O So Fickle

By Amelie E. Rose

Kasha, a soon-to-be 31-year-old sexual health nurse, is tasked with finding her truth as she journeys to the land of the mighty O. Her well-developed self-critic plays havoc with her each step of the way. It is always there. Never gone. Gnawing. Unrelenting. Exhausting. Kasha desperately wants to believe in love, in finding the one, but her doubt always wins, until she meets Jonah, that is. Oh, Jonah, so perfect. So handsome. So sweet. She wants to be open and honest with him but is too embarrassed to speak her truth: that she is a sexual health nurse who has a hard time achieving an orgasm. Will she be able to do it? Find her truth? Find the mighty O? All bets are on, with a few laughs along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Dec 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228865964

Amelie E. Rose

Amelie E. Rose is a first-time author. This manuscript has been a thirteen-year labour of love, inspired by a desire to continue dialogue about sexuality, mental health with a focus on children and medical staff, eating disorders, sleep health and self-esteem. My wild imagination has been a coping strategy, and so has laughter. And of course it is best to laugh with others, so I hope to inspire a few for the readers who join my adventure.

Book preview

Copyright © 2022 by Amelie E. Rose

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-6595-7 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-6594-0 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-6596-4 (eBook)

To all the earth angels who have graced my path. I am truly blessed.

Contents

Chapter 1 - O So Bitter

Chapter 2 - The Early Birthday Gift

Chapter 3 - The Laundromat Terrorist

Chapter 4 - Sex-Ed

Chapter 5 - Let the Truth Be Known

Chapter 6 - Just Pray to God

Chapter 7 - Prince Charles

Chapter 8 - The Benefits of Yoga

Chapter 9 - Never Too Late

Chapter 10 - The Incredible Mrs. Lips

Chapter 11 - The Incredible Mr. Woody

Chapter 12 - The Harder the Better

Chapter 13 - First Date Gone Apes

Chapter 14 - First Kiss Almost a Miss

Chapter 15 - The Update

Chapter 16 - Sex Party

Chapter 17 - Getting to Know You

Chapter 18 - Get Directions and Make a Map

Chapter 19 - Happy Frickin’ Birthday

Chapter 20 - Anything Can Happen

Chapter 21 - Looking Back

Chapter 22 - Self-Love

Chapter 23 - Discovered

Chapter 24 - Getting Serious

Chapter 25 - Tummy Ache

Chapter 26 - The Finale

Chapter 27 - Girl Power

Chapter 28 - Break and Enter

Chapter 29 - Growing Up

Chapter 30 - The School Dance

Chapter 31 - Obsessed

Chapter 32 - Good Girl Gone Bad

Chapter 33 - Back-Road Love

Chapter 34 - Pill Sisters

Chapter 35 - Acne Attack

Chapter 36 - Field Trip

Chapter 37 - Fall from Grace

Chapter 38 - I N F P

Chapter 39 - Not Pink Eye

Chapter 40 - Composting

Chapter 41 - First Day of School

Chapter 42 - Pharmacology

Chapter 43 - Sensory Overload

Chapter 44 - Lessons

Chapter 45 - Busted

Chapter 46 - Final Placement

Chapter 47 - Communal Living

Chapter 48 - Approach From the Side

Chapter 49 - Bills to Pay

Chapter 50 - National Council Licensure Examination (NCLEX)

Chapter 51 - Prankster

Chapter 52 - Voice of Reason

Chapter 53 - Dr. Love

Chapter 54 - Not That into You

Chapter 55 - Too Sensitive

Chapter 56 - Who is Happy, Really?

Chapter 57 - Reproductive Health Certification

Chapter 58 - Road Trip: Getting Ready

Chapter 59 - Mangy Roadkill

Chapter 60 - Wonder Down Under

Chapter 61 - Big Balls

Chapter 62 - Sensei x Two

Chapter 63 - Flubbed Phlebotomy

Chapter 64 - Three O’Clock Curse

Chapter 65 - What Is a Nurse?

Chapter 66 - Good Night, Sleep Tight

Chapter 67 - Beware: Fentanyl and Carfentanyl

Chapter 68 - Mani Up

Chapter 69 - Frannie the Birthday Girl

Chapter 70 - One-Nighter

Chapter 71 - Saying Goodbye

Chapter 72 - Coming to an End

Author’s Note

About the Author

Chapter 1

O So Bitter

Oh god oh god oh gooooooooooooooddd!

The salt of his sweat burned like acid in my eye, yet I was still able to make out his face. It was contorted, as if being invaded by aliens. One of his toenails cut through the skin on my leg as he came into his release. I was aware that my face had taken on a different form: less than enthusiastic. I felt claustrophobic, trapped beneath this two-hundred-pound, moaning, hot, wet body. I was unfulfilled. Envious. I wanted desperately to pray to the gods above too, to take a lead role in the choir singing this delicious melody. But I was not surprised to be yet again only a spectator to this production, merely a person in the crowd.

Wow. That was awesome, babe, he said, doing a little jig and starting into the chorus of James Brown’s I Got You (I Feel Good).

Yeah, that was something all right. I felt the burn deepening in my eye and sussed out the scratches down my leg. I surprised myself with the degree of ease with which I put on a smile to cover up the pain of disappointment.

Why don’t you find a movie to watch. I’ll be out in a jiffy, I said.

Being a sexual health nurse, I knew the protocol for preventing bladder infections, and it was a great excuse to process the wave of rage that was about to hit.

Do you have any nacho chips? he asked.

Did I have chips? Of course. My skill at circumventing the chip aisle was weak and pathetic.

In the pantry. Top shelf.

You’re the best, babe.

Out of bed I stumbled, chilled like ice from Mr. Romeo’s sweat-fest and nurturing the pain from the toenail attack. I couldn’t get behind closed doors fast enough.

$#*!. I was mindful to keep my voice to a whisper, but I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I stared at my naked self in the mirror, aware the berating was about to begin. What is wrong with you? You’re almost thirty-one years old. It’s all supposed to change at thirty. See, look, this magazine says so. I held up a woman’s magazine to myself that claimed: the thirties: the orgasm years. It was a lie. What kind of sick joke is this? What, did I get second-hand parts? Was I made from the used section? I want my money back! I looked at the smug smile of the woman on the cover of the magazine, gloating like a superhero, like she had the answers, the secret code. Or was she just skilled at lying, like everyone else?

Anger washed over my body and shifted to exasperation. I needed to pull it together. I washed up, emptied my bladder per infection-avoidance protocol, and threw on some comfy pajamas to meet Mr. Romeo stretched out on my couch. He was still naked, and eating my chips. I got lost in the view, like I was seeing this creature for the first time: nuts to the wind, so happy that his dick and balls worked so well. He touched them, carefully lifting the sticky sack off his leg like it was some sort of precious gem, the last one, on the verge of extinction, needing to be guarded by the best. The kind of guard that would be ordered to watch over the queen. Yes, this creature was eating my chips, getting crumbs and scrotum juice all over my couch.

Want some chips? he said as he licked the wet powdery cheese goo off his nut-sack-flipping fingers.

I felt sick.

Chapter 2

The Early Birthday Gift

So, Kasha? How did it go, girl?

Fran and I worked together at a sexual health clinic in the city. It was a great community to be a part of. Fran worked at the front desk and oversaw greeting people, booking appointments, arranging files and of course was a constant source of kindness and empathy. We went way back. Her family moved from the East Coast to our prairie town in the summer of 1989, August 7. Ranked in the top-three best days of my life. She knew me better than I knew myself. She was a true romantic—believed in soul mates and finding the One. She was lively. She loved to dress up and channel her favourite singers. She was blunt. She paid no attention to the stop sign directing messages in her frontal cortex; hence, she said whatever she thought.

Tell me what kind of moves he pulled out on you, she said as she air-humped to the groove of Bob Marley’s One Love on the radio.

Oh, well, you know . . . typical meals on the menu. Played with the fun-bags on top, attempted to venture down south to the Land of Lingus, but I denied him entry. Stopped short. Not on a first date. I didn’t really need to offer up this information, as Fran already knew it about me. I have a bad case of body-fluiditis . . . all those bacteria and viruses waiting to hitchhike a ride into town. And with the sewer system so close to town I rarely offered a season pass to even the most welcomed guests.

So no seconds? Hey, do you want to go to the new meat-market lounge downtown tonight? I’ve got to check it out, as it is literally called The Meatmarket Lounge. Should draw quite a crowd. Fran was in the know. She stayed on top of the action. She read newspapers and events boards on the daily.

I would be a hermit without her. Sure, let’s go.

The next day I was teaching sex-ed to a new group of grade eights. I always felt anxiety when starting a new class, bringing in Mr. Woody and Mrs. Lips. I remembered what it was like witnessing these teachings as a teen, with the flushed look of utter embarrassment on our faces as Mrs. Taylor exposed the secret parts.

That hadn’t, however, been my first time being introduced to the sex organs, as The Growing Years, with its detailed pencil etchings of aging, growing and hairy genitals, was my favourite book for many years. I hid it and was careful to always lock my bedroom door before settling into the ritual viewing. My mom bought it for my sister Lilly and me. It was sitting on the desk in our room one day. I came home from school and there it was. She never approached us about it.

The advanced teaching came that same summer at my neighbour Lisa’s house. I went to her place pretty much every day I could. She was one year older than me. We would sneak into her older brother’s tree fort at the back of their yard and look through the hidden nudie magazines. They were in colour. Real flesh, lots of different poses and angles. Closeups and wide angles. Single- and double-page centrefolds. Most of the magazines were Playboy except for one Playgirl that was sitting at the bottom of the pile—the eighth-anniversary edition featuring Burt Reynolds. I shouldn’t have looked. I couldn’t get those images out of my mind. To top it off, he was a household name and frequently showed up on TV series and movies, and just happened to be my mom’s favourite male actor. Was it the mustache? Did she see the photos too? I had developed a conditioned response to him: my cheeks flushed bright red, I got all sweaty and my heart raced. It didn’t bother me that much until Lil developed a thing for older men with mustaches. And sadly, it wasn’t a short-lived crush. For two whole years I dodged the Tom Selleck and Burt Reynolds posters she hung up, side by side, across the room from my bed, taking up so much space. She eventually tossed them out, thank god, when she became obsessed with glam-metal bands. My mom didn’t think too fondly of the new look and repeatedly commented on how she missed Burt.

But even with these prior lessons on the male anatomy, discussing it in the company of real boys was terrifying. I wondered what it might be like for these kids, seeing me standing up there with Mr. Woody and Mrs. Lips, talking about the different folds and pouches and attempting to normalize it all. I was like a scientist on an exploration, naming all the parts with proper Latin. I know even most adults are uncomfortable with this topic, hence the joy I received by strategically weaving penis and vagina into the midst of ordinary conversations just to watch their reactions. Come to think of it, those words made me uncomfortable too. But being a sexual health nurse, I needed to pretend that it was a nothing burger. Fake it till you make it. Penis penis vagina vagina. Ew. I attempted a desensitization program. Ew still wasn’t working.

After making it through a half-hour lineup, we found a comfortable booth at the grand opening for the Meatmarket Lounge. We were quickly greeted by our waitress, who was wearing a form-fitting T-shirt that read what kinda beef are you packing? and attempting to sexualize jelly shots shaped as cows and pigs. No thanks. I’ll have a pint of pilsner on tap please. I’d worn my camouflage baseball hat to hide behind as I participated in the ever so fun people-watching game. There was a large crowd of interesting characters that night, kind of like watching male birds attempting to lure potential mates to their nests, putting on shows in hopes of wowing their love interests with shiny gifts and fancy dance moves. You’d fall for it, only for it to be revealed that you’ve been scammed, taken for a fool. The predictable post-coital letdown, nest dismantled, feathers soft, shiny objects tarnished.

Hey, maybe we’ll get lucky tonight, I said sarcastically.

Oh Kash, you’re so bitter toward love.

I am not. For example, look at Fabio over there making his way down the line of girls at the bar. Do you think he’ll find the One? Oh, I can just hear the speech on their fiftieth wedding anniversary as they recall when they met at the opening for the Meatmarket Lounge. Classic.

"You never know. Look at Pretty Woman and all those other romantic stories. They’re not lies, you know."

Look at us, the cynic and the romantic. What a combo. Come on, let’s dance.

I loved to dance. I glanced at myself in the mirrors surrounding the dancefloor. What did I look like dancing, I wondered? I looked like a hoser compared to these girls, with their goods tucked and plucked in all the right places. Perfectly perky. And their shoes—they were like toothpick towers. How could they even stand, never mind dance? I wouldn’t last one minute in those. There I was: baseball cap, jeans, sports bra and a tee, all rounded off with a pair of orthotic sandals. I noticed a group of guys casually approaching the perimeter of the dancefloor, claiming their lookout station for the evening, looking cool. I was sure none of the posturing was intended for me. Maybe if I could just stand to wear heels. I’ve tried. I’ve given them a shot, and after five minutes I’m done. And who made high heels, anyway? I am sure to hell it wasn’t a woman. Well, actually, I knew the answer. Fran has an uncanny knowledge of trivia and invention history, and had already filled me in. Apparently, the heeled shoe was developed for men to secure their feet in stirrups to aid in horse riding. It was a sign of wealth and prestige, but I was sure it went back further in history. Maybe it was conceived by our hunter-and-gatherer ancestors for a practical purpose—perhaps designed to aid in berry picking? Wooden blocks strapped to their feet to give them a few more inches. I could picture the guys coming home, kill on their shoulders, walking by the local women performing this death-defying stunt, perched on these blocks, calves tightened, buttocks just ever so slightly pushed out, breasts leaning into the berries. Trying hard to not fall into the thorny bushes, teetering on the edge. And the guys gawking, enjoying the show, perhaps even requesting that the women wear the blocks to bed for close viewing. Me want foot blocks! It all seemed so weird.

After a few hours of dancing, we made our way home. We stopped to pick up a smokie and an order of steaming fresh poutine and took a seat on the sidewalk. Fran reached into her purse and surprised me with a gift. I quickly opened the bag and pulled out a deep V-neck T-shirt that read sex is only this good if you are a pig. It depicted a pig having what seemed to be a very intense orgasm. Fran and I learned from a nature show that domestic pigs take home the trophy for the longest orgasm of the mammalian world, lasting up to an astounding thirty to ninety minutes. Of course, it is only the male pigs that are bestowed with this party trick, and Fran knew I wanted to be reincarnated as one.

I couldn’t resist, she said with a laugh. They were selling them at the back of the bar, and I thought of you right away.

I love it! I took cover and changed into my new favourite tee. The fresh clean cotton on my skin felt so good.

Bellies full, we continued home. We approached a flashing neon sign that read 24-hour sex store.

Come on, Kash, let’s look for an early birthday present for you.

I never felt too comfortable in sex stores. I could feel the leering energy of customers considering the buy three movies and get a free doll promotion just to torment themselves, as they will never have the experiences these hot porn stars are having. I avoided touching anything, imagining what was on people’s fingertips—like Mr. Romeo’s cheese-dripping ball-sack-flipping fingertip smudge. It would require a putty knife and acid to remove it.

As I entered the vibrator section, a wave of anguish washed over me. I have tried a variety of vibrators, with no luck. Was it them or me that couldn’t work? This experience was so common that I created a ceremony for the killing of each plastic animal-shaped clit-tickler and buried them in the back.

Oh, Kash, look at this one. It ‘comes with a guarantee,’ pun intended. It must be good. Come on, let me buy it for you for your birthday.

Well, it wasn’t shaped like an animal, that was a good start. It looked more like a silver egg, or perhaps an outer-space creature. I read the back to get more details. Among the selling features were: remote control panel, two power levels, a sleek feel and an accompanying jingle. Unclear of what the musical feature would add, I agreed to let Fran buy it for me to quench my curious mind. Maybe that has been the missing link: elevator music to guide me into the deep recesses of the limbic region of my brain. Who would have thought?

With a hop in my step, I ended my date with Fran and curled up into my bed. I loved my bed, so cozy and warm. I looked at the egg shining so brightly on my desk, enticing me. I was tired and needed to be up in six hours, so I made a choice to wait until the next day. I wondered if this would be the one, or if it too would be put to its death, joining the others in the grave. I guessed I’d find out soon enough.

Chapter 3

The Laundromat Terrorist

I woke to the scream of the alarm, hit the snooze button and mumbled my first morning words: F off!

I was chipper as a caged bird with clipped wings and severed vocal cords. My regular routine of stumbling to the coffee pot, showering and downing at least three cups of java was essential to put a bounce in my step.

The glimmer from the sun’s rays hitting my new silver toy reminded me of my special gift. Oh yeah, you and me, baby. Date night tonight. I said this to it as if it could understand my invitation. Since I didn’t have to rush, I decided to get a preview. I carefully and eagerly unpacked my new toy, bringing it to life with the eight batteries it required. Taking a comfortable position in bed, still feeling the warmth from last night’s sleep, I began the experiment.

Hey sis, it’s me, open up!

Lil’s voice jarred me back to reality. I hid my egg in my sheets, threw on my housecoat and greeted her at the door.

Hey girl, why are you looking so flustered?

Oh, just washed my face. I spared her the truth. Or more like I spared myself the embarrassment.

Are you still on laundry duty today?

Oh yeah, I almost forgot it was my day. I can squeeze it in before I head off to work. My sister lived down the street and normally came over to do laundry, but with my washer on the fritz we had agreed to share laundry duty until it was fixed.

Got to make this quick, I’m running late for work. She tossed the bags by the door.

Are you still coming over on Saturday for the potluck? I wanted to confirm.

You bet. I have a new appetizer I’m going to try. I’ll pick up my clothes after work tonight. I’m off. Love you, Kash.

Now aware that time was running out, I collected my own laundry, which included the two-day old drench-fest sheets from the night with Mr. Romeo, and headed down the street to our local laundromat.

Good morning, Mr. Lambert. I greeted him with a big smile. Mr. and Mrs. Lambert had owned this business since emigrating from France twenty-five years prior, following their daughter who had found cross-continental love. He was a veteran adorned with the most prestigious of medals honouring gallant acts of bravery. He displayed them in a glass case by the cash register. He was aging and sadly suffered from the combined effects of PTSD and dementia. Even though their daughter and son-in-law had since taken over the business, they had agreed to help at the mat. This also meant extra eyes on Mr. Lambert, which was a relief for Mrs. Lambert.

It was sad to see them age. It is amazing what ten years will do to a person, sucking life energy minute by minute, their chi depleting, slow and insidious like a well-feeding parasite. Most bodily functions begin to decline after thirty. Theories suggest the decline is at a rate of one percent per year. I was just starting. Mr. Lambert, on the other hand, was almost at the end. I hadn’t seen them in years, as purchasing my own washer and dryer unit was at the top of my list when I graduated from the broke-ass student years.

I listened as Mr. Lambert detailed a play-by-play of a front-line war scene. He was bilingual but mostly spoke French. I could only make out a couple words. Poor guy. He most likely had been spending his life trying to forget the war, and now he’s trapped in it with no way out. How much torture can one soul take? I threw in my wash, wasting no time. I knew what was next. I would soon be experiencing the biggest perk of laundry day: freshly brewed coffee from my favourite barista two doors down. I was feeling shortchanged with my daily java experience as I was only two cups in, so off I went with a skip in my step.

I’ll be back in half an hour, I said to reassure Mrs. Lambert that I would obey the posted Rules of Laundering, which listed obvious but not always respected laundromat mores.

Feeling the sun on my face and smelling the enticing aromas of roasting coffee beans, I knew this day would be great.

My dream bubble burst. Mr. Lambert was standing outside the laundromat behind me, yelling, "Bomb, bomb explode! C’est fille et une terroriste!" His finger was pointing straight to me.

A fire truck, two cop cars and a bomb squad screamed to a halt in front of Mr. Lambert. All eyes were on me.

It’s her! She planted a bomb!

I was frozen in disbelief as two police officers approached me. Ma’am, we need you to come with us. I noted their hands hovering over their holsters. I listened carefully and co-operated.

As we made our way back to the new crime scene,