A lot of people grow up with a very specific image in mind when they imagine “the talk,” aka the first time they hear about sex from their parents. For me, it means something completely different-- a curse, actually, one that I can’t escape, one that I have no clue who bestowed it upon me except perhaps faulty genetics.Â
For me, “the talk,” is having to explain to yet another man my eternal, un-asked for dilemma: I can’t have penetrative sex. You see, I was born with congenital neuroproliferative vestibulodynia-- in layman’s terms, that means that from birth, I’ve had a constant overgrowth of nerve endings in the vestibule portion of my vagina. And while some people probably hear that and think, “Nice! Sounds like a great time!” It’s anything but. When the nervous system receives an overload of feedback, it can actually feel excruciating. The first time I described it to my mother as a 13 year old attempting to insert a tampon, I used words like, “knives,” “burning” “fire,” and “acid.” To make matters worse, I developed secondary vaginismus as a result of the pain; to fear pain means to guard via muscular intervention, and to guard means to be in further pain. Years of nortriptylene, gabapentin, lidocaine, cymbalta, physical therapy, biofeedback, and “miracle cure ointments” that I don’t know how to spell couldn’t save me. In September of 2020, I had something called a vestibulectomy, in which a surgeon removes the vulvar vestibule and advances the elastic tissue of the vagina to essentially replace bad tissue with good tissue. While the surgery was somewhat successful and I can now proudly wear tampons, I find myself faced with the same burden as before... I still can’t have sex. I’m not sure what happened, exactly. A lot of vagina-havers come out of the surgical process pain-free. Alas, witches or God or faulty genes don’t remove a curse that easily. Last night, I had to give the talk again-- this time to a guy I really hit it off with several weeks ago.
“I know this is a really weird mood killer... But like, I just need to spit it out in case this is like a dealbreaker, and I hope it’s not weird.”Â
“Oh come on, I doubt it, what is it?” He asked encouragingly.
(We had been really amping up the flirting the past several days. It was time.)
“So I have chronic pain.”
“Yeah.” And from there, I proceeded to tell him pretty much everything I just told you, except I did add in a spicy little, “There are other things I can do.” He listened quietly, giving an “uh huh,” and a nod every now and then. And yet, I could see it on his face-- the disappointment that I’ve become very familiar with throughout years of dating and being dumped or gradually un-touched. I’ll give him some slight credit; he tried masking it behind a, “I mean, that’s alright. Nobody’s perfect. We’re creative.”
I know he meant no harm by the “nobody’s perfect” line. He was trying to reassure me that maybe it was something that could be worked around. But as I laid in bed after our phone call, I couldn’t help but feel pretty burned by that comment. I’m fine just the way I am. I didn’t ask for this. This is not my fault. This is not a mistake I made and now must face consequences for. This is a weird fluke; the definition of “shit happens [in the womb].”Â
The thing is, I want to be loved for everything I am, not despite everything I am.Â
I guess I just have to keep looking for it.