“You have arrived at your destination.”

This wasn’t a clinic. It was a fucking house at the end of a rural county road. What the hell kind of physician was this?! In the back of my mind, I remembered the appointment confirmation notes from the email I was sent - “Don’t be put off by the house. Pull up the drive, clinic will be to the right.” Sure enough, as I pull into the drive and start to creep the car up the single lane leading up to the house, a small white building appears to the right just beyond the rise of a small hill. But seriously, what the fuck kind of clinic is this?!

I pull up out front of the clinic - “CLINIC” posted in large, black, block letters above a blue doorway. Only one place to park. Something is off about this, but I can’t figure out what yet other than the fact that this doctor apparently works from his home? I don’t understand. The doctor had glowing reviews online from his patients. Was recommended by my own primary care physician for assessing, testing and treating sexual dysfunction. Where the fuck am I?!

I park the car, and gather up my courage to go into this “clinic”. The door is unlocked and I let myself in. It looks clinical enough, I guess. There's a desk with a computer, some medical diagrams posted on the wall, a line of university degrees and certifications framed and hanging behind the desk, anatomical models of the female reproductive system on a couple of side tables in corners of the room. Seems normal enough, I guess.

I ring the bell on the desk and have a seat in the only available chair - as directed by a sign on the desk. I look around the room curiously. There are photos everywhere. I focus on one, only to get uncomfortable and move on to the next, and the next, and the next. They're all clinical. All gynecological. Nothing explicit - but maybe I'm choosing to ignore those - picture after picture after picture of medical tables, tools, women draped on tables, standing smiling in billowing pastel colored gowns, practically posing with their legs in stirrups - silly facial expressions or making silly or lewd gestures with their hands. Where the fuck am I?!?

“Hannah!” I practically jump out of my seat at the sound of my name. The doctor comes to greet me. He's tall, older but not OLD - again, I question to myself why he's working out of some at home clinic versus an actual hospital or medical establishment. He reaches out to shake my hand and I feel like it dwarfs my own - his grip is firm and strong. I feel myself flush with warmth as I realize what I'm here to be seen for and where those hands are likely to be before too long. I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

He sits opposite the desk from me and rapidly types something into the computer. Makes a couple of thoughtful noises and assess me carefully without saying a word.

“What do you hope to get from your appointment today, Hannah?” he asks with little preamble.

“Um… I don't know?” I squeak. What DO I hope to get out of it? I'm so frustrated with my sex life and feel broken but how to explain that to an actual medical professional?! Assuming this guy is a professional… The degrees seem to indicate as much, but the location…

“Your doctor just noted “sexual dysfunction” but you're going to have to be more clear for me. Sexual dysfunction can cover an exceptionally broad range of issues from pain and discomfort during sex, inability to reach climax, a preference - or aversion - to certain sexual acts… and much more beyond that.”

Ok, perfectly legitimate reasoning. I clear my throat, “I can't orgasm anymore. It was never an issue a few years ago, but now I just can't… I just can't.”

“Arousal?” he asks.

I shrug, “Not really.”

“You're a bit young to be experiencing perimenopause but it's possible. I can run some tests, assuming your doctor hasn't already,” he types a mile a minute into his keyboard, “Chances are your body just needs a different kind of stimuli these days… I'm going to ask you some personal questions about your sexual activities…”

To be expected, I guess… I look around nervously and my eyes catch on a particularly explicit photograph of a woman laying covered - legs splayed out wide in stirrups on an exam table. I swallow hard.

“How old were you when you first experienced an orgasm?”

Oh god, I don't know… “Thirteen maybe?”

“First time you engaged in sexual activities?”

“Sex or…”

“Any kind of sexual contact with another individual.”

“I don't know, sixteen I think?”

“Male or female partners?”

“Male. Mostly. A couple girls in college.”

“Current sexual frequency?”

“Currently?” I blush. “Not really any?”

More rapid typing.

“Are you in a relationship?”

“In between,” I respond looking down at my lap. “It's complicated.”

“Last time you had sex?”

“Uh…” I start mentally counting back the months, “six months maybe?”

More rapid typing.

“Last time you achieved an orgasm?”

Oh god. I can't even answer. I just shrug and the doctor just keeps on typing.

“Do you masturbate? How do you do it, if so?”

Oh god. I feel myself flush red again. “My fingers? I dunno. I have some vibrators but they don't really do much for me…”

“Probably using the wrong kind,” the doctor says in a bit of an offhand tone and continues typing.

Abruptly, he stands up and nods to me to do the same.

“Ok! You can come on back and we can get started,” he announces, “some of my methods can be a bit strange and unorthodox but I assure you that I have your best interests and good health in mind, Hannah…”