am i pegnate?? help!?
avblackout:
@avadam
it’s not that olivia doesn’t know what sex is. her memories of it are hazy and buried under years of systematic repression, but she’s aware of the basics. she’s twenty-four, she’s emotionally a virgin, and at this point, if anyone says the word penis around her, she’s going to have to kill them.
sorry, she doesn’t make the rules.
so it’s astounding that the Olivia Miller Recovery Task Force would think to enroll her in sex-ed with a bunch of children wearing their parents trench coats. the task force is supposed to be in her best interest, but jesus, it feels like her best interest is jumping head first into an industrial wood chipper. maybe a hydraulic press. at this point, she’s not really picky.
she keeps her head down in the back and, even though her therapist says it doesn’t work like that, she tries her damnedest to fully dissociate from the situation.
being on the verge of eighteen here means practically nothing, not when adulthood around these parts means another two years of the embarrassingly awkward mundanity of being of teen, which includes this particular coming of age movie cliche rite of passage.
adam only sits in place, thumbs twiddling and switching between staring down at his shoelaces, his phone with a game broadcast on mute, and the chalkboard. being over six feet tall doesn’t leave a lot of leg room anywhere, let alone this tiny desk; add location and context, and it’s just discomfort on discomfort. the instructor goes on with their spiel and he gets enough bits and pieces to wince with the realization that they’re required to talk to their table mate. about what? well, he’s grabbing at straws for exactly what ‘cause he hadn’t been paying attention either.
“so...” adam trails off, head turning after tossing up do or don’t. it doesn’t help that a teacher’s first instincts to check if everyone’s on task is to hawk-eye and hover around the back row. clears his throat. pregnant pause. “consent! and stuff. that’s good.”












