#pelvic floor dysfunction

Sex has always been a sore spot for me because, physically speaking, I’ve had to deal with searing, burning pain during intercourse for years.

Gynecologists couldn’t tell me what it was. They called me overly anxious (which wasn’t untrue, but also irrelevant for my case), severely stressed, and “afraid of sex”. When I explained that I wanted to have it—mentally—but that my body couldn’t handle it, they referred me to a psychologist to explore my supposed “fear of sex.”

But so many things didn’t make sense. I wasn’t afraid of gynecologists, I was actually very accommodating, cooperative—I was the first one wanting to find the root of the problem. I wasn’t scared of being touched. And ultimately… I just wasn’t afraid of sex. In fact, I liked the idea of sex. I was envious of people who could have it without feeling like their lower half was catching fire—because that’s how it felt to me.

That was my diagnosis: fear of sex.

Every time the doctors asked what I felt during intercourse, I said, “It burns, like someone’s inserting a scorching metal rod inside me. It scratches like continuously rubbing velcro on skin". I had physical signs too—internal abrasions, cuts, bleeding. My tests all came back negative, and so they never investigated further. They pegged it all to my “sex phobia".

From then on, my sex drive plummeted to the pits of hell. I wasn’t attracted to it anymore—I only associated it with pain. And with pain, there was no orgasm, no fulfillment, no intimacy. It was torture. That was it.

I was lost, fighting alone, talking to wall after wall because no one was listening—until I stopped searching for answers and reluctantly decided to make peace with my condition.

And then, just when I was about to accept that sex would never feel good to me, I had a random gynecological visit with a random doctor in my hometown. He didn’t like what I’d been told. He didn’t like the shallow diagnosis. So he—and his trusted obstetrician (I adored her and still do)—decided to dig deeper.

And the first thing they told me was:

“Never believe that sex should be painful. Never think, 'Because I used it [my vagina], it’s okay if there’s pain'. Sex should not be painful. There can be discomfort, but never pain.”

It was never fear, it was physical pain. It was never anxiety, it was a physical impediment. I was never scared, I was never anxious or stressed—I was in pain.

After two years of increasingly distressing and invasive physiotherapy, antidepressants, neuropathy treatments, myorelaxants, supplements, and so fucking on—I found out what sex should feel like.

And I liked it. Fucking hell, I loved it.

I loved having it. I loved talking about it. I loved discussing it with friends. I loved studying it—because look at me now, working to help people with their reproductive health.

And I found it even more liberating to fantasize about it, about all the stuff I could try now that it didn’t hurt anymore. How to turn those feelings around and make them good. I was excited. I was ecstatic.

But the societal shame of being AFAB with a high sex drive knocked early. It was terrifyingly easy to go from “I’m ashamed of not liking sex” to “I’m ashamed of liking sex too much”.

The psychological journey toward making peace with this different kind of shame has been long, but I think I’m almost there. There’s still work to do, and I’m not ready to yell it from the rooftops just yet—but I know I’m close, because things are changing. I see it. I feel it.

To write smut, for me—and forgive the dramatics—is healing. I love writing it. I love nitpicking every emotion people go through while they’re at it. I love exploring the mental gymnastics, the physical exchanges, the psychology behind it.

It’s me discovering things I never felt, things I might feel someday.

And it’s me telling the reader what I’ve finally—finally—managed to experience.

I’m still wary of pain—both reading and writing about it. But maybe that’s the turning point, no? My mind still reels from it, my body remembers it. But maybe when I can face it… that’s when I’ll know I’ve made peace with it.

Not there yet. But seeing how far I’ve come makes me hopeful.

I’m sorry if you stumbled upon my blog expecting fluff and ended up in a smut-hole.

I’m sorry if you’re not comfortable here, but I am, and ultimately that’s what matters to me.

I’m sure there are wonderful writers out there who’ll wrap their readers in fluffy blankets and warm 'em up with a hot chocolate of romance. And if you can't find those writers, become one. Lord knows starting to write what I wanted to read has laid the foundation of my journey.

However, I’m here to tell feelings through sex, because I’m thrilled to finally understand them.

Heartbreak and how sensual touches change into languid brushes or desperate hands because of it. Jealousy and its covetousness, how caresses become clutches and kisses become bites. Hate and how it can tangle with attraction, that confusing cocktail of disdain and perfect pleasure.

Love, and how it can be fun and kind and good and reverent, clumsy and personal at times, but also rough and biting during others, when both parties agree. That, too, is healing.

And so, so much more. I can’t wait to explore it all. Read it all. Write it all, and live through it all, too!

This blog is my safe space—and I hope it’s someone else’s too.

I hope my sex anthologies, my sexy one shots, my weird-kinks-I’m-still-not-sure-about and my very-much-established-kinks-I’m-very-sure-about, and my sappy love stories can be our own version of a fluffy blanket and hot chocolate.

Being horny is not a crime. Wanting to have sex doesn’t make you an uncontrollable monster. Writing characters who experience desire (especially if that desire mirrors your own) does not turn them into wild, animalistic caricatures. It doesn’t make them shameful, and it doesn’t make you shameful either. 

And please remember: dyspareunia (painful intercourse) is not normal. Pain during sex can be a consensual choice (to each their own preference!), but it should never be forced, unexplained, or accepted as your baseline. It should never be your "normal" or something you're told to "live with"!

If you think you're experiencing it, please find the courage to contact your gynecologist about it.

Your body is entitled to feel good—you are entitled to feel good.

And you deserve to feel safe, cared for, and understood.