ficlet.
This is not the smutty RPS that I promised Molly.
I'm not even that fond of it. okay, okay, I've revised my stance somewhat. I was just mad when I posted that it was this and not dirtybadwrong!fic. I suppose it's fine...for something without gay love.
But, when it comes to getting rid of block, we all have to start somewhere.
Valley of the Dorks
Xanax makes you pee. This was Summer’s stepmother’s grand contribution to her upbringing.
Xanax makes you pee, then makes you feel kind of drunk, if you’ve taken one, and makes you sleep, if you’ve taken more than one. Vicodin makes you nauseous, Tylenol with Codeine isn’t much better. Demerol is what they give women in labor, but the whole “having a baby” part takes all the fun out of it. Morphine is addictive, which is why they only give it to people who are about to die, at least in pill form.
Summer’s stepmother is a veritable Physician’s Desk Reference.
Birth control makes you fat, if you’re old, but when you have a metabolism as fast as Summer’s, you can risk it. In her most embarrassing moment, like, ever (pre-Cohen, that was) her stepmom had taken her to the doctor, back when she still tottered out of the house on occasion. Summer was thirteen, and mortified when junior-mom announced in a no-nonsense voice that Summer had started her period, and needed to go on Ortho, stat.
She hadn’t bothered to ask if Summer were having sex. Or even being kissed (which she was, of course, but her stepmom didn’t need to know that.) Anyway, sex was supposed to be a way of life in Newport. Grow boobs, have sex, first with members of the football or water polo team; then preferably with a richer, older gentleman (who may or may not be currently married), marry him in a wedding that rivaled Ben and J.Lo’s (or Trista and Ryan’s-if you wanted to count a couple who had actually gotten married, instead of dancing around the issue while the tabloids swooned at their feet), divorce him, start cycle again.
Summer never took the pills.
In fact, the thought of pills now, after Marissa’s run to the border, made her like, totally ill. Like, as ill as mixing Vicodin and wine. (Not that she’d done that, like, personally, but she’d been a frequent witness to the sound beaded cocktail gowns made when the hem hit the floor in front of the toilet.)
But then, there was Cohen. Sex with Cohen. Cohen and his near-expired wallet-condom, which was totally given to him by *his dad*, and then later, the way he babbled to the Rite-Aid clerk at the checkout to cover the fact that he was purchasing condoms, all while Summer tried to hide behind her sunglasses and hair and the magazine rack featuring lots of bold type and exclamation points alongside pictures of Uma Thurman in a fugly dress and Martha Stewart walking out of a courtroom.
It was worth going on the Pill just so she’d never again have to hear Cohen stand in the personal goods aisle and mutter the words, “Wow, this is kind of like Baskin Robbins. Well, if they made you choose between latex and polyurethane instead of mint chocolate chip and strawberry.”
She should have agreed with Seth’s first thought and made Ryan buy the condoms for him.
Actually, he should have just raided Ryan’s nightstand drawers, because she had a feeling he already did, like, when Ryan was in the shower, (which was totally not something she wanted to go into with her boyfriend and her best friend's ex boyfriend), and what’s a condom or two between brothers?
Ew, or not.
So, when Summer buckled down and called up the doctor for a prescription, it totally wasn’t about pills, or not pills, or her stepmom, or the water polo player she wasn’t sleeping with. It wasn’t about Cohen standing at the register and how his ears looked like they’d gone without SPF 30 on a day at the beach. Or how she’d had to glare at him as she rifled through her Louis Vuitton clutch, plunking half of her own money down when he realized he’d spent his last twenty on his copy of The Escaper or whatever it was.
Well, maybe it was about the last thing, a little.
But she figured it was a fair trade, for what she had.
--finis--
I'm not even that fond of it. okay, okay, I've revised my stance somewhat. I was just mad when I posted that it was this and not dirtybadwrong!fic. I suppose it's fine...for something without gay love.
But, when it comes to getting rid of block, we all have to start somewhere.
Valley of the Dorks
Xanax makes you pee. This was Summer’s stepmother’s grand contribution to her upbringing.
Xanax makes you pee, then makes you feel kind of drunk, if you’ve taken one, and makes you sleep, if you’ve taken more than one. Vicodin makes you nauseous, Tylenol with Codeine isn’t much better. Demerol is what they give women in labor, but the whole “having a baby” part takes all the fun out of it. Morphine is addictive, which is why they only give it to people who are about to die, at least in pill form.
Summer’s stepmother is a veritable Physician’s Desk Reference.
Birth control makes you fat, if you’re old, but when you have a metabolism as fast as Summer’s, you can risk it. In her most embarrassing moment, like, ever (pre-Cohen, that was) her stepmom had taken her to the doctor, back when she still tottered out of the house on occasion. Summer was thirteen, and mortified when junior-mom announced in a no-nonsense voice that Summer had started her period, and needed to go on Ortho, stat.
She hadn’t bothered to ask if Summer were having sex. Or even being kissed (which she was, of course, but her stepmom didn’t need to know that.) Anyway, sex was supposed to be a way of life in Newport. Grow boobs, have sex, first with members of the football or water polo team; then preferably with a richer, older gentleman (who may or may not be currently married), marry him in a wedding that rivaled Ben and J.Lo’s (or Trista and Ryan’s-if you wanted to count a couple who had actually gotten married, instead of dancing around the issue while the tabloids swooned at their feet), divorce him, start cycle again.
Summer never took the pills.
In fact, the thought of pills now, after Marissa’s run to the border, made her like, totally ill. Like, as ill as mixing Vicodin and wine. (Not that she’d done that, like, personally, but she’d been a frequent witness to the sound beaded cocktail gowns made when the hem hit the floor in front of the toilet.)
But then, there was Cohen. Sex with Cohen. Cohen and his near-expired wallet-condom, which was totally given to him by *his dad*, and then later, the way he babbled to the Rite-Aid clerk at the checkout to cover the fact that he was purchasing condoms, all while Summer tried to hide behind her sunglasses and hair and the magazine rack featuring lots of bold type and exclamation points alongside pictures of Uma Thurman in a fugly dress and Martha Stewart walking out of a courtroom.
It was worth going on the Pill just so she’d never again have to hear Cohen stand in the personal goods aisle and mutter the words, “Wow, this is kind of like Baskin Robbins. Well, if they made you choose between latex and polyurethane instead of mint chocolate chip and strawberry.”
She should have agreed with Seth’s first thought and made Ryan buy the condoms for him.
Actually, he should have just raided Ryan’s nightstand drawers, because she had a feeling he already did, like, when Ryan was in the shower, (which was totally not something she wanted to go into with her boyfriend and her best friend's ex boyfriend), and what’s a condom or two between brothers?
Ew, or not.
So, when Summer buckled down and called up the doctor for a prescription, it totally wasn’t about pills, or not pills, or her stepmom, or the water polo player she wasn’t sleeping with. It wasn’t about Cohen standing at the register and how his ears looked like they’d gone without SPF 30 on a day at the beach. Or how she’d had to glare at him as she rifled through her Louis Vuitton clutch, plunking half of her own money down when he realized he’d spent his last twenty on his copy of The Escaper or whatever it was.
Well, maybe it was about the last thing, a little.
But she figured it was a fair trade, for what she had.
--finis--