My Doctor’s My Old Crush, I Lied

It all started two hours earlier. My name is Quinn. Twenty-five, single, and I look harmless. I’m in grad school, don’t have many friends, and my life is as routine as a glass of plain water. No one knows I brought this on myself. Specifically, because of the little pink thing I kept hidden in the back of my nightstand drawer. Last night I completely let go, using it hard and chasing that intense pleasure. The strong vibrations hit my most sensitive spots like waves of heat, leaving me limp, breathing fast, moaning uncontrollably. Wave after wave of powerful orgasms nearly drowned me. I got lost in it, couldn’t stop, going harder and faster. My body kept convulsing as I climbed higher, the overwhelming pleasure making me lose all control. I just wanted it deeper, rougher, more. I went too far. The second I woke up this morning, something felt wrong—down there was swollen, hot, and throbbing with sharp, burning pain. Even moving hurt enough to make me gasp. I panicked. I grabbed my phone and searched. The more I read, the more scared I got. Every terrifying possibility popped up. I skipped breakfast, rushed to book an appointment, and drove straight to the university hospital’s women’s health center, nerves on edge the whole way. The waiting room was packed. I clutched my number, palms sweating, rehearsing in my head how I’d explain it to the doctor. Should I tell the truth? The thought of admitting to a stranger, “I hurt myself using a s*x toy too hard,” made my face burn. I wanted to turn around and run home. But the steady, throbbing pain reminded me I couldn’t put this off. I took a deep breath. Hospitals have seen everything. It’s no big deal. Finally my turn. The front desk nurse asked matter-of-factly, “Chief complaint? Where does it hurt?” I opened my mouth. “I… overdid it with a toy” — there was no way I could say that. I could already picture her face. In a moment of panic, I scribbled four words on the chief complaint line. Pain during intercourse. It still hurt, right? Sounded more normal. I told myself that, walked into the exam room with the plan to get some meds and bolt in five minutes. The first person I saw was a white-haired, smiling old lady in a white coat: Dr. Whitman. I let out a quiet sigh of relief. A sweet grandma. Perfect. Talking about this with a nice older lady wouldn’t be so embarrassing. I was relieved too soon. The old lady might have looked kind, but her hands were quick. Before I could even gather my thoughts, she snatched the form off my lap. She adjusted her reading glasses and read aloud in a strong, clear voice: “Chief complaint—pain during intercourse.” She delivered those four words with perfect cadence and feeling, echoing through the quiet room. I wanted to sink through the floor. Right then, the exam room door opened. A tall man in a white coat walked in, resident badge on his chest, holding a stack of lab reports. “Dr. Whitman, results for room three are—” His voice cut off. The pen in his hand hit the floor. We both froze. Seven years. I thought I’d never see him again. I’d changed cities, changed my whole life. I’d even forced myself not to think about his name for years. But fate chose the most humiliating, most unbearable moment to shove him right back in front of me. Elliott Shaw. The senior I chased for nearly two years as a freshman was standing there in a white coat. And the form on my lap had those damning words written on it in plain sight. My mind went blank. It felt like all the blood had drained from my body. I instinctively tried to hide the form behind me, but it was too late. He’d heard. I knew he had. I was done for.