"And then he asked me if I had any conditions," I yell to Lacy from the shower.
"You should have sex with him. He seems game."
I push open the shower door and stare at her the best I can with soap dripping into my eyes.
"I don't date co-workers!"
"Don't date him, just screw him," she says shooting me a look of "duh."
I retreat back under the hot water. She's not going to give up on this without a fight. I'm going to have to go into the only thing Lacy understands. It's time for full-on whine mode.
"I know this seems lame," I complain, grabbing my towel and drying off. "But I don't think I can prep for a major surgery and think about having sex at the same time. My mind has already begun melting, so we need to put the "having sex" thing on the back burner. I need to focus."
I bend over and wrap my freshly-cleaned hair in the towel. "Damn it, he was right, this shampoo does smell amazing."
I grab the expensive bottle of delight and toss it into the trash can. I need all the help I can get.
"Listen to me," Lacy starts in while retrieving the shampoo from the trashcan and shoving it into her toiletry bag. "From what I can tell, you've been training for this surgery your entire life. Your patient is lucky to have you. You've got this. All of it. Even the having sex for the first time part."
She's making me feel better about the surgery, but I'm still on the fence about the other thing. I take off my towel and quickly grab for my robe.
"Whoa, what exactly is going on down there?" Lacy says, pointing to my crotch. "Are you growing that out or what?"
I pull my robe tightly around me. "If you're referring to my pubic area . . . " I say with utter disdain.
"I'm referring to your bushy vag," Lacy interrupts. "It's buried somewhere beneath a deeply wooded forest. Someone get the lumberjacks in here!" she yells to an invisible group of men in flannels.
"What are you, ten?"
"You're clearly not," she says, not willing to let this go.
"Let me see yours," I demand, naively expecting some kind of reciprocation.
"Oh yeah? You want to see mine? I've played this game before."
Lacy drops her pants and pistol-points with both hands to her completely bare vagina.
"First off, where's your underwear?" I ask, trying to not seem thrown by my sisters vaginal pride.
"Panties cause panty lines. I don't like either."
"Fine, and where are your pubic hairs? Because you actually could be mistaken for a ten-year-old."
"They're gone. What's left is just a nice smooth surface for all kinds of recreation."
With this, she turns and shakes her naked butt at me.
"I like being an adult woman. I earned these hairs," I proclaim, while combing my fantastic-smelling hair.
Lacy pulls up her pants and goes back to applying her third coat of mascara.
"If we're going to bring you up to sex goddess speed in two weeks, you're going to have to start with shedding the wool blanket that's shielding your va-jay-jay and half your thigh from the light of day."
"Really? Half my thigh?"
Lacy gives me a sideways glance implying that she said what she said, and she isn't taking it back.
"You said you needed my help. If you can't cooperate, I can't help you."
"And I told you, I can't do this right now! It's too much, so your help is no longer needed."
I can't keep defending my need to slow this train down. Why does she argue with everything I say?
"Come on! You finally have faith in me to help you with something and you're backing out? Wow. Just . . . wow. Maybe I should just go back to Ohio, since I'm no help here."
"This is not about you."
"Maybe so, but you have never taken my advice and I just thought this time was different." Lacy zips her make-up bag and storms out of the bathroom.
As many times as she does this, I can't help myself. I have to chase after her.
"Alright, stop," I bark. "You're not leaving in a huff."
She opens the front door dragging a half-packed suitcase behind her.
"Fine," I blurt out. "I will do this. All of this. I'm just scared."
Lacy turns, runs to me and tackles me with all her love. We land on the couch.
"Haven't I always had your back?" she asks me.
"Yes, and I've always had yours. Now get off of me."
She crawls off as I gather myself and re-tie my robe.
"There's nothing to be scared of, either," she explains. "It's the most natural thing in the world."
"I'm not scared of having sex for the first time. I'm scared of losing my focus at work."
"Maybe, but I think the idea of having sex is scary if you don't have that special someone in mind to have the sex with."
What is she talking about now?
"Let me explain," she says, reading the confusion on my face. "Sex is awesome and can be the best experience if done right. But, if you have sex with someone you don't feel a deep connection with, it can often feel uncomfortable and even unsafe."
"I know all this," I groan.
"Maybe you do in theory, but not personally. It's complicated. Bear with me here, OK? You're at an age where the thought of having sex will always get in the way of just "getting it over", which is unfortunately what I did too early."
"You admit that you lost it too soon?" I ask, surprised by such an admission.
"Yes," she says with a little sadness in her eyes. "I was too young. I thought it was right. Man, I thought it was the right thing to do. But later I realized that first experience had left a hole inside of me that I kept trying to fill it with other sexual encounters with too many guys and one girl."
"One girl?" I ask, not at all surprised.
"Yes, the kissing was killer, but the rest wasn't for me. Anyhow, I always wonder what it could have been like if I had waited and not rushed into it with a guy who clearly would have substituted me with a hole in the wall. He did, after all, screw my so-called friend Shelby just one week later. If I had said, "no, I'm not willing to give myself to you," then perhaps my first time could have been more than the brief, weird encounter it was. Maybe I could have experienced sex in a way that wouldn't have left me searching for a deeper connection. It just kind of felt like no big deal because of how I did it, but I look back and it was a big deal. It should be a big deal."
Lacy Matthews is one smart and clearly introspective woman. I sometimes forget about that because she is my little sister.
"So where does that leave me? Do you still think I should still try to lose it in two weeks? Because I don't want to rush into it and turn into some sort of sex addict."
"OK, just to be clear. I'm not a sex addict," she says. "I've just had my share of sexual partners."
"Sorry, I wasn't implying that."
"Your dilemma is something entirely different. You are old enough to analyze the situation until the cows come home, which will keep you from ever popping that cherry. What you need is a time machine. So here is my proposal: you spend the next two weeks catching up."
"Catching up?"
"You need to go through an entire adolescence like every normal girl does."
"I do?"
"Yes. You need to feel the urge of wanting sex and flirting, but not acting on it. You need to dance with a guy and feel him getting turned on, and find the will power to say "no, not yet," because that is how you figure out who the right guy is and who is not."
My sister was blowing my mind. Maybe she should be a sex therapist. I had never thought of any of this.
"I propose we start at the beginning of the hormonal surge and follow it all the way through to now. You need to develop some skills and get a small taste of the mating rituals adolescent humans experience in the modern-day world."
"Like what?"
"Leave that up to me. You just have to agree to do everything I tell you to do."
Lacy has her hand out. She wants to shake on it.
I take in a deep breath. I quickly go back over everything she just laid out for me. I have no argument to give.
"Until it interferes with my work," I say, putting my hand in hers.
"If it does, which it won't, we stop," she says, shaking my hand with verve.
And it's done. We have agreed on the terms of my sexual journey. I am going to do what she tells me to do until it interferes with my very important, life-saving job.
"So, what's first?" I ask.
"Get dressed. We're leaving," she answers, jumping up and grabbing her purse.
"Where are we going?"
"To Brazil and back," she says, smiling from ear to ear.
And that is the beginning of a very long, interesting, tiring, eye opening, and sometimes painful day. First we go to Snatch. Yes, Snatch. It is a waxing salon. There, they pull hair out of my face, legs, vaginal area, and anus area. From there, Lacy takes me to Mac and we get makeovers. I have a few, because honestly the first two are appropriate to a drag queen or bride-to-be. Both are over the top. I just need something to enhance my beauty, not wipe it away and start over. I want to look like me, for goodness sake! Then we have my hair layered a little here and there. Then I get low-lights and high-lights. I'm still unsure which is which, but I look amazing. Then Lacy takes my credit cards and we go shopping. Now this is something I've never enjoyed, but I do this time around. I forget how much money I earn and that there are certain designers I actually admire. So, we go a little hog wild and rack up some points on my Amex.
Back at home, Lacy goes through my headband collection and lets me keep three. Three! Then she empties my closet, which is pretty bare I have to admit, and we drop off a couple of boxes at the local second-hand store. Two old ladies fight over my jeans and button-up shirts before we leave the building. It feels like a compliment, until Lacy assures me it isn't.
"Thanks, Lacy," I say, lying down on the couch. The day was done. I was a new woman. Now, it is time to get into my oversized t-shirt and hit the hay.
I shuffle into the bathroom and turn on the hot water. I'm going to wash this fifty dollars worth of talcum powder off my face and read my patient's medical history once more, so I can have it thoroughly memorized. Then I'm going to get some much-needed sleep. I place my hands under the running water when Lacy rushes into the bathroom and slaps my hands. Water flies all over the vanity and onto the mirror.
"What the hell?" I yell.
"What are you doing?" she asks me, completely out of breath.
"I'm going to bed," I say, placing my hands back under the water spout.
"No, you're not," she says, turning off the faucet and quickly checking my makeup. "We're going out. We didn't spend all day getting you ready for prime time just to wipe it all away and get some shut eye."
"It's late," I whine.
"It's ten o'clock," she replies in a snarky tone.
Like I said, it's late.
"You said you'd do what I told you to do," she says, challenging me.
"I need to catch up on my surgery. That would mean your plan is interfering with my work."
"You're not at work. You're here with me and it is Saturday night. If I don't even get the weekends how can I possibly . . . "
"Fine," I groan, knowing I'm only going to prolong this if I don't just agree and get on with it. "You're right. OK. Where are we going?"
"To try your new look on for size. It's a no-pressure night. All you have to do is get out there and be seen. We are going to show them what you've got and let you see the reaction."
"What if I don't like the reaction?"
"Truth be told, it might make you uncomfortable at first, but that's why we're doing it. A woman who is comfortable with who she is, and in what she's wearing, is a woman who is comfortable with her sexuality."
"I'm going to fail."
"No, you're not going to fail, because you know who you are and you looked great in all the clothes we bought today. We just need to get you out there, see what you like, and see what likes you. Check your vibe."
"I don't have a vibe," I tell her, knowing full well my vibe is your basic, "stay away" vibe.
"We're just going to go out, have a drink or two, see what we attract, and come home."
She waits for me to mull this offer over. In her defense, I'm not easy. I'm set in my ways and I usually think I'm smarter than everyone else in the room. Not because I am, but because I was told I was ever since I can remember. It's hard to shake that and let someone else call the shots. But that is what I agreed to and I'm not one to renege on a deal.
"Alright, one drink and we come home," I tell her, making sure we are still on the same page.
Her plan sounds benign enough. What's the worst that could happen?