The Awkward Path To Getting Lucky

“Wait, secondary? I don’t remember that. Is there a first kind of vaginismus?”

Dr. Snow squints at me as though she’s not sure if I’m being serious. I put my hands in my lap and try to look composed. “Secondary means you haven’t always had the condition. You, at one time, were able to have sex without pain. This was something that developed.” She crosses her legs at the knees and balances the tablet on her leg. “Patients with primary vaginismus have never been able to have intercourse without pain, or possibly at all. Some aren’t even able to have pelvic exams or wear tampons, depending on the severity of their condition.”

I involuntarily clench my knees together. That sounds horrible. Here I am, making a screaming fuss over two years, and there are women out there dealing with a significantly more hard-core scenario than me.

This isn’t my finest moment.

“Can people with primary... I mean, can they fix it?”

She nods, and my knees unclench. “The treatment is the same, and in most cases, a full recovery is possible. As is my expectation with you.”

I exhale sharply. “Okay, yes. Say more things like that, please.”

Looking at me sternly, Dr. Snow continues, “So, that was two years ago. You’re telling me you’ve been unable to have sex this entire time?”

“Sort of,” I say, smoothing my gown down over my legs. “I kinda just forgot to deal with it.”

She blinks at me. “You forgot?”

“I was busy! I was getting a new business off the ground, so it wasn’t a big priority, and the whole intimacy thing with my boyfriend sort of took a back seat. Then I realized it had been almost two whole freaking years, and oh my god, that’s a really long time. So I tried to do the therapy like you told me, and it’s not working very well, and I would just really like to get past this and have sex so I can move on, please. I need your help here.”

She’s still blinking at me. “You...forgot to have sex.”

“It slipped my mind,” I say, sighing. “But seriously, though! Tell me what to do.”

She shakes her head a little. “When you say the therapy isn’t working very well, what do you mean?”

“Well, it hurt really bad, for starters. And at first I was able to do it, but then I couldn’t get anything in there at all. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I have a bunch of printouts. I’m following all the directions. We got all the things, like it said on the website.”

“‘We’? You and your boyfriend?”

My stomach flip-flops a little at the word boyfriend, and it makes me all the more uncomfortable. “No, me and my friends. It’s been a group effort. Well, I mean, I’m doing the therapy alone, obviously. But they’re cheering me on. One of them actually went through this herself years back, and she’s been giving me advice. The whole ‘two years’ thing hasn’t gone over well for anyone.”

“You seem really focused on the ‘two years’ aspect of this.”

“Because it’s been two years, Doc.”

“That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself,” Dr. Snow says calmly. “How long have you been doing the therapy?”

“Well. Technically, I started last night,” I admit. Then, a little defensively, “Why do you keep blinking at me?”

“Kat,” she says, setting her tablet down on the counter beside her. “This is a process. If you sprained your ankle, I wouldn’t expect you to have full motor function in a day. It takes time. You can’t rush it.”

“I do know that,” I insist, feeling really pitiful. “I do, but you can’t blame me for being a tad impatient, okay? Look, is there anything I can do to, like, speed things up a little?”

“I don’t recommend speeding anything up beyond what your body is telling you it is ready for,” she says in a measured tone. “If anything, it will make the situation worse. And honestly, it doesn’t sound like you’re approaching your therapy with a calm demeanor, which might explain why you’re having trouble.”

“You’re telling me I should have committed to the soothing music and scented candles, aren’t you?”

“They wouldn’t hurt. This is about retraining your muscles, yes, but it involves your mental state just as much. If you’re anxious, your vagina will be, too.”

Reflexively I pout. “Okay, yeah, that makes sense.”

“Are you sexually active with your boyfriend or anyone else at the moment?”

I narrow my eyes and use every ounce of will I have to push the burning feeling that’s creeping up my neck back below the paper gown. “Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

I sit up a little straighter. “Well, I’m not yet, but I’d like to be, and I sort of have plans to get, um, active.”

“I’m actually afraid to ask, Kat.”

“I just mean I’d like to give things another shot in bed with my boyfriend without it ending in a car crash of flaming vaginas.”

“That’s...very colorful imagery.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

She waves her hand in front of her. “That’s a great goal. Of course, I urge you to practice safe sex, and I’d like to discuss birth control options with you before we finish, as I see you aren’t currently taking anything.”

“Okay.”

“Most important, you need to take this very, very slowly. This isn’t a race. I understand your desire to take control of the situation, but if you try to push this beyond what you’re ready for, you’ll make things worse, Kat. Your partner will need to understand that, as well.”

I nod, ignoring the screaming voice in my head that keeps chanting twenty-eight days left. “Okay. Got it.”

“Did the two of you have any luck with the techniques I gave you on your last visit?”

My eyes glaze over a little, remembering how impossibly awkward attempting the couples section of the therapy pamphlets with Ryan was back when this started. He seemed so put out and uncomfortable with everything.

Ryan’s a very nice guy, and he’d give anyone the shirt off his back, but at the same time, he’s got a selfish streak in him. Sex was easy for him, and he didn’t seem to understand that there were circumstances outside my control that he could have assisted with to make that situation a little easier.

It wasn’t a high point in our relationship.

“Not particularly,” I answer honestly. “Which is why I’m very focused on what I need to be doing first.”

“I can understand that,” Dr. Snow agrees, much to my surprise. “It’s something that needs to be handled in whatever way works best for each individual.”

“Yep.” I nod and try to look like a person whose personal life isn’t a raging case of fuckery.

“And I’d like to refer you to one of the physical therapists over at the hospital. Even if you don’t want them to do the actual therapy, they’ll be able to walk you through the techniques and help you through this process.”

I shake my head. “I think I’ve got it, Doc.”

“There’s no shame in accepting help,” she says, and I feel scolded. “This is a common disorder, and you’re certainly not the first woman to need this treatment.”

“It’s not an embarrassment thing,” I reply, feeling indignant. “I just mean that I know I can figure it out on my own. If I can’t, I’ll take the referral, okay?”