Has sex gotten better?

Has sex gotten better? 

When I got home from my honeymoon, I messaged a few trusted friends in my life (and called a few) to ask them to pray for me, because even attempting to have vaginal sex was painful. I’m a prayerer and this felt like the only thing I firmly knew how to do).

I didn’t know how to express to them how I really felt— like a failure. I felt as if I was now this huge inconvenience my fiance had just married. 

I truly believed that. I really felt like I was the problem. Because trying to have sex really hurt. I felt as if I was the reason he didn’t get to have “real” sex. I was the problem. And I needed answers and a fix. ASAP.

Mostly, I felt as if our wedding vows had rushed in to test our new marriage. Would we love and care for one another in this unexpected and immediate valley?

What I couldn’t see then, through all the intrusive, chaotic thoughts I was having, is that we actually had a great honeymoon. And we actually had some really beautiful intimacy. It was different from what we expected, but it was fun, sacred, and we were still wildly into each other. While some might argue we didn’t consummate our marriage… to me, we did. 

We learned one another’s bodies. And we learned that there are so many ways to make one another orgasm or feel pleasure (the key word is “learned” here, because making someone orgasm really is a learning process as every person is different when it comes to what works). We learned there are so many ways to enjoy sex without vaginal sex. 

I found myself understanding sex to be this beautiful mingling of our bodies. A time when we cared for each other. Sure, we kept trying to do P in V, but when it didn’t work, we weren’t complaining about the intimacy we were getting to have. 

Anyway, I told you I phoned a few people the week after our honeymoon. I felt scared and alone and wanted support or encouragement. Two impactful conversations from 12 years ago have stuck with me since then.

One of the people I called the week after my honeymoon was my Mom. We have a trust relationship and I felt I could tell her about this and she might have some helpful advice. I was feeling especially sad we hadn’t progressed in our attempts to get in. I told her we had trouble getting it in and she encouraged me to see a different gynecologist or to try dilators (her doctor had given her dilators before she had sex for the first time, we’ll get into what those are later). Before we hung up the phone she said something she thought was helpful and true. 

She told me I needed to get this fixed because my husband had needs. 

I felt panicky. I was letting him down. I. was. A. let. down.

I didn’t realize at the time how much that lie made a home in my heart.

What I heard her say is, “You’re failing at this wife thing. You’re not taking care of your husband correctly, hurry up and fix whatever is wrong with you so he won’t be disappointed for too long.” I later internalized what she said to also mean: “If you can’t meet his sexual needs, he’ll take care of them somewhere else. With someone else.” 

If I’ve learned anything over the last twelves years it’s that Brett and I both have sexual needs. His are not more important than mine. And mine are not more important than his. Also, Brett isn’t disappointed in me for having vaginismus and never was. He was a basic bitch— just pumped to see me naked and to figure out how to make me orgasm. His gaze was filled with love and his heart was filled with patience— year after year he assured me that whether or not I ever overcame vaginismus, our marriage was one he did not regret signing up for. He married me for about a million other reasons than my body. He assured me our sex life was awesome. 

Author’s Note: Last week I talked with my mom about that post-honeymoon phone call and while she doesn’t remember it, she asked me to forgive her for the hurt she caused. I forgave my mom a long time ago. Way before she asked for my forgiveness. I’ve processed so much hurt, lies, and “purity culture” gunk the past few years in regards to Vaginismus and I feel very strongly about offering mercy to those who have unknowingly wronged me as they’ve responded poorly to me having Vaginismus. I share this story not to shame my mom, but to acknowledge the deep insecurity Vaginismus can cause in a human and to encourage those who know someone with it to respond with such tender love and care for them. 

The second conversation that came up often in the years after my marriage was with a friend who continually asked “Has sex gotten better?”. They were referring to my vaginismus and whether or not we were able to get Brett in yet.

It was the way their question was asked that always made me respond with the same response— “I mean, sex is great and I think we have a healthy sex life. We just aren’t doing vaginal sex.” Asking if it was “better yet”, made me feel like my sex life was broken and bad. In all fairness, I didn’t do a good job at letting them know that the way they phrased their question made me uncomfortable. I was in such an uncomfortable place back then, I’m really not sure I would have known how to express my discomfort.

It was the first few months and years of being married that were the hardest for us. 

Especially with figuring out how to live with Vaginismus. I felt so uncomfortable at bridal showers, lingerie showers, or talking with any friends I knew getting married who also were saving themselves for marriage… they would ask me how sex was and  if I had any sex advice and I would feel so conflicted about what to say. I felt like a fraud who hadn’t really had sex. I didn’t know the intimacy I was having was something worth celebrating. I didn’t know my friends just needed to hear my truth: It should be fun and pleasurable for both of you. While I’ve always been open about having Vaginismus, I wish I would have known how to encourage couples toward great sex back then. 

It was Thanksgiving and Christmas when extended family members felt too comfortable telling me, a 23 year old newly wed, not to wait too long to have kids. I wanted to scream at them. I wanted to make them feel just as uncomfortable as they were making me feel and say, “Once I figure out how to get my husband’s penis into my vagina, I’ll think about it”. Those moments made me angry. I wasn’t even interested in having kids. But those moments still made me feel less than or broken. Comments like those don’t have power over me now, but back then, they didn’t know their “advice” had me outside crying by a hay bale all alone (this was Texas, there’s bales everywhere). 

I’m sharing all of my story here because I want anyone who has vaginismus to remember that they are wonderful and so worthy of having a great roll in the hay, whether or not they are doing the deed vaginally. Sex still feels great. And it is worth enjoying. Further, intimacy with your significant other is such a sweet reward, regardless of the method. 

And, because I imagine I’m not the only one who felt this way (I want to scream this off of the rooftop of my New York City apartment building)—  VAGINISMUS DOES NOT MAKE YOU AN INCONVENIENCE TO YOUR RELATIONSHIP. You are not a disappointment. You are a team of sexy lovers who are continually figuring out how to care for one another together in the ways that make sense for the season you’re in. So go have some good sexy time (and try some KY lube while you’re at it, won’t ya? I think there should be a rule: there’s no such thing as too much lube) and celebrate your bodies. Go experiment with all the ways you can to bring one another pleasure (orgasms or not) that has nothing to do with vaginal sex, I double dog dare you.