of foot worshippers loved the feeling of a foot smushed against their noses. She described the smell of a sole with the same fondness I’d use to describe a freshly baked blueberry muffin.
Before I met her, I was expecting this to be a farce. I thought perhaps she was someone who had capitalized on an underrepresented industry. She’d show up and be like “Look at me, I make money making videos of people licking ice cream off my feet. What a bunch of suckers!” That wasn’t the case. Not only did Barbie sincerely have a foot fetish, but she also loved her job. She spoke about her fans with a sense of gratitude and loyalty. Her mission in life was to end the shame around sex and destigmatize fetishes.
I was on board with that.
Licking a foot seemed pretty harmless.*
At the exact moment Barbie was gushing about her fans, an older gentleman in a dark gray suit walked in and did a double take when he saw her. He pulled out his phone, looked at it and then back at her.
Barbie turned, smiled at the man and winked.
I had been so intrigued by the conversation that until now, I hadn’t noticed that another younger man across the café was also sneaking glances at Barbie.
As I scanned from one man to the other, it occurred to me that I was having coffee with a quasi-celebrity.
I straightened my posture.
“I know you make videos on YouTube and sell your socks, what else?” I said.
“Oh, I haven’t told you about one of the best parts, Barbie’s Boutique! It’s a luxury experience where people can either have their feet worshipped or come and worship one of my girls’ feet.”
“You have girls? Like, you’re a madame?” I said, casually relaxing my hands behind my head.
“I wouldn’t use that terminology, but yes. I organize everything with my team, make sure my models are safe, and review the rules with clients,” she said.
“And then people pay . . . to what?”
“It’s usually a customized experience for the client, but
typically I’d say they spend an hour with their model, massaging their feet, licking their toes. Stuff like that,” she said.
Anticipating my next question, she added, “And yes, it’s all legal.”
“But, like, it’s just feet?” I asked.
“It’s all foot and foot-adjacent. Sometimes people want the model to walk on their face, mostly it’s toe sucking. Sometimes people want to talk to someone who will listen; they’ll pay for the session and just chat,” she said.
“Fascinating,” I said, stroking my chin and nodding my head.
I had to go to one of those sessions.
My curiosity was insatiable. Without thinking about it, I volunteered to be a foot model.
Barbie laughed, “I’d love that! Let me see your feet.”
I hesitated. My feet were in no shape for licking. They were dry and calloused from running, and the nails were unpainted and uncut.
I peeled my sock off slowly, under the table and showed her what we were working with.
She swallowed and very graciously suggested I “work on them a little” and would revisit the subject with me in a few months.
Barbie had to leave to film her series. She stood up and gave me a hug. Talking to her had been easy. Even though we’d only been together for an hour or so, I felt like we were already friends. I was excited to support and maybe work with her.
“Email me when your feet are ready,” she said, waving goodbye on her way out.
I waited until she was out the door and immediately walked my li’l ol’ self straight over to the foot aisle at the closest drugstore. With a shopping cart filled to the brim with lotions, antifungal sprays, pumice stones, and a Ped Egg, I beelined to the checkout to begin my new life as a fabulous, rich foot model of Instagram.
I was determined to be a part of one of Barbie’s boutiques and I wasn’t leaving anything to chance.
* The irony isn’t lost on me that licking a dick sent me into a downward hypochondriac spiral. But feet? Nah, totally fine.
GODDAMNIT, THERE’S STILL A LOT OF SHIT LURKING AROUND
While I was trying to get my feet ready for licking, I had another examine-the-garbage-that’s-rotting-around-your-heart, hit-you-in-the-motherfucking-gut therapy session.
The Coitus Chronicles Page 7