The Intern Pt. 04 - Finale

TRIGGER WARNING: This fictional story involves someone harming herself out of impatience with her vaginismus dilator therapy and then making several other bad life choices as a consequence. Readers who experience vaginal pain may wish to skip the first page or so. Vaginismus, emotional health, drug use, and dilator therapy are serious challenges, and I don't want to hear about any of you hurting yourselves. It is not funny. It is not safe. It can make things worse. Listen to your doctor, and not a writer of internet erotica! If you have pain with sex, you are not alone and you need to tell your doctor and keep telling doctors until you find the right one for you. Take care of yourself better than Gillian does!

The Intern, Part 4 (Finale)

Annnnnd then I screwed it all up. What? Stop whining, and don't even try to say I didn't warn you. I told you in Part 1 that I had no patience. I told you in Part 3 that I would screw this up. You think I just say stuff like that? You think that's some kind of recipe for a healthy relationship? It's called foreshadowing! Now, it's time for the shadowing. I know I shouldn't say this in an erotic fiction story, but Life is short: Don't be fooled into thinking love will turn your bullshit into rainbows. I had the best, most perfect guy in the world in love with me, so you know it was only a matter of time before I did something that pushed him completely over the edge. So, here's what happened...

After demonstrating that I had passed my first vaginismus therapy challenge for the doctor, I was given a set of medical grade silicon dilators that came numbered from 1 to 8. Size 1 was smaller in diameter than my finger, and they progressively increased in diameter to Size 8, which earned raised eyebrows and a mildly impressed nod from Greg. They pretty much looked like color-coded, smooth, dildos. The idea behind them being that I needed to start at Size 1, lube it up and hold it comfortably inside me for 10 minutes a day, and over time, work my way up to Size 8, after which time I would be ready to fuck my boyfriend and then write some Scully/Skinner fanfiction, because those two were totally begging to be stan-ed in erotica. I had my goals: sex, and Sculler (Skunny? Silly? Need a better portmanteau.) fanfiction.

So, let's say you had impulse control issues, no patience, and had already endured ridiculous amounts of pain in your life, so much so, that pain was a rather ho-hum concept. Then, let's say that there were 8 numbered dildos standing between you and the patron saint of vaginal orgasms. Given the option, what number would you start at? 8, right? Me, too! Except that when I experimented with the Size 8, it caused enough pain to make me vomit and pass out on my bathroom floor. Same thing happened when I tried Sizes 7 and 6, you know... after I cleaned the bathroom floor. But get this: Size 5 made me vomit, *but* I didn't pass out! See? Science works! So, that was how I ended up going to work on an empty stomach, with makeup covering some nasty bruises on my head, and the bright green, Size 5 dilator jammed up my traumatized vagina, with every intention of keeping it there all day. What could go wrong?

It was the day of the big annual something-or-other. The day when all the suits wore their suitiest suits for each other, and the hair product guy kept shooting his cuffs so much that he looked like he was having seizures. The parking lot was extra full with luxury vehicles because the bored directors were there. Or something. The bored directors were the rich guys and the admirable lesbian that listened to mind-numbing presentations about the company and told the suity-suits on C-level what to do.

It was a big day to be a food-delivering intern. I was stressed and in far more vaginal agony than when The Leader of my parents' executive self-actualization program (actually a sex-cult) tried to take my virginity shortly after I got my first period. Wait - I didn't tell you that yet, did I? Yeah, sorry. It takes me a while to open up sometimes. It's just an awkward conversation to have, and most people can't grasp why some guy who used to con people into buying timeshares suddenly became some kind of Messianic leader. I can't figure it either. He built this group of brainwashed people around him and he'd send them out like an army. The army would get someone you admired to hook you in and make you feel special, but you were only in ways that *they* could see. Nobody else in the world would appreciate your specialness, but them. They even had followers wear badges that showed what level of specialness people had attained. I mean, did they think this shit up after a middle school fundraiser?

Then, to help you become extra special, they would give you the privilege of paying them gobs of money to confess all sorts of things to them in these recorded sessions... so you could realize your potential... you know, unlock that spastic spiritual vagina that you can't have sex with. Or give them ammo to blackmail you... or something. They asked things like "what is your deepest darkest secret?" and "what would you stand to inherit in the event your mother / father / spouse died?" It was that last question that got me in trouble.

My mom's parents were old money. They had gobs of it - as in, they were rolling in Scrooge McDuck-sized piles of gold money. When my parents ran off to follow The Leader, my mom's parents disinherited her and set up an untouchable trust fund for me. That was really was cool of them, but when my mom paid to confess about my Scrooge McDuck gold piles trust fund, The Leader suddenly thought it would be a good idea to make me special with the gift of his mystical sperm. Probably to get me pregnant and have a hostage they could use against me to get the trust fund. Problem was, I was pretty much an unmystical pain in the ass from Day 1.

First, I started snickering whenever I saw them award someone with a badge. Or, when someone talked with me about what I should do to attain the next specialness badge level. Or, really, anything to do with badges. You can't see "Treasure of the Sierra Madre" and then *not* slip into a Mexican accent when people start wearing or talking about their stinking badges. It's, like, required!

Then, there was the whole Asimov thing. The Leader would say all these really deep and profound things to followers as if he had just plucked the wisdom out of the universe, when really Isaac Asimov had given those profound thoughts to the universe long before The Leader was even born. So, I started quoting the book and page number under my breath each time that asshat defiled my favorite author's work. Apparently, the followers found it unsettling. I mean fine, enslave my parents, manipulate their psyches, and brand their privates with your initials, but when you mess with Asimov, you go too far!

The last straw came when I did a market analysis on sex-cult practices, just so that we could actualize our potential and I started offering helpful advice on what imagery and rituals were most effective in recruiting people of low self-esteem and manipulating them into ignoring their conscience and critical thinking responsibilities. Well let's say, the Leader got a little testy when I unfavorably compared his "executive self-actualization program" strategies to those of other sex cults... but then again, I got him in the testes when he tried to take my virginity, so maybe we're even. Plus, I testified against him in court for sexual assault of a child and for making my goddamn idiot parents disappear after they helped me escape and now, he's in prison. Gillian: 20,000, The Leader: 0.

And no, Greg doesn't know. And I have no idea how to tell him. I mean, I can't even say that I'm in... you know... love... with him and that I hope that he never dies before cloning is perfected so that I don't have to keep his corpse preserved in a coffin-sized Coleman cooler in the closet. How do you even preserve a corpse? What did they do with Lenin? I mean, have you *seen* that guy? There's just no way to tell Greg about my childhood and come out of it sounding like a normal person. For that matter, I should probably leave out the whole "corpse in the cooler in my closet" thing, too. See why I suck at relationships? In fact, that's why I'm pretending to be asleep right now, so I can keep Greg from breaking up with me. Mature, I am not.

So, anyway, when I drove into the parking lot on the big food-delivering day, I was in excruciating pain, what with my car and its bad alignment vibrating the Size 5 dilator in my spastic hoo hah and making it go arrrgh. After I parked, though, I went digging through my purse for some Ibuprofen or Tylenol or anything, but there was nothing at all because I had switched purses without moving the pain relief stuff. I had nothing for pain relief. Zip, zilch, nada.

I delivered the food for the morning meetings and then went back to my cubicle to curl up like a shrimp and rest my head on my desk. The cramps were horrible, but the dizziness and stabby throbbing in my head was worse. I was starting to think that maybe I should have gone to the hospital about my head hitting the bathroom floor multiple times, instead of smearing some MAC foundation over it and calling it good. Life is short: something, something... head injuries.

The girl with the boobs, you know, the one that got demoted from Protegee to Intern after the head of Marketing found another pair of boobs to jack off on in the supply room? Well, she took pity on me. I think her name was Molly. She said something about "Aunt Flo visiting" and put a couple pills on my desk. I thanked her profusely and dry-swallowed them. Twenty minutes later, life didn't seem so bad anymore. In fact, despite the notion rebelling against everything in my character, I thought everything and everyone was awesome!

Energized, I started up the thing with the letter buttons that tells me what to do. It folds. You know those things? Then a little thing popped up from "Hartman, Trudy." Whoa... Did I tell you about Trudy? She's just... whoa... Don't tell her I told you that, though.

Hartman, Trudy: We switched to the Baylor Room for the event.

Sherwood, Gillian: Hi Trudy! 8D

Hartman, Trudy: What? 8D? No. Set up in the reception area outside Baylor.

Sherwood, Gillian: It's a smiley face! Get it? >8D - that's an evil smiley because of the eyebrows. Raaaahr!

Hartman, Trudy: ...

Sherwood, Gillian: I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to scare you. I just really like you because you're crabby and you're good and you take care of Greg so much.

Hartman, Trudy: I have the cart at my desk. Why don't you come up here and get it.

I loved Trudy so much. She always sat there outside Greg's office protecting him and looking scary like a gargoyle chasing away evil spirits. I wished I had a gargoyle. I'd name him Guilfoyle. Maybe if I'd had a gargoyle, The Leader wouldn't have wanted me to be his mystical sperm receptacle. Guilfoyle would have kept me from asking "why" so much. The Leader hated it when I asked him "why." He hated it even more when I asked the other people "why" because it made their eyes change, and then their faces changed, and then they weren't happy. Then the Leader had to make them feel insecure enough to stop thinking and be grateful and happy again. Guilfoyle would have stopped all that. He would have sat there on my shoulder and pelted me with Good-n-Plenty bits until I didn't need to know "why" anymore.

Then all of a sudden, Trudy was just *right there.* Whoa. My whole field of vision was all Trudy and there were no evil spirits anywhere. I tried opening my eyes wider to see if she would just grow and fill up the extra room.

"What's up with you, Barbie?" she asked, squinting into my eyes. Maybe she was trying to make me smaller by scrunching her field of vision. I wanted to make her happy, so I scrunched myself smaller. Then, she smelled my breath.

"I was just wishing I had a gargoyle like Greg does," I said, choking up because I was just so happy to see her. Then, I hugged her.

Like a good stone gargoyle, Trudy didn't move or hug me back, but I knew she understood I appreciated her because when I let her go, she made sure to look extra scary in case the evil spirits thought she was going soft. Then, she pushed the rolling food thingy at me and growled, "You know what, I don't even care. There's no time for crazy today, you hear me? Food. Baylor. Now."

I saluted and acknowledged her order with an enthusiastic "Aye, Captain!" and took the rolling food thingy to the rollercoaster up down room. Then, I told some people who were just standing around to help me load up the food and bring it over to the Baylor reception and we had such a great time together! Two of the people said they were with the bored directors and one was the CEO, who said he was Greg's boss... and so I asked if the CEO was the boss of the CFO because there was a higher letter in his title. Then, the CEO guy laughed and said, "Seems as good a reason as any!" That kinda makes you think about those AAA guys that just go around helping people with their cars, though. Right?

Then, Greg came out of the elevator with his gargoyle and she was telling him things and he was listening and looking around all intense at the people in the crowd outside the Baylor room. He was so focused and searchy. God, he was sexy! Then, his eyes settled on me and I grinned and bounced up and down. I was so happy he found me! I loved him so much! I should have told him I loved him. He wanted me to tell him! He teased me about it all the time! Why hadn't I told him? Because I was a stupid, scared girl that didn't have a gargoyle, that's why! Well, no more of that! Gargoyle or no gargoyle, it's love-telling time!

Then, Greg started to walk toward me so that I could finally tell him I loved him, but Trudy stopped him and zoomed up behind me and frog-marched me away from Greg and back to his office, instead. She was so fast! There must have been an evil spirit around or something because she told me to lie down, keep quiet, and stay there and not to let anyone else into the office. Not anyone, Barbie! Well, you don't mess with a gargoyle doing their job, so I stayed there. I hoped Greg was okay. I locked the bolt just to make sure Greg's office stayed safe.

So, I was lying down, right? My head was under the coffee table and I was looking up through it because it was glass. Then, I just felt sick because through the table I saw that I must have broken something on top of it. There were all these broken pieces of glass all over the table, but they weren't normal sharp pieces. They were smooth, flat, and curved and it looked like maybe I could get them back together before Greg got back if I was quick enough. So, I was putting the broken glass thing back together from under the table when I heard someone knocking at the door. Shit, shit, shit, shitty, shit!

The knocker couldn't be Greg, because why would he knock at his own office door, right? It must be one of those evil spirits the gargoyle was worried about. So, what did I do? The gargoyle said to lie down and keep quiet, so I just stayed there and worked faster on the broken glass thing. Then, things just got more complicated.

"Gillian, are you there?" The evil spirit knew my name! Shit! What was worse, it was imitating Greg's voice, but it was all muffled like he was behind a door. Dammit! These things were devious! I had to stay sharp.

Okay, stay cool Gillian. The Trudy gargoyle will be back soon to kick this thing's ass, so just act normal and play for time. So, I responded in a formal and polite voice, "This is Mr. Forrester's office. I am not officing right now, but if you leave a message, I will get back to you after Mr. Forrester finishes talking about risk management with the bored directors. Any inquiries about evil spirit employment opportunities may be made to the gargoyle outside." Yes! I was fucking brilliant. I had this.

There was a pause after that. I almost felt bad for the demon, or whatever it was, because I never know what to say when I have to leave a message, either. It just puts you on the spot and it's awkward. Why do we have to have our shit together all of a sudden like that? Dammit, Gillian! Stop feeling bad for the evil spirits! They're evil! Then, I heard it try the handle of the door. Thank God I bolted that thing shut!

Then, I was sweating. Like really sweating. It started beading on my forehead and going into my eyes, but I almost had that broken glass thing on the table fixed, so I just wiped my forehead and kept going. I heard another voice that sounded like the gargoyle outside the door, along with the voice imitating Greg. They were talking together about keys and then the Greg voice *swore* said the keys were in his office. Greg almost never swore at work. He was practically Canadian about it. Evil spirit suspicions, confirmed. Nice try, demons.

Then, my phone rang. It was Greg and he wanted to video chat with me! It was so sweet of him, except that I was busy fixing the glass thing and buying time with the demons. Besides, my makeup was totally a mess. I wiped more sweat off my face and fixed my running mascara before answering. His face looked really scared and his hair was sticking up like it did when he had been running his hands through it. My poor Greg. I guess it was my turn to be the Calming Guy. "Hey Handsome, how's the presentation going?" I asked. He worked so hard on that thing, even practicing giving it to me while I was in my underwear because that's supposed to help with public speaking.

"Gillian, are you—oh my God, what happened to your head?" he yelled. I glanced at my in-frame picture and saw that I'd wiped the makeup off the damn bathroom floor bruise.

"Oh, um, sorry... just a sec," I said, and ran to the bathroom and quickly covered the bruise with the foundation makeup smeared from other parts of my face. Then, I went back to the call. "Is that better?" I asked, panting now because it was really hot in the office.

Greg's face looked weird for a second, like he usually did when he was trying to wrap his head around something perfectly logical that I'd just said to him. Then, he seemed to put his face back together and he seemed a lot calmer. More like Greg, you know? God, I loved him so much. "Beautiful, Gilly, just beautiful. Everything going okay in there?" he asked. He was *so* considerate. Wasn't he so considerate? I had the best boyfriend.

"Um... yeah. Yeah. Everything's great! Say, do you have any Gorilla glue in your desk?" I asked, realizing that the glass thing I'd broken still had cracks everywhere, even though I'd gotten it all back together.

Greg's face looked weird again for a second, and his eye twitched, but then he said, "Yeah, actually I do, but you should probably let me go find it for you, okay? Can you open the door? I'm right outside and I'll just pop in there and get it for you, no problem." That sounded like a good idea to me because I didn't want to be all possessive-creepy-girlfriend and go looking through his desk. Healthy relationships have boundaries, you know? So, I agreed, blew him some kisses, and ended the call. Then, he started trying to call me again right away. Weirdo.

There was something stuck in my vagina that just hurt like crazy, so I took it out and left it on his bathroom counter. My body immediately said a big thank you and I almost felt like I was going to fall down in relief. As I walked across his office, my head was swimming and my body felt even more grateful and I sat down in one of the chairs for a bit before going to the door and turning the bolt to unlock it. I felt the handle turn in my hand and I allowed it to open just a crack, so I could make sure it was really Greg out there and not the demon that I told to leave a message with Trudy Gargoyle. Then, my whole field of vision was all Greg and it was just heaven. He stood there cupping my face and saying nice boyfriend things that didn't quite make sense to me anymore, but I didn't mind. As things went away into the black cloud that was shrinking my view, I realized I didn't need a reason for why Greg loved me. I was just so grateful that he did.