“Now that we have all that settled,” she says, closing my academic folder, “tell me how things are going.”
She gives me another ‘look’ and now we’ve entered the mental health checkup part of the meeting. I adjust the silver bracelets on my arm, trying to hide the rubber band. I’ve been using it since seventh grade. All my counselors say it isn’t a healthy coping mechanism, but personally, I think they’re wrong. A summer spent on my parent’s yacht, sailing the Caribbean, without a single lay is proof of that.
It’s not that I’m going cold turkey on sex or anything. I’m just setting boundaries. Limits. Reasonable goals. Four times per year—every three months. It’s totally fine. Quality is better than quantity, anyway. It’s like that dieting thing—intermittent fasting?—except with dick.
Intermittent dick fasting.
It’s not so bad. Sure, sex is all I can think about seventy percent of the time and my skin stopped feeling right about ten weeks ago, but truthfully, I’ve done great without dick. Totally great. Really, it’s been a huge reprieve. With all the time I’ve saved hunting for nice abs, I’ve even picked up some hobbies along the way. Calligraphy. Knitting. Beadwork. An ever-growing, finely curated database of all my favorite internet porn.
I pull my rubber band again.
Snap!
If I don’t get laid soon, I might fucking die.
“I’m good,” I say instead. “I spent the summer with my family. No social media, no drama, no problems whatsoever.” It’d been a nice vacation from reality. Specifically, the reality of Heston Wilcox’s court case.
“That’s nice to hear. And your medication? Everything going okay with that?”
I loathe people knowing my business. I know it’s part of the deal with them allowing me back in after I took the semester off, but still. I swallow back the irritation. “No changes with my meds. My shrink says they’re working.”
Mrs. Gilbert frowns at the word ‘shrink’ and scribbles some notes on her pad. Jesus.
“Now, I know a lot of your friends graduated last spring. Are you worried about anything, socially?”
Am I sad most of the Devils have graduated? Obviously. The Devils are my only real friends. I already know things this year are going to be a little harder—a little colder—without all of them beside me. “It stinks, but I still have friends here. Vandy Hall and Caroline Richmond?” Her eyebrows raise and I know she wants more. “I’m excited about my senior year. I’m ready to fill out those college applications and experience all the good things, like homecoming, prom, whatever comes in between.”
I told my mother I’m done with having a roommate. Six in four years is enough. She agreed, so I secured one of the suites. Naturally, my twin brother, George, threw a fit about it and demanded one of his own. It’s a drop in the hat for them financially, and the least they can do considering the hell I’m going to have to go through this year. My mother is beyond excited about all the senior traditions, and I know I have little choice but to take part in them. The suite is a fair tradeoff, but also painfully ironic.
Figures the year I’d start valuing quality over quantity is the same year I score my very own sex pad.
Snap!
Mrs. Gilbert looks suspiciously at the sound. “I just want to make sure you know that I’m here for whatever you need as you prepare for graduation.” She drones on about credits, references, and early admission applications. “Or even just to talk, Georgia. You can always come to me. I want this to be an exceptional year for you.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Gilbert.” I smile tightly. “I plan on it being my best.”
She assures me she’ll send me my updated schedule, and I walk out of her office and cross the campus. Already, the awareness of this being my last year here makes everything feel a little bittersweet. I’ve been through a lot during my time at Preston—some good, some really shitty. After hooking up with Heston Wilcox that night freshman year, the video of us spread like wildfire. Even though people never figured out it was me—even though Heston remarkably told no one—when the video went viral, I just lost it. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping. I stopped caring. I did reckless, stupid things, like three guys at one party. My grades plummeted. I stopped showering, because the thought of being exposed made me physically ill, and my roommate couldn’t handle it. She went to the counselor.
But not before I tried to end it all.
Ultimately, I got sent to a treatment program. It was more summer camp than a mental hospital. Located two blocks from the beach, Sunny Hills was a behavioral health center, all dressed up as a luxury resort. Yoga and meditation were daily requirements. We ate all organic, locally sourced food, and at night, when the staff wasn’t looking, smoked weed and snuck into one another’s bedrooms.
That’s where the psychiatrist labeled what happened a ‘major depressive episode’ and used the term ‘bipolar tendencies’ to explain away some of my more erratic behavior. To be fair, the meds did chill me out some. The highs and lows evened out, and after six months I came back home, ready to slide back into my mess of a life.
I take the meds, because I do feel better. But there’s one thing that the meds, yoga, exercise, or any of the other hippie shit I’ve tried can’t touch.
Nothing manages to stop this intense, bone-deep, fucking constant, all-consuming urge to get off.
It wasn’t something I revealed until last spring, after I turned Heston in for spreading that video. That’s when my doctor added ‘hypersexuality’ to the list of things wrong with me. Much like my finely curated database of porn, that list is also ever growing.
Everyone likes a good orgasm. The problem is, one doesn’t do it for me. Try five. Or ten. People think I want it all the time, but they’re wrong. I need it all the time. It’s this sweltering heat that crawls under my skin until I feel like I’m vibrating at a frequency that everyone can sense. It’s worse than an itch. Sometimes, even the thought of not having it hurts. Even now, walking across campus, seeing guys walking by, knowing that I could get one of them in the abandoned computer lab, pants around their ankles, sinking down into their lap—doesn’t matter who, anyone will do—and finally feel the warmth and hardness deep inside…
Snap!
I spot Vandy leaning against one of the enormous oak trees and walk over. Her blonde hair is even longer now, lighter, touched by the sun of summer, just like the slight freckles dusting the bridge of her nose. She’s scribbling in a notebook, which is no surprise. Her mom is a hot-shot journalist, and Vandy wants to follow in her footsteps. I know she’s constantly trying to get the newspaper advisor, Mr. Lee, to let her do a deep dive on the dirty underbelly of Preston Prep. Unfortunately, Preston doesn’t want its belly exposed. All she ever gets are hard no’s.
“Hey girl,” I say, walking up and bumping her with my hip.
“Georgia!” Her eyes light up when she sees me. She almost tackles me, flinging her arms around my neck as she squeals in delight. I press my nose into her hair, not bothering to temper my smile. The Devils—Vandy—are home to me now. “I missed you so much!”
“I missed you, too,” I say, meaning it. “How was your summer?”