What happens at girls' night...

Last night I had a girls’ night with some friends, which is always fun and entertaining. However, much like Las Vegas, what happens at girls’ night, stays at girls’ night.

Well, for the most part anyway…

A few weeks ago, over dinner with a couple of these friends, it was decided that at our upcoming girls’ night, I’d bring my dilator sets. They’d seen pictures of both sets, as well as the particular sizes I was working with, but it’s very hard to get the proper perspective from a picture on a phone.

As I was saying, over dinner with my friends the decision was made, so I packed everything up yesterday and headed to my friend’s house. Now, this isn’t something you just dive right into or whip out as soon as you walk through the door (see what I did there?), so there was no specific plan about doing some show-and-tell, with one exception. I wanted to be sure that my friend’s elementary-school-aged son had gone to bed. I’m pretty sure she didn’t want to have to explain to an 8-year-old kid exactly what the dilators were used for.

After a few hours of laughter and chit chat (and possibly a small amount of wine consumption), it was time. I mean, it took a full hour before the topic of breasts became part of the conversation (we all have them, so it wasn’t a stretch). Then another hour or so before penises came up (see what I did there again?). It figures that vaginas were the next logical topic of conversation. (What? You’ve never been part of a girls’ night?? Nothing is usually off limits.)

Now, it’s a strange thing to me to just pull the dilators out and start laying them on a table, but that’s what I did.

Not lined up on a table, but this time on a counter top. Going from left to right, sizes are 6.25 x 4.75, 5.25 x 4.25, 4.75 x 3.75 and 4 x 3.25. And smaller, of course. but I don't have those measurements.

My only request was to be careful with the pink set I have as one seems to be breaking a little and I still need to keep using it for a while yet. I knew the pink set would be of particular interest since that one vibrates. I realize people will instantly take a sexual connotation to that, but in truth, the vibration is extremely helpful in offsetting the pain of doing the stretching. It’s been helpful in knowing how the stretching with certain sizes is becoming easier when I’m able to dial down the vibration.

Some of the pink sizes match up to some of the white dilators, but some will also fall in between white sizes. It's been beneficial for me to have both sets to use.

I did a very basic explanation of the dilators and showed how the different sizes fit into the handles (because, pardon the need to be graphic, but if part of it goes inside, you still need part of it to be outside because…well, it should be obvious). Having apparently read my blogs before, they didn’t need an explanation of why I was using them or exactly how they work. Mind you, I never make an assumption that anyone has read my blogs, so it was nice that I didn’t have to go into a long spiel over what’s going on with me.

Bahahahahahahahaha Sorry. I have to laugh now that I’ve written that, because when do I have a problem with going into detail and telling people about my vaginismus? I’m just lucky that strangers on the street haven’t had to hear about this. I guess I’ve become passionate about educating people – in obviously very small ways – about this particular issue. Because, as I’ve said before, it matters. If I have to hear about erectile dysfunction nearly every time a commercial comes on the TV, then folks are going to get to hear about this.

Much discussion ensued about which sizes of dilators matched up most accurately with the average penis size. I found this rather educational myself, as I’ve seen a few penises in my time, but short of actually asking someone to do a size comparison, my knowledge might be somewhat lacking. When you have several women in a room together, you get better information.

In the end, the consensus of the women last night is that the size I’ve recently completed working with is, in fact, pretty darned near close to the average penis size.

Well. Good to know.

So, depending on who you ask, I guess my vagina is in good working order and ready to open for business! Woohoo! 

Bahahahahahahahaha Sorry. I had to write that. If you know me at all, then you know that’s not who I am or how I behave. No judgements on anyone else, but my little fling or series of hookups or whatever you want to call it with The Guy last year were an anomaly. That’s not my normal MO. I’m not into casual sex and to be honest, for me it wasn’t something casual. At least, not the decision to (attempt to) have sex with him. Oh, and let’s be clear here, dear readers. We may not have had penetrative vaginal sex, but we had sex. Even if he wanted to call it “non sex”. I was there. I know what we did. It was sex. I think folks need to really have a better understanding of just what that means.

Anyway, there you have it. Based on a committee of four, I’m in pretty good shape these days. I think some of them were slightly traumatized at the thought of anyone attempting to use the larger sized dilators, which are about 6 ¼ - 6 ½ inches long and 4 ¾ in diameter (in case you were wondering). I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, if I choose to cross that one at all. Cause, y’know, it looks a little painful to me. Just sayin’…

That’s a Long Haul for a Booty Call and Other Things That Can Change Your Life

A while back I was messaging with a friend and during the conversation we were discussing how The Guy and I didn’t live close together (which in situations such as mine can turn out to be a boon and tends to happen when you live in a decent-sized city), so on the occasions when I would go to his place, it was “a long haul for a booty call”. And let’s be real here. That’s what it was. We were hooking up, not having a relationship. I make zero apologies for that, by the way, so feel free not to judge. I had fun. I’m reasonably confident he had fun. No harm, no foul. I’m not claiming I’d repeat the scenario, but I also don’t regret it. That’s such fun, by the way. Being able to walk away at the end of something with no regrets. You should try it some time.

But back to my story…

Today was my last day of in-office physical therapy for vaginismus. In truth, we could have stopped a few weeks ago, but I’d had a bad run of at-home PT before an appointment and really wanted to make sure everything turned back around before calling a complete halt. I knew going in this morning that this would be the end, though. We’d discussed it a few weeks ago and I get the feeling that my physical therapist was waiting for me to bring it up. Not that she wouldn’t have eventually said, “I think we’ve gone as far as we can go”, but she did ask me after each appointment what I thought but it was never quite phrased as “Do you think you need to keep coming back?”

I’d say it was for the best to let me come around to this idea on my own. Just a couple of months ago I’m not sure I could have made that call. The idea of the end of PT freaked me out. Now, however, I’m mentally and physically in a good place, and I think that made all the difference. I’m doing PT on my own 2-3 times a week and working with various sized dilators, introducing larger ones slowly, but surely. Even when there is pain, I realize it’s not always going to be that way and I remember how far I’ve come in the past year. It’s all good. I’ve got this.

I remember in the beginning my therapist said she thought it would take about 8 weeks. Fast forward to today’s appointment and we are 363 days into our association. Hey, I never said I wasn’t uptight! Ha! Probably 6 months ago I was saying that if we were wishing each other a Merry Christmas then it was going to be worrisome, but as that date drew closer, I let that thought go. I started telling myself that however long it took that was just fine and then…I even started to believe it. Yep. I’ve got this.

So now allow me to circle the wagons back around to the beginning and how it’s a long haul for a booty call. Changing the meaning of that a skosh, I laughed – thankfully only in my head and not out loud so that everyone around me would think I was nuts – today when I was thinking about writing something with that title. I realized that, I suppose, it could also be interpreted that this past year has been quite a long haul for, well, y’know, to be able to have sex.

But it’s not about a “booty call” or a “hook up”. I have little-to-no interest in that kind of thing (my involvement with The Guy was a behavioral anomaly, albeit a fun one). This is a quality of life issue. If I’d had sex more recently than…well, I’m not telling you specifics on how long it had been before last year because some things I actually will not share with the masses, but suffice it to say that it would have helped if I’d been more sexually active in the past because then perhaps things would have been working right. Or I’d at least have realized that they weren’t. And it would have helped if any of my doctors over the years had questioned why a pap smear was so excruciatingly painful for me. But I wasn’t and they didn’t.

So yes, in the end, I suppose it’s been a long haul for a booty call. Good thing that’s not really what I’m ultimately interested in. I didn't expect this last year of my life to unfold the way that it did, but as I said earlier, I don't regret it. I've discovered a lot about myself. I'm stronger than I imagined. I have less of a filter than I always thought I did. I've let go of any particular fear about discussing pretty much anything with anyone. And I'm also pretty damned amazing. I think that last one is my favorite.

What a difference a year makes

“What a difference a year makes.” Such a simple yet complex statement. Something happens one day and it can change the course of your week, your year, your life. Every day things happen to us. We have experiences that shape who we are and who we will become. That happened to me last year. It’s been a year.

I realized the other day that it had been exactly one year since I’d discovered I had vaginismus. I didn’t have a name for it yet – that took a few more days, some time spent on Google, and then confirmation from the doctor – but there was a day in early March 2016 that I found out I had a problem. Looking back year later, I’m not sure how I feel about it all.

When I realized what day it was I wondered how I would feel. Would it matter? It’s not like it was an anniversary I wanted to celebrate. That day had not turned out as I’d planned at all. If it had, I might have been in favor of a celebration of some sort. Everybody knows how much I love cake. 😊

I paused a few times that day to take stock of how I was feeling. Was I upset or frustrated? Was I sad or was I feeling empowered by how far I’ve come in a year? Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe felt a combination of all those things. I could never get a clear reading on my emotions.

In late 2014 I’d started a personal journal after not having kept one in probably at least a couple of decades. Knowing I’d written about this, I pulled out the journal today and wanted to see what I’d been thinking and feeling in the immediate aftermath.

Huh. Aftermath. “Something that results or follows from an event, especially one of a disastrous or unfortunate nature; consequence.” That seems like such a strong word to use, but based on the definition, it’s also wildly appropriate. The aftermath of something that should have been so simple and natural and normal was anything but simple, natural or normal.

I don’t like looking back at how I felt late that night or how I felt the next day, because I felt horrible. I felt like a freak. Like something was so very wrong and I was never going to be able to fix it. When you don’t know what’s happening, all you have is fear. The unknown can be terrifying and since I had a partner who wasn’t interested in what was happening, well, that didn’t help. Maybe on some level he was as confused as I was. Maybe he was afraid in some way. Perhaps it was a shot to his manhood that no matter what he did – no matter what we did – there was no way my vagina was going to cooperate that night. I really don’t know what he was thinking or feeling as he was never interested in having any kind of conversation with me about this.

I get that on some level, but I also don’t. I remind myself that we were never particularly great friends, but more people who knew each other, though not well, for a long period of time and I thought we were friends. Had hoped we were. As I said to a friend today, it's easy to be kind and everyone deserves kindness, even if they don't know how to accept it or extend it to other people. He'll always get kindness from me, this friend of mine, even if he doesn't want it. I can be pushy like that.

Now a year has come and gone. I’ve started talking to people about something I never would have imagined I’d be talking about. I’ve gone through countless hours of physical therapy, some of which has been very painful and discouraging, but it’s better now. So much better that, if all goes as planned the next couple of days, when I go for my appointment on Tuesday I’m going to ask the physical therapist if I need to keep coming back. I’m not sure there’s anything more she can do for me. The rest is going to be up to me and I know I won’t stop. I won’t quit or give up. I’ll never stop until I’ve done all I can do to be healthy. It is, as my therapist, doctor, and counselor would all say, a quality of life issue. And I have found in the past year or so that I’m damned determined to have the best quality of life that I can. Because I deserve it.

“Doc, You’re Never Gonna Believe What Happened…”

Doc, You’re Never Gonna Believe What Happened…

That sounds like a great line from sitcom and, in fact, I think that it is. Or at least it’s a paraphrasing of a “Seinfeld” quote when Frank Costanza has a slight mishap with Fusilli Jerry and has to make a trip to the proctologist. My story isn’t quite like that, but…then again…

Believe it or not, I really don’t try to write posts that give folks a lot of visuals about exactly what goes on when I do my physical therapy. I can’t imagine that it’s something anyone wants to spend a lot of time thinking about. I certainly don’t. So please know that that is never my intent. If you want some visuals, think about cute puppies frolicking through a field chasing butterflies. Think about rainbows or a sunny day at the beach. Think about the Cubs winning the World Series. Think about Keanu Reeves shirtless…oh wait. That one’s primarily for me. Hey, whatever gets you through the day, right? ;)

So yeah, please don’t get what would be the very wrong opinion about why I write these blogs. It’s really another form of therapy for me and, as always, I hope that other folks can find humor in what makes me laugh. Even though it’s often times a wee bit twisted.

Such is today’s story…a wee bit twisted.

I believe I’ve previously described basically what this pelvic health physical therapy I do is all about. Since it is done to stretch the vaginal muscles, obviously something has to be inserted into the vagina and isn’t that what got us into this pickle in the first place? Trying to insert something into the (my) vagina? Why yes, I think it is. Oh, the humanity!

This video has nothing whatsoever to do with this blog post, but it always makes me laugh and contains Les saying, "Oh, the humanity!" So I choose to believe it's relevant.

Since this is, indeed, the case, that means…it means…ummm…yeah, lost my train of thought. Train just jumped the track and headed of somewhere. Woo! Woo! Clear the tracks! Shannon’s Brain Train has run amok!! Save yourselves! Dive for the ditches!! It’s really your only hope.

Ok. Now where was I? Oh yes. Physical therapy involves having to insert a dilator into the vagina to stretch the vaginal walls and I do this 3 times a week. Sometimes it’s in-office PT with my therapist, but mostly it’s something I do on my own. It’s not sexy, it’s not exciting, it’s not something that would turn anyone on. It’s boring, it’s painful (sometimes), and it’s really quite routine after nearly a year. It’s simply part of my life.

That being the case, sometimes…well…accidents happen. I’ve alreadychronicled the fun times that can be had with lube. Things get slippery. It happens. And sometimes things, well, they come part. Whoopsie.

The way that dilator sets are constructed is that you have a handle and then you have various attachments of increasing size that you attach to said handle. The purpose, obviously, being that as you achieve a certain point with one size and stretches then you graduate to a larger size and proceed to work on that level of stretching.

I have been fortunate recently to come to that nice place where, after times of struggle and frustration, the stretches have gotten easier. I’ll never claim it’s pleasant (and in fact it’s damned boring), but it’s always nice to hit the point where you know things are working. Even though I know that means soon enough it’ll be time to step up to the next size and the process will start again, this is a nice place to be for a while.

Except when the dilator comes apart when I’m doing a stretch. That’s right. It totally comes apart. This obviously means that one part is in my hand and the other part is in…well, we all know where it is. Don’t make me say it.

The first time that happened I was stunned. I thought – and possibly said out loud – “What just happened here?!” I couldn’t believe it had really come apart. Neither could my physical therapist when I told her about it. It never happens when she’s doing it and her stretches are a lot harder than the ones I am able to do. (She’s a professional. I’m an amateur. Coming at it from different angles. All that stuff.)

Now, it’s not like I’m worried that I can’t get it out. It’s coming out. The whole reason I’m in this situation is because it’s difficult to get things to go in. That means it’s not going in there to the point where it’ll never come out. It’s coming out. Trust me.

But when it comes apart it’s rather disconcerting, to put it mildly. After the first time that happened, I tried to be extra careful. Do a hard stretch, but not too hard. I’m not trying to break anything – me OR the dilator. Don’t turn it in a strange direction (and I have no idea what that might be, so I’m not going to think about it too much) that will cause things to detach.

It seemed to be working pretty well…until last night. Last night, a different dilator came apart while I was using it. For a split-second I was once again stunned and then I started to laugh. And I kept on laughing for quite a while. How could I not? I have no idea why this is happening! I was doing a hard stretch, but nothing so strenuous that it would cause things to come apart like that. It’s not like I’ve had the dilators for a long time either, so wear and tear isn’t an issue here (and it never really should be because these things are very sturdy and durable).  Maybe God or the universe, or whatever you want to subscribe to, decided I needed a good laugh because I certainly got one. I suspect that my physical therapist will get one too when I tell her about this tomorrow.

You know, I sure didn’t want this to happen to me. I just wanted to have sex. Seemed pretty simple and straightforward at the time. But you know what? If this had to happen to someone, I think I was probably a good choice. Because I’ll talk about it. Because I’ll try to educate people when I can. Because I can laugh about things. And because I’ll get this taken care of. I will not be embarrassed or ashamed or feel guilty. And the next time I try to have sex, it’ll work. Oh, it may take a little trial and error, but I’m pretty sure I’ll have good time trying. But it’s for damned sure I’m not going to be telling you about it! Some things I actually will keep to myself.

How to Freak Out Your Friends by Talking About Your Vagina

Can you freak our your friends by talking about your vagina? Oh yes, it’s totally possible to do that. I’m pretty sure I do it all the time, just by bringing up this subject, but you know what? That’s not going to stop me.

In case you haven’t realized it yet, I talk about my vagina a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Way too much, most likely, but this is apparently who I am now. Go figure. Every time I talk to someone and say I’m surprised at my willingness to be so open about something so personal, they look at me like I’m nuts and say they aren’t surprised in the least. I have no idea what that says about me, but…ok…I guess…

I’ve learned that talking about your vagina can really mess with people's heads. Most people (and rightly so, I’d imagine) don’t talk openly about truly private things and if a vagina isn’t a private thing, I don’t really know what is. I understand why that is, but also understand why it’s not that way for me anymore.

I am fortunate, however, to have a couple of friends in my life right now who allow me to talk about my vagina all the time. Actually, I have a lot of friends who seem to roll with it when I talk about all this kind of stuff, but two in particular seem to handle the conversation pretty well. Or maybe they’re just faking it. That’s always possible as I’m also quite confident that they would welcome other topics of conversation that do not include my vagina (yes, at this point I’m actually trying to see how many times I can mention the word “vagina” in this post). And one of them definitely does not like to say the word vagina, so maybe I’m onto something there.

For our purposes here, I’ll refer to these friends as “The Girls”. Ordinarily I’d refer to my breasts as “The Girls” or “The Twins”, but I know some twins and that would be awkward. So I’ve decided to change things up and call my breasts Eva and Zsa Zsa instead. It feels right. It also makes it sound less strange if someone asks what my weekend plans are I say, “Oh, nothing much. Just hanging out with Eva and Zsa Zsa.”

Back to the original topic of this post which is that it is often quite easy to freak out your friends by talking about your vagina. Now, it’s not necessarily that they can’t talk about the fact that I have one or that it is presently dysfunctional, but it sometimes upsets The Girls that I have this problem. The Gal (as she has asked to be called), in particular, struggles with knowing that I often times have to deliberately do something that causes me pain. Because that’s what happens frequently with my physical therapy – I am causing myself pain. Unfortunately, much like Shelby Eatonton having to have 9 bridesmaids in Steel Magnolias, there is no way around that.

Sometimes, physical therapy just hurts. But you know what? It doesn’t always hurt and it will get better.

A year ago I couldn’t have imagined certain size dilators would not be excruciatingly painful and yet now they are not. For a while there, I couldn’t get my mind to wrap around that. I was frustrated and angry and upset and that didn’t help things. My body would play off the messages my mind was sending and make the experience worse. Once, it hurt so bad I cried for a long time afterwards. It felt like I’d never make any progress.

But you know what? I did. One day things just got better. It really was as simple as that. Something that hurt one day and drove me to tears, suddenly became easier and the pain went away. I try to keep that in mind when something does hurt because I know that one day it won’t. When I allow my mind to relax, my body will follow suit and things work out so much better.

One particular detail that bothers The Gal is that sometimes I bleed. Yes indeed, sometimes there is blood. So far it’s only happened twice and it can certainly be disconcerting (which is nicer than saying the first time it kind of freaked me out), but that also goes away. I am not sure why it happens, but I’ve discussed it with my physical therapist in the past and I think it’s really a matter of hitting a tender spot when doing a stretch and/or making a small tear in the vaginal wall. And let’s be real here. I’m putting a large, hard foreign object into my vagina, which we’ve previously established is a bit of a hostile environment these days. And once inserted, I’m stretching the vaginal walls which have proven that they aren’t very flexible to begin with, which logically means there will be pain. Possibly even blood. (Side note: I find it perversely funny that I am a freakishly flexible human being in basically every part of my body except for my vagina.)

The bleeding happened for the second time a few nights ago and I’ll be bringing it up in my next PT session to keep her in the loop. I wasn’t expecting it because I felt like that session went really well and the pain was less intense than it usually is. Then…blood. I don’t want to make light of that nor do I want to make it sound like a bigger issue than it was. It was truly minor and did stop soon enough. Heck, the paper cut I got today hurt more than that did, but it’s more about the mystery of why it happens and how to prevent it in the future if possible.

Telling your friends things like this will, doubtless, mess with their heads. I don’t know how it couldn’t. Even the most supportive friends, like The Girls, are surely to be squeamish about those kinds of things. What I find so strange is that I am not. I don’t think I ever have been. From the moment I realized I had to take control and find out what was wrong, I’ve never looked back. Once my mental health counselor suggested maybe I take a break from physical therapy if I felt like it was taking a physical toll on me and I looked at her like she was insane. I’m not going to stop. I’m not going to let things regress. I’m only moving forward. There is no other option.

So to recap our story today kids, sometimes simply saying the world “vagina” (that makes 12 times in the word count game) will freak out your friends. Then if you talk about having to stick foreign objects inside it or having it start to bleed from said objects, well, you’re pushing it. Push it real good. bahahahaaha I crack myself up.

But my hope is that anyone dealing with a situation like vaginismus has friends who can handle these discussions. Those who will be supportive and lift you up…like my Girls. Oh, there’s another boob joke for you right there.

It’s a Vaginismus Miracle!

True confessions: I stole that title. “A Vaginismus Miracle” is the title of an episode of the Netflix comedy series Lady Dynamite starring comedian Maria Bamford. Episode 8, I think. This is not something I would have found on my own, but oddly enough, The Guy told me about it.

Now, allow me to backtrack a minute because in Shannonland, you can’t tell a story without telling at least 2 stories that lead up to the main event. It’s how I roll.

As I said, The Guy is the one who told me about this show.  I remember being in his house one afternoon, sitting on the couch, talking. Well, I was forcing some conversation. Hey, if you want to touch my boobs, you have to talk to me afterwards. It's the price you pay. 

From the look on his face, our conversation was literally painful for The Guy. Physically and likely mentally, too. Seriously. He was very much “Why in God’s name do we have to talk about this??” and said that he did not understand why someone would talk about this kind of thing. I assume that by “this kind of thing” he meant sex in general. I would argue, of course, that if more folks talked about it then there might be less problems like mine in the world. Just a thought…

Anyhoo, I initiated this particular conversation because it was important to me that he knew that what was happening with my body wasn't his fault. That it was nothing he did or didn’t do. That he couldn't have changed things. (Or could he? Perhaps if his attitude and demeanor had been different then things could have worked differently, but we'll never know. And the two times we actually did attempt to have sex, we hadn’t really had any kind of conversation about what was happening with me because, y’know…naked. Oh, sometimes naked just happens. Not that I’m complaining.) 

During this conversation, he asked me if I had Netflix or access to an account. I said yes, so he told me to find Lady Dynamite and watch Episode 8. I asked why, but all he'd say was that I'd understand when I watched. I said I'd try to watch soon and he said, “No, go home and watch tonight.” Um…ok. Guess he really wanted me to watch. 

Since it seemed to actually matter to him, I did find it on YouTube and watch the next morning. While I don’t care for the comedian or the show particularly (from what I’ve read, she’s very much an acquired taste), it was interesting to see this topic sorta/kinda addressed there. (This posted was edited to remove the video of the show because YouTube had to remove it.)

The show talked about how the day of “Vaginismus” came around once a year as the day that Maria (comedian and main character) needed to have sex in order to keep everything working right “down there”. So while it got the word out to people – literally, the word “vaginismus” – it didn’t exactly tell folks what the disorder is, but I’ll bet it had people Googling to find out if it was something real and by that happening, people were educated. I found a recap show on YouTube about this episode and they actually discussed how the host had thought it was a made-up word until he looked it up and found out it was a real disorder.

Lady Dynamite is about someone dealing with mental illness (bi-polar disorder) and let me be honest here, vaginismus is a mental disorder. It’s a physical one too, but my OBGYN likes to say that “it’s at least 90% mental”. I tend to disagree with that percentage simply because if so much of it is mental, I should be in a better place physically now because my mental state is SO much better than it was a year ago when all this came to light. I think for some people it can be mostly mental, but I’ll always argue that it’s also very much physical as well. And, of course, everyone and every body is going to be different. For a lot of people, it’s about upbringing and how sex was – or wasn’t – discussed in the home and if they were taught that sex was something bad or secretive, then it may have precipitated a problem like this. And that’s a subject for another post on another day. I’m always seeing squirrels and getting off track.

My mental health counselor has said in the past that she believes my body was reacting to my subconscious mind knowing that The Guy was the wrong person for me to be having sex with. That my body shut it all down because deep in my mind, I knew he wasn’t someone I should be with. Hmmmm…interesting idea, I suppose, but I can say unequivocally that I wanted to be with that man, doing what we were doing (or trying to do) and wasn’t nervous about that at all. Heck, I was naked before I even really realized my clothes were coming off and I did not care. DID. NOT. CARE. Well, not in a negative way, at least. Ha! I was all “Yes, please! Let’s get naked!” But it’s certainly nice to care on some level if you’re naked with someone or maybe you shouldn’t be naked with them to begin with. Just sayin’…

That said, I can at least partially buy into the notion that my mind was causing my body to react the way it did due to knowing it wasn’t the right person. My MO is definitely not to be casual about sex and while this was a casual situation, it’s safe to say that I didn’t feel overly casual about it. Oh, it was a bit of a speedy decision to get together, from discussion to decision to actual connection in a matter of maybe 4 hours or less, but we’d been working up to that for a while. I suppose he was “grooming” me, for lack of better wording. Working me around to the place where I’d decide I wanted to have sex with him, rather than making it seem like he was pushing me towards it. He never pushed. He never pulled. Not overtly, anyway and I am well past the age of doing anything that I don’t want to do. That’s why the mental aspect has been a harder thing for me grasp because my mind was a-ok with what was going on, but my body…not so much.

There are too many thoughts to keep going in this post since the original point was about the episode of this TV show. While not totally on point about vaginismus, the big takeaway for me from this was that The Guy was actually paying attention. No, he could not talk to me about the problem. He’d made a few comments when we were together at times, but wouldn’t discuss it when I tried, so I had sent him some very simple information about what was going on, not knowing if he’d really read my messages or not. Telling me about this let me know that he actually had paid attention. Oh, I don’t imagine he sat around giving it a lot of thought overall, but he heard me, even against his will, so to speak. No, that doesn’t make him a hero, but I’ll give him a few points for that. I always say that if talking about this educates just one person, then it’s worth putting my life on display and he verified to me that he was paying attention. Even if only a little bit. I can live with that. I sure hope he can, too.

Slip Sliding Away, a humorous tale of personal lubrication

“All I remember is sitting up on the table thinking, ‘Oh my God! There’s lube everywhere!’”

And thus we begin our heroine’s (um...that would be me) descent into madness. Or, well, at least the descent into the battle with too much lube. *sigh* It happens.

Lube. Personal lubricant. KY Jelly. Astroglide. Slippery Stuff (my personal preference). You know what I’m talking about. Don’t make me keep naming names.

I want to write something funny. I keep thinking that I will and then I back off, not wanting to say something considered too inappropriate. Or I worry that what I think is funny simply won’t translate as such to other people. One thing, however, that really should be universally humorous is the wacky hijinks that happen during physical therapy as related to lube.

If you think about it, it’s easy to see that the use of lube would be a huge component of pelvic floor physical therapy. As much lubrication of the vaginal canal as you can manage is going to help with inserting a dilator or a penis. That may not solve all the problems, but it certainly helps and I can personally attest to this.

Whenever I’m in physical therapy, it seems like something funny happens with the lube. My therapist talks all the time about the copious amounts she uses on each patient. I’d never really thought about it because I don’t pay that much attention to how much she uses. I’m more focused on if there is pain during a stretch or, better yet, when there is not.

One day, however, we had finished my session and the therapist had left the room so I could get dressed. As I sat up on the table to get cleaned up, my first thought was "Oh my God! There’s lube EVERYWHERE!!" I mean, seriously. It seemed like it was everywhere – on me, on the sheet covering the table…all over the place. Now, I’m fine with using more rather than less because I don’t want pain, but this seemed perhaps a wee bit excessive.

Of course, normal people don’t go around telling people this kind of thing, but then, I’ve never been normal. It’s part of my charm. As much as I thought that would be a freakishly good social media status update, I managed to refrain and simply told a few friends about it. Thankfully, they laughed, but then, they also know I’m nuts. It helps to remember that.

Another morning the PT was putting lube onto the dilator – covered in a condom, as mentioned in a previous post, because we do like to practice safe sex – when suddenly a large blob fell right onto the floor. The look on her face was priceless! Her mouth fell open, her eyes went wide as saucers, and she stared in shock. I, of course, was of no help since I was laying on the table, naked from the waist down and covered in a sheet...laughing like a hyena.  

Recently the office changed the brand of condom they use (I have no idea which kind was used now or before) and the PT commented that sometimes the lube simply slides right off. Well, yes. Yes, it does. Onto the floor. Onto me. Probably onto her shoe now and then, but I haven’t witnessed that. Yet.

A week or so ago she was once again lubing up the dilator at the start of our session, using this bottle of Slippery Stuff with a pump (like a lotion bottle). As she got just about the right amount that she wants on there, a big blob slid right off and onto my sheet-covered stomach. She looked more horrified and it was more comical than the first time she dropped some on the floor. And I'm just lying on the table laughing at her because her expression was too damned funny. I wish I'd had a camera.

It may not make it funnier, but my physical therapist is 26-years-old and a reasonably petite blonde. She’s kind of perky, but I don’t mean that in a mean-spirited way at all. She has the perfect personality for the work she does and we get along like gangbusters. But half of the funny in all this is how she reacts when she drops something or the condom shoots across the room. It’s comedic horror at its finest. Twice condoms have shot across the room while she was putting them on the dilator. Really people, you can’t make this stuff up.

Sometimes it’s just hard to stop the laughter…thank God!! If I had to go through all this straight-faced and uptight (And hellloooo! Being so damned uptight is part of what got me into this mess to begin with I am sure.) I’d never make it.

On a more serious note, I have the sneaking suspicious that most folks don’t use enough lube even if the woman doesn’t have this kind of problem. I can only imagine it would make things better for everyone if they did. There’s my unsolicited tip for today.

The recommendations from my therapy office are for water-based personal lubricants, like Slippery Stuff (which is what they use and what I use and can be purchased from Amazon.com as I haven’t seen it in my local stores) or Astroglide. My PT isn’t big on KY.

I’m sure I’ll have more humorous lube stories in the future. It’s just something that seems to lend itself to funny things happening. Although I’m really surprised I haven’t had any twisted, awkward dreams revolving around personal lubrication. It seems like that would have been a given.

Now if someone could tell me how I managed to nearly put my underwear on inside out one day after physical therapy, that would be great. It’s not the first time I’ve put on my underwear. You’d think I’d know by now how it’s done.