Page 26 of Confessions of a Virgin on a Dating App
Tristan and I texted frequently over the next few days. He even called me on Thursday afternoon, both because “he wanted to hear my voice,” and because he had news on his aunt’s beach condo.
We were lucky. His aunt had a last-minute cancellation for Saturday night, and she said Tristan could use the condo if we paid the cleaning fee and left by 11 a.m. Sunday morning.
He sounded overjoyed, and I tried my best to sound the same. Even as the acidic burn of nausea seeped up my throat.
I stayed on the phone with him for another hour. It felt like a barrier had been broken between us, and we could freely laugh and talk and joke like a real couple.Because to him, nothing was wrong. I’d finally confessed my big secret, which to him was no big deal. He’d take me on a weekend getaway, take my virginity, and cement our newfound relationship. I knew it was a test; a sweet, romantic, exciting one, but still a test. And I was terrified of failing it.
Because an even bigger, uglier secret still hid below the surface, one that I knew he wouldn’t be as accepting of.
Once our call ended, I spent the next twenty minutes flopped on my bed like a starfish, my eyes trailing the ceiling fan as it circled lazily overhead. I didn’t know what to do with myself. The tension was fizzing inside me like a shaken soda can, and I needed to let it out.
I needed to talk to someone. I thought about knocking on Cassidy’s door. I even made it as far as the hallway before I balked. It didn’t make sense; she was my best friend, and we told each other everything. But I couldn’t tell her. As painful as it was to have this secret lurking inside me, the thought of dredging it up in conversation made me want to vomit.
If I’m going to talk about this. I reasoned.Maybe I should do it with a neutral third party. Someone I never have to see again if things go south.
So, I turned to the internet, looking up therapists on various websites. I’d never done therapy before, and I knew it was going to be both expensive and time-consuming. But what I didn’t expect was for there to be only two therapists within a reasonable drive that specialized in sexual dysfunction, and neither one took my insurance.
I huffed, about to slam my laptop shut when a question I should’ve asked myself years ago flooded my mind.
What exactly is sexual dysfunction?
I had no idea. I was terrified of seeing a gynecologist, and I didn’t know what other medical professionals could help me. My sexual issues had always been something I shoved in a box and hid in the deepest recesses of my mind,pretending they didn’t exist. But now I needed to face them, and I had no idea where to start.
I stared blankly at my web browser, and my throat tightened as I typed insexual dysfunction.
I was immediately flooded with results, describing everything from lack of arousal to the inability to orgasm.Okay, too broad. How do I describe what’s wrong with me?
Think…
This time, I typed inpainful penetration.
This brought me to a medical website with a list of causes, which I scanned through with eager eyes.Not enough lubrication.I snorted, thinking of how Tyler had drowned my pelvic region in lube when we tried five years ago. Clearly that wasn’t the problem.Rough sex, trauma, negative feelings about a partner…
I groaned in frustration. None of this was helping me. Despite my sexual dysfunction, Ididhave a sex drive, which made my inadequacies even more frustrating. Iwantedto have sex with Tristan. More than anything. But no matter how attracted to him I was, no matter how aroused I became, my stubborn vagina had a mind of its own.
I exited the website, scrolling through more search results until I came across an intriguing term.Vaginismus. The website described it as involuntary muscle spasms that made the vagina too narrow for sexual activity.
That sounds about right.I thought back to five years ago, remembering how it felt like there was an impenetrable wall in my vagina.
I could feel the light bulb flashing in my head, the puzzle pieces finally clicking together. I scoured the website for more information, absorbing everything I could.
Ten minutes later, I finally understood my condition. And it made me want to hurl my phone acrossthe room.
The condition requires there to be no anatomical issues and a desire for penetration.
So this is all in my head? Nothing is actually wrong with me?
The thought terrified me. Physical problems were much easier to deal with. A few trips to the doctor, maybe a small surgical procedure, and I’d be all set. The human brain was a fickle instrument, and treating mental issues was a complicated, exhausting, and often lengthy process.
My nostrils flared as I kept reading:
Factors that cause vaginismus include chronic pain conditions, a negative emotional response to sexual activity, and strict conservative moral educati—
Conservative moral education?!
Oh fucking hell.
This time I actually did hurl my phone across the room. It was undamaged, since it was in a thick case with a screen protector, but it still clattered loudly against my deck and flopped face down on the carpet like a dead bird.
