Page 1 of My Turn Petal
Frankie
Frustrated,mytearstricklethrough my eyelashes and dampen my thigh—it’s like my inner sensor senses intrusion and immediately blocks it.
I stare at my three-quarters-of-an-inch dilator, nausea churning in my stomach when I think about inserting the one-and-a-quarter inch that I hold in my other hand, knowing it’s too much for my body to handle when I can barely get the first one inside.
And that’s just the width.
The panic rises to the surface along with the shortness of breath, the rapid pulse, and the ringing in my ears.
The dizziness threatens to take me down with it and blacken my vision.
I feel like a lost cause.
Am I ever going to beat this?
Am I ever going to be vaginismus-free?
I’m feeling defeated on so many levels. I am humiliated for having to do all of these preparations in the first place for a slight chance of a different outcome even when it’s not my fault.
It makes me sick.
Most people just go on about it and have sex with their partner or just have an occasional hookup. Women my age have fun experimenting with their sex lives.
I’m stuck with myself. But hey,give it time, is all I ever do.
Suppose it was as easy as playing a billiard game. You just need to aim, use some technique, let the stick hit the ball and it will smoothly get inside the hole. No problem. No issue. No blockage.
Yup. I’m comparing my sex life to a billiard game—the lack thereof.
If only it was easy in reality, but no, sticking a cock inside me isn’t a walk in the park. It’s a nightmare on this earth.
The lump in my throat makes it challenging to swallow the vomit threatening to flee.
Guys I’ve been with hated this feeling of rejection. And I hated it more. There are no guarantees. And it could take years to accomplish. And maybe not even then.
I’m still positive this is not a permanent condition. I will feel a man’s cock slipping in and out of me, fucking me hard until I beg for more.
That’s the fantasy.
Focusing on myself, I breathe in and out, retrieving my composure. I grab my journal from the single white nightstand by the left side of my queen-size bed. Folding my blankets in the process as I get comfortable in the center.
Another exercise I maintain is to write a journal with everything I can think of. Every possible scenario that contributes to my condition. Fears. Secrets. Wants.
All the questions I suppressed as a kid were due to my exceedingly judgmental environment, I was surrounded by growing up. All the anxiety I dealt with and still do made it hard to speak at loud when everyone was quick to set their opinions and call it drama.
There’s no pressure in a piece of silicone, just the one living rent-free in my head, pressing on my nerves and impeding any kind of advance.
My life isn’t dramatic nor tragic, they’re just lacking. And I wish I knew the magical answer or the solution but I don’t. I can only ask myself—what is the reason behind this?
Am I afraid of sex?
Am I scared of men?
Do I fear of getting pregnant?
Did something happen to me that triggered this reaction?
Do I want to be chased and deprived of control consensually?
