Fuckbugs

Author's note: Apologies to my readers for the long hiatus! While this story is obviously fiction, I've had an important year in my real life as well.

*

My name is Emily. I'm a 33-year-old woman with an anxiety disorder.

About a year ago, I was briefly hospitalized after a nervous breakdown. In the process of recovering, I made some major life changes: I abruptly dumped my boyfriend of 6 years, quit my dead-end job, and moved back to NYC.

I also - finally - came out as bisexual. For the moment, I'm not interested in seeing men.

I'm tired of yearning for a different life. I'm done trying for a baby I don't want. My body is mine, and I'm making choices for myself now.

Once I moved to New York, I began re-establishing myself. My new job is going well, I've gotten a wonderful therapist, and I've been reconnecting with friends. Soon, I might be ready to start dating again.

Life is getting better every day.

But even still... late at night, there are moments when the old panic rushes back.

* * *

I cut my hair short a few weeks ago, and I'm still getting used to it. I tug at the ends absently.

"I'm almost done unpacking," I tell my coworker Lisa. "Exhausting weekend, though."

The two of us are sitting on hard stools in the office kitchen, eating lunch at a small table near the microwave.

"Honestly, I'm happy to help," she says. She's talking with a mouth full of crunchy salad. "We're like neighbors, remember?"

I smile. "Sure, I'll call you next time."

Lisa's a web developer, a skinny Asian woman with long hair. When I started at my new job, we became friends almost immediately. She's wearing a pink t-shirt and jeans. It's a casual office.

She swallows and takes another bite. "Also," she announces, chewing, "I'm inviting you over for dinner soon."

"You can cook?"

"Me? Of course not!" She grins. "That's what I married John for!"

We laugh, and I almost choke on my ham sandwich by accident.

I'm a technical writer. I dress conservatively, but lately I've been thinking about getting a tattoo. Today I'm wearing a white collared shirt, khaki slacks, and tennis shoes.

"You know," Lisa says, "I think we're actually free t-"

She cuts off abruptly, and her face tightens with pain.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

Lisa lurches to her feet, nearly knocking the stool over.

"Need the bathroom," she croaks. "Sorry."

She staggers out of the kitchen, clutching her lower belly. Probably indigestion, I think.

For the next ten minutes, I'm alone at the table. Lisa's half-eaten salad sits across from me. I finish my sandwich and read the news on my phone, and a few coworkers come and go.

When Lisa reappears in the kitchen, she looks sweaty. She's limping back to our table, and I notice that she's put a sweatshirt on.

"Everything all right?" I ask.

She sits down carefully, wincing as she settles onto the stool. "Guess I'm all right," she says. "We've got those bugs at our apartment, though. It's getting really bad."

"Bugs?" I ask. "Like roaches?"

"No, the..." She glances around the empty kitchen and drops to a whisper. "The 'f'-bugs."

"Fuckbugs?"

Lisa flinches, then slowly nods. She's normally very outspoken, but any hint of sex talk makes her uncomfortable. I think she's religious.

"I'm sorry, I thought you knew," she says. "Everybody in Queens is getting them."

I lean forward on my stool. "Well, I'm curious now. What are they?"

Lisa shrugs and looks away. "I guess they're similar to bedbugs," she says, "except they're attracted to a woman's... uh...."

She gestures to her crotch, avoiding eye contact.

"Seriously?" I can't help wrinkling my nose. "That's gross. They actually crawl up -?"

"They're harmless," Lisa says quickly. "Mostly harmless, anyway. The real problem is that..." She lowers her voice again. "Well, they mess up your cycle. And John and I are trying to start a family, you know..."

"Oh!" I sit back, surprised. "You're trying to get pregnant?"

I say this too loudly. Lisa shrinks back, embarrassed.

"I shouldn't talk about it in the office," she mumbles.

"Sorry, that was stupid of me -"

"It's fine." Lisa stands politely and packs up her salad. "Anyway, we should get back to work."

I nod. Despite my social blunder, I'm still burning with unasked questions. Why did 'fuckbugs' make Lisa run to the bathroom? What exactly did they do to a woman, anyway?

For the rest of the afternoon, I sit at my desk googling phrases like, "Fuckbugs apartments," "Fuckbugs Queens NYC," and "Bugs woman menstrual cycle infestation." You get the idea. I find a couple of ashamed, glancing references in personal blogs, but nothing with real information.

I waste so much time, in fact, that I end up working late in the office that night. It's dark when I finally get home, and I feel exhausted.

* * *

Lately I've been sleeping much better. I treat my anxiety with therapy and meds, and now I actually look forward to bedtime.

I simply think about my breathing, like I learned in mindfulness videos. I'm naked beneath my brand-new bedsheets, relaxing in total darkness.

Gradually, I become aware of my body. My feminine energy. As my thoughts fade slowly into dreams, it speaks to me.

My feminine energy, it seems, is mostly interested in sex. I've been so horny lately.

I masturbate every morning for at least a few minutes, like a ritual, but it's not the same as having sex. I haven't connected physically with anyone in nearly a year. I miss it.

It's more than just libido. There's a yearning emptiness inside me... an ache. I'm longing to be filled up inside.

I squirm in my sleep, eyes lightly closed. I get aroused easily nowadays.

My sensitive skin brushes against the cool bedsheets. My dreams pulsate with a wordless longing.

The curve of a woman's back... her plump lips...

And then - unmistakably - I feel a presence between my legs. Something is trying to penetrate me.

"Mmmm..." I groan in protest.

I start dreaming about my ex-boyfriend. He pins my shoulders down, forcing himself inside me. Despite my arousal, I don't want this. My body craves it, but -

Stop! I think silently.

Suddenly, the old terror is seizing me again.

Visions of his cock - his stabbing, poisonous cock - fill my brain. I'll get pregnant, I realize. Trapped with him. No escape forever.

My body is shaking. My heartbeat is erratic. My knees squeeze together painfully. It's the same panic that almost killed me a year ago.

And then, just as quickly as it arrived, the fear slips away. Something retreats down my leg, and it doesn't come back.

I sigh, relieved. My eyes are still closed. After a moment, I relax back into deeper sleep.

In the morning, when I'm washing down there in the shower... well, I find a small bug bite between my thighs. Everything else seems normal, though.

* * *

My friend Allie opens her apartment door. Her two small dogs, Jeffrey and Wilbur, both rush out to greet me.

"Oh my god!" Allie cries. "Emily, you cut your hair! You look great!"

"Thank you!" I laugh. The dogs are jumping all over me. Standing in the hallway, I'm trying to fend them off while I hug Allie.

I've brought a bottle of wine, and we order takeout. Allie and I have been friends for more than 10 years, although we briefly lost touch when I was living upstate.

Allie's life seems effortless. She's a graphic designer and musician - a first-generation Korean-American. She's a tiny woman, short and skinny, with hipster glasses and wrist tattoos. She looks young for 33. It's a warm night, and she's wearing a white cotton dress and socks.

I'm always shocked that she's single. I guess it's tough to be a straight woman in New York. Her apartment is modern and clean... although I notice a faint moldy odor that I can't quite place.

Allie and I sit on the couch and eat dinner together. The dogs climb across our laps, hoping for scraps. We're talking and laughing, catching up.

Eventually, I get to the question that's been on my mind since yesterday.

"So what's the bug situation in Queens?" I ask between bites. "Should I be worried?"

Allie shrugs. "I never see roaches in my apartment."

"My coworker told me about these... bugs. Fuckbugs, she called them."

She laughs. "Fuckbugs?" she asks. "Are you sure you heard that right?"

"Yeah. She said everyone in Queens is getting them." Briefly, I repeat everything that Lisa told me at work.

Allie keeps giggling. "That sounds like a weird porno movie, Emily!"

She reaches across the table and refills her glass of wine. I refill my own glass, too. "Yeah," I agree, blushing. "I know it sounds weird."

"I definitely do not have 'fuckbugs,'" she declares. "I've never even heard of them!"

"Good!" I smile with relief. "I thought I was going crazy for a while."

Soon, we change the subject.

"I don't know," I'm telling Allie. "My therapist says I'm not ready to start dating. I wouldn't even know where to look."

Allie isn't listening, though. She's stretching against the back of the couch, touching the sides of her chest.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Yeah, sorry." She lowers her voice, even though we're alone. "My boobs are really sore lately. I feel gross. My period's like a week late."

Allie looks a little bloated, I notice.

"There's no chance you're pregnant, is there?" I ask.

"That would require having sex." Allie laughs bitterly. "I haven't been with anybody since Dave!"

"Join the club." I smile. "I'm almost at the one-year mark."

"We should go on Tinder together." She closes her eyes, still massaging her breast. "I don't even want a relationship right now. I'm just..." She sighs with a low, gutteral sound. "I'm just dying to hook up again, you know?"

"Yeah," I say wistfully. "I know."

* * *

It seems like we've barely turned the TV on, and suddenly Allie is shaking my leg.

"Wake up," she says. "You're snoring!"

"Huh?" I open one eye. "Sorry."

I'm always falling asleep nowadays. I guess it's better than having chronic insomnia.

Allie and I are lying head-to-toe on the couch. Her feet, in white socks, are nearly touching my shoulder. Her white dress is bunched around her thighs - I could probably see her underwear if I looked down. We've been lounging around watching Netflix together, using her ex-boyfriend's password.

That odor I noticed earlier is a little stronger now. The apartment smells weird.

I blink heavily, yawning... and the next thing I know, my eyelids are drooping again. I wake up with my face pressed against Allie's throw pillow, slightly wet with drool. Sitting up, I wipe my chin with the back of my hand.

About an hour has passed. The dogs are curled up on the floor near the TV. Allie is snoring softly on the other end of the couch. Her eyes are closed behind her glasses, and her head rests on her shoulder.

I shake my head. We drank too much wine, I think.

All of a sudden, I notice movement. My eyes dart towards Allie's exposed thigh, only inches away from my own leg.

I see a bug. It's sickly white in color, almost invisible against Allie's pale skin. Its body is flat and circular, about the size of a dime, with a tiny head at the front. As I watch, it crawls slowly towards her crotch.

"Mmm..." Allie sighs in her sleep. I notice that her cheeks have gone pink.

She shifts slightly, still snoring, and her knees open up. I catch a glimpse of pink underwear beneath her dress. There are multiple bug bites - a dozen or more - along the insides of Allie's upper thighs.

Slowly, the insect crawls upwards. I wonder if I should kill it. The moldy smell in the apartment keeps getting stronger... and, honestly, it's making my head swim.

Allie moans again, squirming. She's obviously dreaming about sex. Watching her, I feel myself getting aroused as well.

Soon, the little bug reaches the edge of her underwear. With deliberate movements, it presses against the stitching of the fabric.

I should really kill it, I tell myself. But I simply hold my breath and watch.

Sighing with desire, Allie shifts her weight again. In a flash, the insect crawls inside her underwear.

"Ahh..."

It's easy to tell when the fuckbug enters Allie. Her body suddenly twitches, and her feet push against me. Her eyes squeeze tightly shut.

The sensation looks almost orgasmic, and I'm turned on just watching her. Allie's hips keep moving in her sleep - a subtle pushing up and down - as she breathes heavily. Her lips are parted, and her skin is warm.

Minutes pass. I continue staring at Allie's underwear, but the insect never returns. It's somewhere inside her, I think, and it's staying there.

Eventually, her sex dream seems to end. She relaxes into regular sleep again. The moldy odor in the apartment fades back to normal as well.

I get off the couch, careful not to wake her, and wash my face in the bathroom.

That was gross, I tell myself. Gross and weird. I can't help noticing that I'm still aroused, though.

It's nearly midnight. Before I leave, I write Allie a text: "Wow, looks like we both fell asleep! Wasn't sure whether to wake you, so I just headed out. Thanks for a good night - see you soon!"

I don't mention the fuckbug.

* * *

It's 1:30am that night, and I'm masturbating. I'm bottomless beneath my covers, face-down on my pillow, and grinding against my palm. I hold my breath and grunt, like I always do when I'm trying to cum.

I've never thought about Allie sexually before. She's attractive, but she's straight. She's always been a friend to me - nothing more.

Still, watching her squirm with arousal on the couch... with an insect on her bare thigh...

I gasp aloud. Images fill my mind: I'm penetrating Allie with my finger, feeling the squishy pink warmth inside of her. There's a small bug crawling beneath her underwear. She moans in her sleep, helpless with sexual pleasure.

Grunting, I push myself to a small climax and fall panting on my stomach. My heartbeat throbs across my body.

I'm feeling guilty already. Should've killed the bug, I think.

Instead, I let it crawl freely up Allie's thigh, drawn by her feminine scent. A fertile scent. Slick and hot with desire...

Within moments, I'm grinding against my palm again. I'm still horny.

It might be a long night, I realize.

* * *

The next day at lunch, I yawn between bites of my sandwich. I've got the same jeans as yesterday, with a wrinkled yellow blouse and sneakers.

Lisa smiles at me. "Busy night?"

I shake my head. "I saw my friend for a little while." Lowering my voice, I glance around the office kitchen and say, "She's definitely got them."

Lisa blushes and looks around as well. "The bugs?" she asks.

"Yeah. I actually saw one." We're leaning towards each other, almost whispering. "Little white thing, right?"

She nods, making a face. "John still hasn't seen one. He won't let me call the exterminator."

I lean back. "What do you mean, he won't 'let' you?"

"I told you, he hasn't seen one."

"Yeah, but you're not -"

I'm about to start a stupid argument, but suddenly my phone buzzes.

"I'm freaking out," Allie is texting me. "Sorry. I know you're at work."

Apologizing to Lisa, I grab my phone. "What's going on??" I write back.

"I'm having some kind of allergic reaction," Allie texts me. "Maybe hormonal. I'm really worried."

"Shit," I mumble to myself. Lisa gives me a curious look.

"Hormonal?" I write.

"Can't really describe it. Can you come over later?"

I have dinner plans for later, but I decide to cancel them. "I'll be there at 6," I write.

"Thank god. I'm such a mess right now."

"Just hang in there." I send a hug emoji, and she sends one back.

"Is everything okay?" Lisa asks when I look up.

"Just... friend drama."

"Ah." Lisa takes a bite of salad. "Hey, are you free tomorrow night? You need to come for dinner, remember?"

I take a deep breath and force a smile. "Sure!" I tell her. "What time?"

* * *

It's about 5:45 that evening.

As I enter Allie's apartment, the dogs are jumping all over me again. She waves me inside, tense with nervous energy, and we hug quickly.

"Thanks for coming," she says again. "I'm such a mess, I'm sorry..."

"Really - it's fine."

Allie looks miserable. Her short black hair is uncombed, her face is oily, and she's wearing a grey t-shirt and sweatpants. There are dirty dishes on the coffee table, and the air smells even moldier than yesterday.

We sit on the couch. Allie, flushed, is biting her lip anxiously.

"What's going on?" I ask carefully.

"It's really gross," she warns me. "But I just need to tell somebody."

"Go ahead."

Allie takes a deep breath. "I woke up with these awful cramps this morning, and I thought, 'Oh, okay - I'm finally getting my period.' But it felt different than usual. Heavier. I can't really describe it. And then, when I was using the bathroom... I had this terrible..."

She trails off, looking pained.

"This terrible what?" I ask.

Allie bends over on the couch, clutching her lower belly. "Shit - it's happening again," she gasps. "Fourth time today."

"What is it?" I ask. "What's happening?"

She grunts in agony, unable to speak, and her whole body doubles over.

I jump to my feet. "Allie?"

She's struggling to stand. "I- I should get to the bathroom -"

It's too late. Allie grunts with another stab of pain, and wetness spreads across her sweatpants. A peculiar, chemical odor fills the room.

"Oh my god!" I exclaim.

Allie falls back onto the couch. "Shit," she gasps through her gritted teeth. "Oh... shit..."

Her eyes are squeezed shut, and she's holding her midsection with both hands. Her body spasms, and she floods her pants again. There are wet, squelching sounds coming from between her legs.

White fluid drips in gobs from the edge of the couch. It's a thick, creamy substance like mayonnaise, and the cushions are soaked with it.

"What is that?" I ask.

She shakes her head, groaning. A third spasm wracks her body, along with a fresh gush of cream. She moans aloud, and a puddle begins to form on the hardwood floor beneath the couch.

Feeling helpless, I run to the kitchen for a roll of paper towels. I hear Allie crying out behind me, almost orgasmic with intensity.

Realistically, her convulsions only last about 10 seconds. By the time I return with the paper towels, Allie's pain is already dying down. She's bent over with her arms across her belly, squirming with occasional aftershocks.

"It's not pee," is the first thing she manages to gasp. She looks up at me. "I didn't pee my pants!"

I laugh out loud, relieved. "Thank god!" I cry, "That would be gross!"

Allie smiles weakly, still breathing hard. She's sitting in a puddle of cream, and her sweatpants are completely drenched. The chemical odor in the room is almost overwhelming.

"What just happened?" I ask.

She takes a deep, shaky breath. "No idea," she says. "I made it to the bathroom the other times. I had no idea there was so much... stuff!" She gestures to the wet mess surrounding her.

"Did you call your doctor?"

"Yeah." She shakes her head, frustrated. "He says it's just menstrual cramps and maybe a mild yeast infection, and I'm overreacting."

"What? Seriously?"

"I know," she sighs. "I made an appointment for next week, though."

Allie stands, looking wobbly, and I reach out to steady her. Her sweatpants are so heavy with cream that she needs to hold them up. Wilbur and Jeffrey, the two small dogs, are watching nervously from the corner.

Then, I notice something else. Allie's pokey nipples are visible through her t-shirt, and two wet spots are spreading from them.

My eyes go wide, and I point to her chest. "Allie, I think your boobs are leaking!"

She glances down. "Yeah. It's been happening all day." She massages the sides of her breasts, too exhausted to feel embarrassed. "At least I know why they felt weird all week."