Depo-Provera
I get a shot by my navel every three months. One day, a nurse asks: “Do you remember me?” I don’t want to know anyone at Planned Parenthood. I want light banter, and you’re all set. But this person—with a scar on her forehead and almond-shaped eyes—destroys the fantasy. Then I remember as she swabs the alcohol near my navel; I swapped blood with her once. We made a cut on our palms, shook them, and promised we’d always be friends. That was before I moved thousands of miles away, before years passed, before I came back. We catch up as she slides in the injection. She’s married, with kids. I’m married—without. A summary of leavings and goings in a few minutes. I apologize for not recognizing her, my once blood sister. I have a new phone number when I leave, and wonder who will reach out first, but I’m sure that the answer will be no one.
Pills
I know the theory but can’t complete the execution. Too many oops, I forgot again. Days will pass without taking them, and then I’ll proceed to gulp them up like prescription painkillers.
Condoms
IUD
I’ve never been pregnant or given birth, but I decide to try it anyway. Nurse Who Is Not My Blood Sister says being on my period for the insertion helps. It’ll hurt less, but it feels like it's swelling as it's pushed in, then the implant becomes a fishhook, my uterus trying to make space for the stab. Nope, she says. Too tight. Her gloves are splattered in blood. I think of sliced cherries. She tries one more time, and even though this is the opposite of giving birth, I make a note to ask a friend if the two feelings are related. My blood drips on the examination table. My vagina fails to relax and receive.
Withdrawal Method
Nexplanon
I didn’t know there would be anesthesia. I didn’t know there would be blood. I didn’t know my arm would bruise Rorschach. I didn’t know the army greens and deep blues would last so long. I didn’t know my husband would refuse to place a finger on the tiny bar that can be felt by touching my skin. I didn’t know how much this would upset me. I didn’t know I’d want to say: I sacrificed my time, and my health, and my arm, and all the symptoms that come with it, and you won’t even touch it. I wanted him to know how it felt. He did it, eventually, shivered when he touched, as if the bump on my skin punctured his muscle and not mine.
Outercourse
I think something is wrong with me because I can come with fingers, tongues, and rubbing but not with a shaft inside me. When I learn research studies have found that anywhere from 30% to 80% of women report that they cannot reach climax through penetrative sex, I feel less alone. My husband learns that I don’t need him inside me. That we can do without hormones and latex and punctures on my skin to avoid having children and still feel pleasure. He licks my areolas, works counterclockwise on my clit, pulls me toward him. And the best part is I don’t worry about percentages or if the condom is still on or about my period or lack of it or the thick lining of my uterus. I don’t worry and I come.
Victoria Buitron is a writer and translator with an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Fairfield University. Her work has been featured or is upcoming in SmokeLong en Español, Bending Genres, Lost Balloon, and other literary magazines. Her debut memoir-in-essays, A Body Across Two Hemispheres, is the 2021 Fairfield Book Prize winner. Twiiter & Instagram: vic_toriawrites
Photo by Klaus Nielsen from Pexels.