Bad by Francine Pascal

“No ...no, she was—”
    â€œDon’t worry about it, Ed,” she soothed. She patted him on the head. Point made. Ed was Heather’s again. And he wasn’t likely to forget it.
    Â 
    From: (undisclosed sender)
    To: [email protected]
    Re: Apologies
    Time: 5:25 P.M.
    My dearest Gaia ,
    I am very sorry I haven’t contacted you in the past few days. Business has consumed me, and I haven’t had any time to spare. But I am still very sincere about our plans abroad. I know this is short notice, but can you meet me for dinner tonight? Compagno’s, eight-thirty. I expect to see you there.
    All my love ,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Oliver
    Â 
    GAIA
    I bought condoms once before. It was last fall, when I was determined to lose my virginity with Sam. Things didn’t go exactly as I had planned. I went to his dorm room and found him having sex with Heather Gannis. The fact that she was his girlfriend at the time didn’t make me feel any better. For that momentous occasion, I bought a pack of Trojan Magnas. Call me an optimist.
    That first pack of condoms went the way of my stolen messenger bag. I hadn’t bothered to replenish the supply until this afternoon. Not that I’d needed to. A girl with size-ten feet, zero social skills, and a wardrobe from
Platoon
doesn’t generally need to worry about safe sex. Or any sex at all.
    Now losing my virginity isn’t a possibility. It’s a certainty. I want to be fully prepared the next time Sam and I are ready todo the act. So I bought ten packets, just to be safe.
    I think the guy at the counter thought I was a prostitute. Either that or insane. I couldn’t tell which.
    Â 
    SAM
    I have to say from the outset that I hate to buy condoms. I always feel like some kind of demented pervert when I slap them down on the counter to pay for them. My solution to this problem is to buy as many other items as possible at the same time. I always hope that my three pack of Lifestyles won’t be noticeable amid the pile of soap, disposable razors, Bufferin, and toothpaste.
    The usual humiliation of the whole process is also compounded by the fact that the very act of buying the condoms makes you think about what you will be
doing
with them. It’s not exactly something you want to be sharing with the lady across the counter at the Valu-Mart.
    Â 
    ED
    I know Heather and I haven’t been back together all that long. And I know I have a fear that borders on morbid at the idea of her seeing my pale, shrunken legs. But I think I could overcome that fear if at least I could stand up and walk to the bed.
    The truth is that as much as I want to regain the use of my legs for a million reasons—skateboarding, running, surfing, driving, jumping jacks—there’s one activity that stands out in my mind above all others. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out what that activity is.
    I decided that buying a pack of condoms would be a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. If I
planned
for the operation to be a success, it
would
be a success. But believe me, a guy in a wheel-chair hovering in front of a massive display of condoms is an awfully conspicuous sight. More than one woman gave me a dirtylook. As if it were illegal for a handicapped guy to think about sex.
    But the best was the guy behind the counter. His eyes moved from me to the box of Trojan condoms at least four times before he finally rang them up. I lingered an extra few seconds, just to see if he would have the balls (like Carl’s sweet friend Joe) to ask if a guy in a wheelchair could “do it.”
    He didn’t, though.
    â€œMy girlfriend can’t get enough of me,” I told him as he handed me my change. “I just wish she loved me for my mind.”
    The guy didn’t laugh. People like him never do.

a curse
    The words didn’t register. They floated straight past him. The sterile white hospital floor turned to liquid. He