We’re more sex positive than ever. But we still haven’t erased some fundamental truths: Women’s bodies are still policed, sex education is still lacking, and talking about sex still carries a stigma. It’s created a whisper network around sex and made the very mention of the words female pleasure enough to make you blush. So this week we're discussing good sex and why it matters. Our mantra? Owning your sexual pleasure is power.
The first doctor told me to lose weight. “Losing weight will make sex less painful?” I asked, confused. She flashed a wide smile at me. “You’d be amazed at the health benefits of a lower body mass.” She handed me pamphlets about nutrition and exercise and wished me good luck.
I had my doubts. Since my midtwenties I had experienced an increasing amount of pain during sex. At 31, it was becoming unbearable, and I was ready to get some medical help. I had given up on my own pleasure. Losing weight wasn’t what I was expecting to hear.
The second doctor was convinced that I needed lubricant and foreplay. I couldn’t tell whether she was trying to wink at me or she had twitchy eye. “Have you tried watching erotic videos?” she suggested. She patted my leg, “Don’t worry, this is an issue for a lot of women. You are not alone in needing to figure out what you like and what you need to have an orgasm.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I had been figuring out what I like for the better part of a decade: romps through Rome in my early twenties, discovering my bisexuality at my mostly all-women’s college, post-sobriety sexual exploration with two serious partners. But with one partner, sex ended in one of two ways: I was honest and told him it hurt, or I pretended it didn't and prayed he orgasmed quickly. While sex had never been our biggest strength in the relationship, it had deteriorated considerably recently.
“But,” I tried to clarify with her, “I feel like I am plenty lubricated when I’m having sex; it just starts to hurt a few minutes in and I have to stop.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Do you do Kegels regularly?” She gave me a sympathetic smile. “You are getting to be the age where regular vaginal exercise can help strengthen your pelvic floor.”
At first, my partner and I argued about our sex life. We were, quite literally, out of rhythm. I would speed up, hips pressed up to meet his body, and he would pull back, trying to hold off an early climax. I would slow down, grinding with purpose to find the sweet spot and he would thrust in earnest. Sex required a great deal of effort; it was work but we were invested in figuring out a solution. Until the pain increased and I began to flinch at the thought of him inside of me, of anyone inside of me. Then we stopped fighting about it. We avoided discussing sex, looked away when we watched a movie that had a steamy scene. He started sleeping on the couch. I don’t know which one was worse, the conflict or the resignation.
After two doctors I went to a local herb and natural remedy store at the suggestion of a friend and had, discreetly, explained my situation. The herbalist jotted down a recipe. “This will really help?” I asked, doubtfully. “I can almost guarantee it’s an issue of pH,” she said, handing me the paper with the list of herbs and the directions for brewing. She had already placed all the necessary ingredients in a recycled paper bag and was ringing me up. “Just make this tea and have some prepared and ready in the fridge," she said. "Then have him apply it before you have intercourse.”
I read her instructions with some trepidation. How exactly does he apply it?
“It’s easiest to just fill a jar or glass with the tea and submerge the penis in the liquid for 5 to 10 minutes.” My mouth dropped open.
She laughed and handed me back my debit card. She lowered her voice. “Our secret name for it is ‘Dick Tea,’" she said with a smile and pushed my purchase across the counter. “Let us know if it alleviates the problem.”
The Dick Tea did not alleviate the problem. I began to sweat in my sleep. I would soak the sheets and need to change my pajamas in the middle of the night. I had a mild fever, all the time. My glands were swollen and I felt fatigued. When I was 18, I had been diagnosed and successfully treated for Hodgkin’s disease, a lymphatic cancer. These were all the signs of a cancer recurrence, so I took myself to my doctor.
While my sexual pain was never taken seriously, these symptoms were. Within days a flurry of scans, referrals, and blood work were ordered. I was sent to three different specialists, one of whom was a gynecological surgeon, because in the context of these new symptoms, my sexual pain was now a potential sign of cervical cancer.
“What do we have here?” The surgeon looked over my medical history and the forms I had filled out in the waiting room. “How old are you? 31?” He looked at me. “Tell me where the pain is.”
He was, surprisingly, the first doctor to ask me this.
I tried to explain the stinging sensation that developed into a deep, shuddering ache that would linger for days after intercourse. He nodded and gestured to his attendant to set up the exam table. He was careful while examining me, explaining exactly what he was doing and why. He pressed against a spot inside my vagina and asked, “Is this where it hurts?” The pain bloomed, and I gasped. “Yes,” I said. “That’s it.”
I hadn’t fully believed that my pain was real until that moment. In one appointment my pain was given a name and a cure. The surgeon explained to me that the seam where my hymen had attached to the vaginal wall had been tearing and healing over and over again, leaving the left side completely covered in scars. I had a smaller-than-average vagina, he told me, and then gently asked whether I had any traumatic sexual experiences in my twenties. I nodded. He explained that these traumas, the violence, had most likely contributed to this scarring.
“You will need a vaginal reconstruction,” he said, gesturing for his attendant to enter the information into the system. “I can rebuild the scarred wall of your vagina and widen the opening by just a centimeter, and in a couple months you will get to have all the great sex you want.”
I asked about the night sweats, the fever, the fatigue. He said it was likely that the internal damage had led to a low-grade infection that never got a chance to heal because the area was being retraumatized every time I tried to have sex.
When I got out of the surgery, I couldn’t stop saying thank you—a little sexual healing mantra that I repeated until sleep and drugs carried me away.
It took a month before I could return to work and exercise again. It took another month before I was cleared to have sex. I was excited. This could be the thing that righted my lackluster relationship; maybe we were sexually compatible and this issue had been the only thing holding us back.
We kissed and touched nervously. He slid inside me and asked me if I was okay. I was—I didn’t feel any of the early warning pain that I had gotten so used to. He kept going and I waited for the pleasure to build but it never did. Nothing hurt, nothing burned or felt uncomfortable, but it didn’t feel particularly good either. Had I gone through this surgery and the recovery for nothing? He finished. I lay there, dejected, and listened to him jump into the shower.
My hands traveled down the body that had betrayed me. Why can’t I be like other women? I thought. Why can’t I have good sex? I slid my hand between my legs and decided to see if I could finish what we had started. It was time to become acquainted with my new vagina. I touched and sighed and tried to relax my racing thoughts.
Somewhere between being frustrated with my body and worrying about my relationship, something else emerged: actual pleasure. It took me by surprise, this spark of desire. I followed this glimmer of longing until I ignited an orgasm that radiated out and filled my entire body. Oh, I thought, this is what I’ve been looking for. I didn’t want to ever let go of it again.
We broke up six months later. I applied and got into an M.F.A. writing program. I auditioned for a local theater company and got cast as a British woman coming to terms with her sexuality. I got asked to join an improv group that performed monthly and rehearsed every week. I masturbated—a lot. I dated and had sex. I had good sex and bad sex and forgettable sex. I paid attention to how sex felt and how I felt when I was with a new partner. I jokingly told people I had a designer vagina.
A few months into working with my new improv group and a few months before I would leave for grad school, I put my arm around one of the other actors for a skit. He was funny and kind and I had never looked twice at him, romantically speaking. I leaned into him, laughing as we tried to speak in unison. He smelled amazing, like home and trees and baked goods. My designer vagina and I felt that flicker of desire—and I followed it.
Rose Andersen is a writer in Los Angeles. Her memoir, The Heart and Other Monsters, explores the opioid epidemic and the suspicious death of her sister. It is forthcoming from Bloomsbury in July 2020. Find her on Twitter @roseandersen and on Instagram @roseandersenwrites.
