You’re not ugly. She was still looking at the photo when the words made impact, her eyes snapping back to Beatrice’s, suddenly remembering what about eye contact scared her this much. Snorting at what might have sounded like a well-deserved dig her drunk mind told her she was reading too much into, because again, it was funny. And well-deserved, alright. “Sometimes”, she admitted. “Most times they gotta pay something, but yeah. For free too, sometimes.” Sparkling personality or not, all it took was someone being insistent enough, sad enough, desperate enough. Sasha’s boundaries were made of wet paper and she was good at exactly one way of comforting. Born a people pleaser and that translated in the bedroom, matching her non-existent standards and complete disregard for her own squicks. All anyone had to do was make an argument, no matter how weak, stupid or illogical. She didn’t see the wrong in it, but having to admit all that to this new dive bar encounter sure made her see the stupid.
Nodding along to the thought of Planned Parenthood that seemed the smart option all things considered, hell, even lifting her own glass in salute to down the contents in tandem with Beatrice, Sasha was still trying to find some comfort to offer. “Most women don’t even know when they catch the clap”, she said in the end. “It don’t even hurt. They just gonna give you some Avelox and it’s gonna be like you never got it.” To her it had been the opposite, it was gonorrhea that did her in and chlamydia she thought was yet another UTI, but she’d heard the poem plenty of times, both from colleagues and Planned Parenthood docs. The clap was the easy one. “There’s one two blocks down from here, next to Walmart. The doc there is real nice. Always lets you take extra free condoms and tampons than their normal.” There, a rec.
For a moment, Beatrice looked cross. Almost disappointed, even, her frown so tight-lipped that she kind of resembled a grimacing Muppet whose felt face was on the brink of turning inside out on itself. “That’s stupid,” she told Sasha, as if it wasn’t obvious that she felt that way -- as if Sasha could only be sleeping with ugly dudes because she hadn’t yet realized the drawbacks. No dick was that good, according to Beatrice. With liquor steadily pumping through her system, though, she couldn’t bring herself to argue too hard, self-made pity party weighing her down enough to deflate where she sat. “What do I know, though,” she muttered rhetorically, no genuine question intended. “Hot guys are huge fuckwads, too, apparently. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, or whatever.” A weak raspberry was sputtered from her lips and she twisted her empty tumbler around on the bar, just to keep her hands busy.
“Hm, it’s that simple?” she asked with a glance over at the other, head bobbing while she slowly absorbed the helpful STI information. “No follow-ups or anything, just the round of meds?” Odds were that she wouldn’t remember the finer details of this conversation tomorrow afternoon when she finally headed out to Planned Parenthood, but she still appreciated the advice. Beatrice didn’t think she had the guts to ask anyone that she actually knew-knew for help with this. It’d be mortifying enough just to explain why Damien wasn’t with her at the next big group function she had to go out to. The internet was always there to consult, too, but she doubted that any amount of Googling or a post made on Reddit from a throwaway account would get her such insider information like which clinic location was best. “Thanks,” she started to say, genuinely meaning it, too. “Thank you. For the advice and just, like... yeah, for listening. I’m a primo bitcher, I know.” Long digits stilled and no longer tipped the glass back and forth, simply resting without threatening to squeeze until it cracked under her grip, either. “I’ll try that place out, too, see if I can get everything sorted.”
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