tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72457783081874511302024-03-05T01:57:52.141-08:00La MatadoraLiving with, and in spite of, VaginismusKeekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-14285358542337314992014-07-24T13:57:00.000-07:002014-07-24T13:57:04.870-07:00Reluctant no longerHello my beautiful vaginistas,<br />
<br />
Has it really been 2 years since my last post? It hardly seems like it can be true, but here we are, talking from *the future* where my vagina continues to more or less behave itself, and my dire predictions of a dystopian future sans the NHS are looking worryingly more possible by the day. Oh yey, and Oh dear respectively.<br />
<br />
I could give you an update on the ins and outs of my vagina (snarf), but I shall not. I know, you are bereft. Que triste. I've logged on instead to say that I am simultaneously moved, delighted, frustrated, excited and so SORRY at the amount of emails I have received since I last posted. I am disgusted with myself to have to report that I've only just checked them tonight and I am really so sorry to all of the beautiful and brave women (gah, that sounds so patronising doesn't it? Sorry, it's the emotion of the reluctant vaginal warrior, and I truly mean it, like a slightly saucy aunt after one too many gins) who contacted me and who I have so callously not replied to. It was not deliberate; somehow I looked up from my knitting and all this time had gone and I had forgotten to log on.<br />
<br />
SORRY. I am an awful idiot.<br />
<br />
It has made me consider however. As wonderful as it has been to receive all these emails from women saying how they are relieved to find out that they are not alone in battling the big snarly vaginismus, it's just NOT ON. Not getting the emails, I mean the fact that any of us should feel so alone in the first place. You know how you can step on a tube and there will be an advert for treatments of erectile disfunction? You know how "viagra" is a household name? Well, were are the adverts for treatment of the reluctant frou and all her whims? Why are women telling me that they are still talking to Doctors who apparently haven't heard about vaginismus? WHY WHY WHY?<br />
<br />
It has to end. And we must be the ones to do something about it. I don't know anything about how to start an awareness raising campaign but by the deuces I feel like it's something that has to happen. This isn't our fault, and not talking about it certainly isn't going to help any women battling with it now or in the future feel any less alone and ashamed and confused as I was before I knew what it was all about.<br />
<br />
So who is with me? Are any of you still there? Can you forgive me? Can we be strident together? I hope the answers to all of these are "yes, we're all in this together!"Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-81253623455745347882012-11-28T12:37:00.000-08:002012-11-28T12:40:39.755-08:00Le Belle Dame Sans....um, Clamp?<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Evening Vaginistas,</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I've
not written anything for aaages on here, and you know why?</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Drumroll
please.............(A bit better than that, come on now, put some
effort in.....Thanks)</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I'm
cured.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I'M
CURED</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/2sOB0MiZuE0?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I mean.......I
can't even really believe it still to be honest. After years of uncertainty,
humiliating doctors appointments, two years of therapy, lots of
hilarious, agonising, awful moments, body-crippling pain, confusion,
self-loathing, border-line hysteria, and buckets and buckets full of
over-sharing, I beat vaginismus. I fucking BEAT the fucker!</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I
wanted to come to you all with a lovely fairytale ending, but
actually when it comes down to it, it didn't take a prince on a steed
to sweep me off my feet, which isn't really very *me* anyway.
OK, maybe it is a<i> little</i> bit....</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrBE3YfVgbYWaxtHHcSqaufy7KUsK8Qwx9yNN6jhLmR_wqGU_dfzXuRmQOtBWNmTufBweP_MmvVYGhLEbtEqtOwcMbAvIOrGh_EAKNl-uuDGtb46xyAsa2Tuchohp1FirBKJEPBqpyUJb8/s1600/prince+eric.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrBE3YfVgbYWaxtHHcSqaufy7KUsK8Qwx9yNN6jhLmR_wqGU_dfzXuRmQOtBWNmTufBweP_MmvVYGhLEbtEqtOwcMbAvIOrGh_EAKNl-uuDGtb46xyAsa2Tuchohp1FirBKJEPBqpyUJb8/s320/prince+eric.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">oh Eric, when will you come for me?</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Obviously
at SOME point it did require a man's involvement, and without going into too much detail (I know, I know, why start now right?!) not only can I now DO the sex, I even ENJOY the sex. Waa!* but even so, it isn't really down to my partner. (Sorry. You did very
well though dear). Ahem.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">It
took determination, and patience, and a bloody huge dose of being
able to laugh at myself, and laydeez, it has paid off. From this very
self-effacing speech you would be fair in saying that that I seem just a little bit proud of
myself, and I really am. I'm also amazed – I don't think I ever really believed it
could work, until it actually did. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I'm
cured. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Thank
you so much for everyone who has been involved in this blog, to the
lovely friends who've listened to me telling them in great detail
about my vagina, and to everyone who is going through the journey too
- I hope that if you take nothing else from my blog, you take this –
we can beat the fucker. I did it, and I am capable of tripping over
perfectly flat surfaces.....which is possibly slightly irrelevant,
but you get my drift. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Thanks
so much. With lots of love from me and my fully functioning,
no-longer the lady-with-a-clamp vag.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Keeks
x</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">* In case you're wondering who the frightfully lucky young chap is, I managed to bag myself the aforementioned posh totty,from previous posts - the lucky devi</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">l</span></div>
Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-71404635077174042552012-10-17T08:54:00.001-07:002012-10-17T08:54:41.358-07:00Keek’s Excellent Things to do on a Date<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hi Vaginistas,</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In the
world of dating, I am much happier being the one who puts the leg work in. I
think it’s because generally I am more attracted to shy men, and am a
headstrong and rather opinionated wee rascal, so I anticipate that they will
need me to chivvy things along. Patronising? Perhaps, but I am comfortable with
this. I am also the sort of person who would rather ask and be told no, than <i>not </i>ask and instead spend my time dithering
around waiting hopefully to be asked out, like a regency lady fluttering my fan
at any potential beau in a desperate attempt at flirtation, and then watching
with dignity as they run off with the society belle, happy that at least I have
not put myself out in any way*. Incidentally, this doesn’t translate to other
areas of my life, where I am generally too scared to throw myself into doing
the things I truly love in case I fail and oh god this is getting depressing,
back to dating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I think we
have all agreed that I do not set much store by dignity. I’m just not very good
at it, apart from anything else; I am one of those people that can trip over a
perfectly flat pavement, so I’ve really given up trying to hang on to it. It’s
easier that way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">With that
being the case, it should come as no surprise when I tell you that I have been
very proactive in my pursuing of a certain young man of my acquaintance. I am
happy with this, it seems to be going rather well at the moment, but there is
still a niggling feeling at the bottom of my stomach that tells me “if you’re
not careful, he will think you’re a very <i>forward
</i>sort of a female, and that would just not do”**. I think that this is
really one of the most permeating of patriarchal propaganda - women are still
in general not expected to be the ones to pursue romantic encounters. In fact,
I know plenty of women who actively would NOT ask a man out, and find it
incredibly odd that I do (I say odd, they usually say things like “I think it’s
GREAT how you’re brave enough to do it, I just know I couldn’t” which is
clearly nonsense). If you have moved away from home, developed a career, heck
if you can just wield a bread knife in the general area of a loaf with little personal
peril, you have already undertaken far braver things than just asking someone
for a drink. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Anyway. I <i>think</i> I have been making excellent
headway in my pursuing of said attractive man***, though given disappointing past
experiences I am trying very hard not to let myself get carried away. Saying
that, I had a mental mini-meltdown recently, where a lovely and indulgent
friend was on the receiving end of many, many self-loathing diatribes of the “oh
GOD, it’s bound to go WRONG, why am I such a DICK” variety. Nevertheless, I
persevere, and after a couple of what I am calling successful dates have
compiled a list of excellent things to always do on dates:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">1. Make
sure you do a dreadful and frankly offensive impression of your date’s accent,
at all times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">2. Talk
about bras, often, and for long stretches. If the conversation turns to other
matters, make sure you frequently draw the conversation back to bras. People
love bras, right? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">3. Do a
loud and highly inaccurate impression of what you imagine <a href="http://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=6&ved=0CEAQqQIwBQ&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.dailymail.co.uk%2Fsciencetech%2Farticle-2215881%2FHow-mice-learn-sing-Animals-use-high-pitch-tones-woo-females-change-tune-competition-s-around.html%3Fito">the singing mice</a> to sound like,
in a busy and quite respectable restaurant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So there
you are, three top tips for a winning date! YOU’RE WELCOME VAGINISTAS, YOU ARE
WELCOME. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">*it’s
possible I have been reading Georgette Heyer novels recently. Possible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">**Heyer
again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">*** he
needs a moniker. I will have to work on this. Suggestions? </span></div>
Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-30799659264874138722012-09-23T14:12:00.000-07:002012-09-23T14:14:41.356-07:00Um hello, so I think I like a boy.....<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hello Vaginistas,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lawks a-mercy, it has been so ruddy long since I've written anything on here! Sorry about that, did you miss me? Just pretend. PRETEND you've missed me? Thanks. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What to tell you? Life has been steadily ticking on, as it does, and some things have changed and some things have stayed the same. I'm currently temping in a really lovely company - all of my new colleagues are straight up peaches, which is brilliant and slightly overwhelming. One colleague, in particular, is really rather lovely.....</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's taken me a little bit by surprise actually. It's been a really long time since I've had that wowzers-this-has-hit-me-right-in-the-guts excitement about someone. A really, really long time; I'd sort of forgotten how it feels. I'd actually thought for a while that maybe I just wasn't capable of it any more, and was mentally cataloguing the rabbit breeds I was going to start stock-piling for the sad spinster years.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijaWVe-ruOEQ-HOrmcRz91j_4Mxxwq-Nuy7-fmI7vl_h8UQmMUDF8Tp1J9H-qwuoUbBen66HK7WlMA1hgEmlDB90DE-z5evxKRi4sbDV_AWjGGM7o9YeFnK7f1nM1sSzI7O_2t0CvBsnaj/s1600/bunny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijaWVe-ruOEQ-HOrmcRz91j_4Mxxwq-Nuy7-fmI7vl_h8UQmMUDF8Tp1J9H-qwuoUbBen66HK7WlMA1hgEmlDB90DE-z5evxKRi4sbDV_AWjGGM7o9YeFnK7f1nM1sSzI7O_2t0CvBsnaj/s1600/bunny.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">YOU'LL LOVE ME, WON'T YOU GIANT BUNNY?!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But anyway, I'm not good with it. It's terrifying really; anyone with horribly low self-esteem can probably back me up on this, but instead of just feeling excited about it, I am just really, really scared that it's all going to crumble down in a big sweaty mess, and hurt. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think I should just be excited - he's told me he likes me too. We had a date last week (I asked him out - screw you, the patriarchy) which was unbelievably good. Game-changing good. We talked about a particular early church heresy that we are both interested in and it was SEXY. But he's gone on holiday now for 2 weeks, which means that my evil, naysaying inner voice* has come out to play. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"He's going to AMERICA" the evil little self-loathing prick pipes up, "Where everyone has flat stomachs because they don't eat piles of mash and drink too much red wine, and don't trip over perfectly flat flooring, and he's going to be out there thinking about how rubbish you are in comparison". </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Shut up evil little voice, you are a twat and I will not listen!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But the evil little voice knows there is precedent for this. It reminds me of the last time I really and properly liked someone. I had just started to think that maybe it could be a thing, and he ended it all. And the time before that it happened too - and both times they told me they "liked me too much" to see me any more. These things happen, I know that, but I really would like this to be a thing. A proper thing......</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I am not going to let myself be excited, not yet. But maybe, if you like, if you want to, maybe you could be just a *tiny bit* excited for me? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">*NOTHING LIKE ANASTASIA FUCKING STEELE'S INNER DICK OF A VOICE</span><br />
<br />Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-23840043870152664212012-07-29T05:10:00.002-07:002012-07-29T05:10:32.403-07:00Woe and despair - a pointless moany updateMorning Vaginistas,<br />
<br />
I haven't blogged for ages, mainly because I am overcome with ennui, which has recently started to transform into despair. I'm trying my hardest not to totally give in, but the tug of war between ennui and despair is starting to go in favour of the latter, and ennui is clearly too "meh" about the whole thing to put in a proper fight. Even calling it "Thierry Ennui" isn't helping any more. An endless round of job applications and fruitless interviews has been sapping me of my strength.<br />
<br />
I'm sorry I don't have anything interesting to say. I am somewhat of a fairweather vaginismus-warrior, and when things aren't going my way the last thing I want to do is grapple with <a href="http://lamatadorita.blogspot.co.uk/p/guide-to-vaginal-dilators.html">the hubble telescope</a>.<br />
<br />
Anyay, just thought I'd put my head above the parapet and say sorry - I will be back on it and feeling positive again soon I'm sure. I think. I mean, probably.Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-41529990882276469522012-07-08T08:09:00.000-07:002012-07-08T08:15:53.682-07:00Naked lust<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Hello Vaginistas,</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
As I type this Andy Murray and Roger Federer are head-to-head in the men's final at wimbledon. It's an exciting game so far (I say, with as much confidence in my own knowledge on the subject as my Mum musing if it's possible to check her email and be on "the internets" at the same time). Two men, in the peak of physical condition wearing delightfully well-cut tennis whites, running around all sweaty and flexing their arm muscles.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
YES PLEASE.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Now, I know what you're thinking, and if it sounds like this blog post is just going to be a big perve fest, where I drool over pretty men for my own gratification, let me reassure you now - it most definitely is.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
You see, I've noticed something lately, that I only haven't noticed before because it seems to be quite ingrained in my pysche and that of people around me - I've realised that we're meant to find men physically repulsive. </div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"There is nothing more disgusting than a naked man" Russell Kane said recently on a stand up show which I forget the name of.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
This is Russell Kane: </div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi16M-isSI1tNV3Od2DJDE9VV5af_vAXFnYNwclzVZ9QtMVeJPSdm8xrFZQjNBMfLp9IwoqcMUph2O6ARYE9HknpGfqsLtlfTJ2pTIi4zlcmKIVDxUReim5dZbYG9j2-rCZUGKidnP4dc53/s1600/Russell+Kane.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi16M-isSI1tNV3Od2DJDE9VV5af_vAXFnYNwclzVZ9QtMVeJPSdm8xrFZQjNBMfLp9IwoqcMUph2O6ARYE9HknpGfqsLtlfTJ2pTIi4zlcmKIVDxUReim5dZbYG9j2-rCZUGKidnP4dc53/s320/Russell+Kane.JPG" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Oh dear, that perfectly toned torso is quite repellent, do put it away</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Yes, quite hideous. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This isn't the first time I've heard this, but it's the first time I really noticed it and paid attention to what it meant. I had a conversation with a friend recently where we both admitted, a little embarrassed at our own audacity, that actually we both very much like seeing the men that we are attracted to naked. It's actually pretty darn good. But apparently we aren't meant to think this.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Now, you might be thinking "I have no idea where you have got this idea from Keeks, are you a crazy?" but think about it - have you really never had a conversation with your girlfriends where someone has said "I love men, but honestly women's bodies are so much more aesthetically pleasing"? Or seen a film where a totally beautiful "out of his league" type babe ends up with some geeky nerd, whose body she couldn't possibly be after? Because she couldn't just, you know, have a thing for skinny indie boys....</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq9DYOZQSJI7Skwj5t6_S7phthDu97ISNlvgKTVCc6Fd9Z7iMDgd27zvvNXUfM7GtdVQiG9tW9JGEepvUXM4gjQXLbBU_7WcxF7fb9pnVtDIHM3anGyZI3rVPwoLZta5TVHTigMIo5wCw6/s1600/DT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq9DYOZQSJI7Skwj5t6_S7phthDu97ISNlvgKTVCc6Fd9Z7iMDgd27zvvNXUfM7GtdVQiG9tW9JGEepvUXM4gjQXLbBU_7WcxF7fb9pnVtDIHM3anGyZI3rVPwoLZta5TVHTigMIo5wCw6/s320/DT.jpg" width="289" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Insert "sonic screwdriver" joke here</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Whilst women's bodies are constantly under scrutiny in the press, it's a running joke that men's bodies are really something quite hideous. What sane woman would possibly find a naked man in any way attractive? Their bits are just there, all flapping about and bulbous and that, how absolutely dreadful. Why would we find a penis attractive? And of course, there's that constant fail-safe that is always bloody well dragged out and flogged for all it's worth - that women's brains aren't visual and we need music, and compliments, and convincing, and dinner, and diamonds, and dim lighting to be possibly interested in doing the nasty. A quick google search turned up <a href="http://www.netnanny.com/learn_center/article/165">this</a> which summarises lots of the points I've often heard.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Well, I just want to say, right now, that I think men's naked bodies are brilliant. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLEvlMm7kqjzICVhfOnJDgEjEFUpS1NfkBW8B8jujd6S82wPkL9XpXvlQk6rIt0On_0P86Ke6z70p_Gpr5lDDH857bie-QM6lY-0NjRB9l4FA3MwzWOEo3_ssaHRycwuY5EyypSMvCAf1n/s1600/1305660807__rafael_lazzini_21a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLEvlMm7kqjzICVhfOnJDgEjEFUpS1NfkBW8B8jujd6S82wPkL9XpXvlQk6rIt0On_0P86Ke6z70p_Gpr5lDDH857bie-QM6lY-0NjRB9l4FA3MwzWOEo3_ssaHRycwuY5EyypSMvCAf1n/s320/1305660807__rafael_lazzini_21a.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I know, this is just getting gratuitous now, I'd like to say I'm sorry but you know...</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Hooray for naked men, and hooray for penises! I'm really very fond of them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A male friend mused to me recently "it must be so difficult, being a woman, as every part of your body is sexualised in a way that men's aren't." Perhaps this is true to a point, but it is not completely the case. A pair of broad, muscular shoulders reduce me to a wibbling wreck. Those two little lines, from the stomach down to the groin, that the chap above is sporting? I think most women will agree that they are a thing of beauty. Why do we think that men's bodies are not sexualised?</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Fighting the inherent sexualisation and objectification of women within society is vital. But when we say things like this, when we reinforce this ridiculous notion that men's bodies are actually pretty unattractive we are not only insulting men, we are <u>still</u> objectifying women. When we pooh-pooh the notion that sexual desire can be inspired in a woman by the sight of a sexy man in naught but his birthday suit, but reinforce the utter sexualisation of a womans body without reciprocity we are reducing her to an object - the female naked form is desirable, the male is not; the female form inspires lust in man, the male doesn't inspire lust in women. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Now, I am not saying that we should even the odds by sexualising men, and obviously I'm not saying that this is the case across the board. It is just an undercurrent, something that bubbles away underneath, but undercurrents can be dangerous.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I am not in any way arguing for naked page 3 men, or that we all just happily agree to objectify each other. I know I have put up a couple of pretty topless pictures of men up here, but they are there for purely scientific reasons to prove my point, OK? IT'S SCIENCE, OK YOU GUYS? Sheesh.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I absolutely think that objectification is a bad thing, and reducing men to their bodies in the way that society does to women is not at all the way forward. But I do think we should stop saying that men are not attractive and women can't possibly find them so. It is disempowering to women as it denies their position as full, sexual human beings with their own compulsions and desires, and it is insulting to men. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In conclusion - PENIS! </span>Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-83172095315469828652012-06-28T04:06:00.000-07:002012-06-28T04:11:41.456-07:00Keeks: How to tackle sexual dysfunction<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Hi Vaginistas,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">After watching Cherry Healey: How to get a life last night eating a peach on the sofa (I am having a health kick, which basically means still sitting around, but eating fruit instead of crisps) I have decided to briefly turn my hand to writing TV reviews. I know, jack of all, master of none as they say. It's relevant to the blog, I promise.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Do you get it? Do you get it? AHAHAHAHA!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Cherry Healey, journalist, has set out on a journey to find out what life is like <strike>for those of us who are not smug, married new Mums</strike> in the "Modern World". Or something. In this recent episode she decided to investigate addictions and why people are drawn to taking pills. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">She talks to some guys who like sucking laughing gas out of balloons first, which seems nowhere near as fun as doing it with helium quite frankly, and the buzz goes after literally 5 seconds, so not sure what that is all about, but anyway. They all seem happy, and enjoyed it, except for one chap who has anxiety attacks and quite rightly doesn't want to do anything that might trigger one. Fine. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">On to the 2 people in this programme that I am most particularly interested in. One, Suzy, is an ex-professional dancer who has become addicted to diet pills since taking a new career path and losing her dancers body. Cherry pulls a wry face at the camera as she wrangles with some pesky jeans and tells us about her ongoing battle with her weight, citing a truly horrible episode at university where she took laxitaves to keep thin. I wait for her to smirk and mention the baby weight, but she doesn't, which is a relief to us all. Anyway, she has happily left those days behind her now, but says that she understands where Suzy's desire to find a "miracle cure" comes from. I'm hoping to hear something about underlying pyschological or emotional causes at this point, but perhaps that'll come later.....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Suzy shows Cherry (who are both about a size 10, I would say, 12 at a push) </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">around her flat, including a kitchen cupboard with a worrying lack of any food and is rather chock full of dieting pills, and her bedroom mirror which is surrounded not only with pictures of her as a genuine bonafide CHILD (a body which she really and actually never will be able to get back) and of celebrities whose jobs are to be slim and beautiful. Cherry rightly points out the body types on show here are so varied it seems her ideal body is actually impossible for her to achieve. She then asks her to talk her through some of the pills and what they do. Suzy mentions some diet which involves drinking pepper and water or something?! Which sounds truly horrendous, to which Cherry only responds that she tried a liquid only diet once too. </span><br />
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At this point, a pyschologist and a doctor come on screen to talk about the pyschological basis to Suzy's dependancy on these pills, and about the long term effects of bad nutrition, of starving the body and so on, about how she has a lovely, perfectly healthy body and instead of taking pills she should eat healthily and do exercise......Oh hang on, sorry no that didn't happen, MY MISTAKE! Sorry about that. Instead, they go and try on some Bikinis, truly demonstrating how tiny they both are and how unneccessary and quite probably damaging to the health taking these pills may well be. Suzy is so upset that she crys. CUE PSYCHOLOGIST....</div>
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Nope, nope, sorry! What actually happens is that Cherry decides to take Suzy to a dance class, not to remind her how much she loves to dance and how good exercise makes you feel but as an alternative "solution". Suzy emerges looking glowing and happy and remembering why she loved dancing so much, but at the end when they catch up with her, she admits she's been unable to quite bring herself to throw away the pills in case there is a day when she is feeling down or indeed "ill." Ill?! Er.....I'm not sosure that's the day to be drinking slim fast personally, which Cherry tells her. No, no, sorry! Haha, sorry, Cherry actually tells her that she was so impressed by Suzy's perfectly health and well balanced approach to managing her weight that she went out and bought some of the pills.</div>
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On to the 2nd interesting case of the programme, and to my mind not an addict of any kind at all. Without re-watching the programme I can't seem to find out his name, (which is not going to happen because I have far better things to do with my time like sticking carpet tacks into the soles of my feet), but he was a lovely young welsh chap (I can't remember his age, but I'm going to take a stab at early 20s) with erectile dysfunction problems. As a result he was "addicted" to Viagra. Cherry talks to him about various other options, including a penile implant. She shows him a video of the procedure itself, where they both scream and look away from the screen, and Cherry gurns at him in horror, as the surgery goes on. They dismiss this as an extreme option.</div>
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Then, they take a visit to a specialist in erectile dysfunction, who goes through various options with him and then refers the chap to a qualified sexual therapist who will take him through a course to understand and work out the underlying pyschological reasons behind his problem.</div>
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Ah, no, sorry.....sorry, me again, sorry! Got muddled up! What they actually do is a quick google search and find a hypnotherapist. He has a session with the hypnotherapist, and is full of hope and feels as if a burden has been lifted off him, at which point the highly insightful Cherry says:</div>
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"Seeing how you're reacting now I'm starting to think that this is probably an emotional problem" (or words to that effect, I already told you I'm not re-watching). </div>
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The chap is successfully treated after 2 hypnotherapy sessions, which is really and properly fantastic, and has gone on to enjoy a healthy sexual relationship with his boyfriend. Later in the programme we hear that they couple are engaged and in my favourite and sweetest bit of dialogue of the whole programme shyly admit that once they're married "we'll move in together" (my heart melted at that).</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Now, I know this is BBC3 and a lighthearted look at lifestyle choices, but by the end I was really fuming. Not only about the way that sexual dysfunction was included in a programme about "Addictions" but also about the way that Suzy's problem was treated in such an off-hand manner. I am not a doctor, but I would personally have brought in a nutritionist and a GP to talk through her body issues. Perhaps they did this, perhaps they did all of these things, but where was the mention of it in the programme? What made me most angry is that the negative and seemingly destructive way she related to her own body wasn't in question at all - it's a given that young, slim women feel shit about themselves, that is just the nature of our society. Young women watching that (and let's not forget that BBC3's target audience are the younger demographic) wouldn't come away with an affirmation that we should love and respect our bodies, that we should do exercise and eat well to be healthy and feel good, but that we should be beating our bodies into submission, whether that <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">is through using dieting pills or through exercise. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I am still waiting for a decent programme about sexual dysfunction. Cherry at one point admitted that she hadn't realised problems such as erectile dysfunction were actually such big issues. The only good thing about this particular segment was that the man they interviewed was young and healthy, which at least showed that erectile dysfunction can actually effect anyone, and can have a pyschological basis.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Anyway, this was all redeemed because right at the end, there was a bit where they said "If any of the problems in this programme have affected you please...."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Oh, who am I kidding. </span><br />
<br />Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-35444093658277196062012-06-20T02:23:00.000-07:002012-06-20T02:23:24.770-07:00Porn - An update<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Hi Vaginistas,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The sun is shining in London town, I am unemployed, and so I'm going to go and have a walk somewhere new soon, to a folly which isn't a folly - exciting. I love a walk I do. What? I'm unemployed, I've got to find my free kicks where I can. I'm going to put a long floaty dress on and pretend I'm a regency lady. Later I might pull the labels off some empty beer bottles and see if they have enough adhesive left to stick to my forehead. It's going to be a veritable jamboree of excitement.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But before I do that (steady Keeks, steady, the labels will still be there later), I thought I'd squander some valuable sun time by writing an update on the NHS porn, hooray! A friend asked me about it (I AM BRILLIANT AT ANONYMITY) and it seemed like a good idea to follow up on it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Well. I'm afraid it was just too much for me. I'm sorry, I tried, I really tried! It's just too dated, I can't hear the filthy saxophone wailing and see the flouro pink eyeshadow and perms without it all simultaneously disgusting and tickling me. Whilst it is entertaining in it's way, it doesn't do what it's meant to do. I mean, for me that is, some of you might love it, I'm not judging.....(I am a little bit)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The point of it, as I said before, was for me to look at normal happy couples having sex, and realise that it doesn't hurt when they get to the main event. Fine. Except I know other people have sex and that it doesn't hurt. We all know that; after all women with Vaginismus are the dirty little secret, not the ones having lots of lovely, pain-free sex. But watching a fella humping away on an impeccably-permed lady in tasteful soft focus doesn't make me think "hang on, her face isn't scrunched up in agony!" it just makes me think "Look what he's doing with his PELVIS! Why is he doing it that hard?! That would definitely hurt, if it were me. She looks happy though."</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA4pvVe7svQWq2i4ToqK-ieW0MYVJIrrHGm1pI0YIGcDtcn_Co3Unxne9bFNxGrb1qnUqmkiCYViz7GQybTZPebX8iiiwDqpkiqCOuRU9yNMvHXiEQahUHTYAdJ60ZUEMIuf6N8H0SKjrU/s1600/perm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA4pvVe7svQWq2i4ToqK-ieW0MYVJIrrHGm1pI0YIGcDtcn_Co3Unxne9bFNxGrb1qnUqmkiCYViz7GQybTZPebX8iiiwDqpkiqCOuRU9yNMvHXiEQahUHTYAdJ60ZUEMIuf6N8H0SKjrU/s320/perm.jpg" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The face of allure</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I suppose it's about changing perceptions, in fact I know it is, but going back 30 years apparently isn't doing it for me. Who knew?! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What I have discovered though, which I've found really useful, is that if you find porn that <i>does </i>do it for you*, using the dilators, sorry trainers - we have to call them trainers and not dilators! News bulletin vaginistas! My therapist told me this, because you're not making anything bigger, you're showing the muscles that they can expand. Which makes sense really - is a whole different kettle of fish. I wish that this had come up in therapy, but it actually makes complete sense - you're training your body to realise that penetration isn't painful, and you'll (hopefully) be attempting penetration only in a state of arousal. It's completely different, and so much easier. Since I discovered this, using the trainers has become <i>so much easier</i>. Really! In fact, so much easier that I am on the 2nd biggest one. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-HuYy0CHKFv4zz0v0NStdtGJBhhSS3vnzSipHevH_Onmj7hijAwFRlSsZV7PdusEnupCnNYVa29ZDC6HXetdGSoX-y6Gb0IUOW1PTBlLIzJY06ni3YH0l_8f1s0ooZeq-SNGicwG3bJLY/s1600/rosette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-HuYy0CHKFv4zz0v0NStdtGJBhhSS3vnzSipHevH_Onmj7hijAwFRlSsZV7PdusEnupCnNYVa29ZDC6HXetdGSoX-y6Gb0IUOW1PTBlLIzJY06ni3YH0l_8f1s0ooZeq-SNGicwG3bJLY/s1600/rosette.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This is a metaphorical rosette. But I really have one though.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I KNOW! 2ND BIGGEST! Look at me and my stretchy, stretchy vagina! Behold! The wonders of the stretchiness! What's that? You heard that my stretchy vagina is on the 2nd biggest trainer? Why yes, you are correct, here's my autograph, NO PHOTOS!!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The hubble can fuck off though.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So, if you're using the trainers and are struggling with them, this is my suggestion - don't do it, as I was originally instructed, in the manner of a Victorian lady, sitting back and thinking of England, breathing deeply and calmingly, and pretending the whole thing isn't happening. Finding a nice, sensible novel to read to take your mind off the process is fine, but actually you want your body to know that when things get steamy and you try penetration it won't hurt, and so getting into that zone is better - and honestly, so much easier. You don't want that disconnect, of letting it all go on down there and counting down the time til you can remove the thing, that's (hopefully) not what will be happening during sex after all. You want to be able to feel it, you just want it to feel good, and not painful. Try it ladies, it is better.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Now, I'm off to find a folly, and maybe have an ice lolly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A parting rhyme. I know, I'm just all give, I really am.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> * Porn that women enjoy. I know. I KNOW. It's a big and contentious issue. Bloody the patriarchy.</span>Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-17338332929170577562012-06-08T04:45:00.002-07:002012-06-08T04:59:11.221-07:00The vaginista and the pea<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Hello Vaginistas,</div>
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I'm sorry I haven't written anything for a while. Quickly, I just want to say thank you to those of you who sent me emails; I'm sorry I haven't replied, I am struggling in a fug of unemployed and new-spinster lethargy, but I promise I will drag myself out of it and reply soon. Needless to say, I am so happy and humbled (if I can say "humbled" without it coming across as the opposite) to receive emails from you all. I have received amazing, inspiring, heartbreaking stories from amazing men and women, and I'm really quite overwhelmed that you contacted me. Honestly, it's a surprising and beautiful side-effect to this blog. I'm hoping (with the authors' consent) to get some of the stories up here soon.</div>
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Anyway, all that aside, things are a little funny at the moment. Breaking up with someone rather makes you put sexual therapy on a back burner, but I think progress is still steady. My vagina and I are more or less at peace. I do however have one quite funny story to tell you.</div>
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I noticed a couple of weeks ago that I had a tiny, quite painful little lump on my labia. My heart did that one big THUMP followed by the rush of panic that floods up from feet to head that you get when you realise something bad. I calmly went through all of the most likely reasons for the appearance of the lump:<br />
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"SHIT! I HAVE GOT SOME HORRIFIC DISEASE!<br />
SOME WEIRD CREATURE HAS CRAWLED INTO MY VAGINA AND IS CHEWING ON IT!<br />
IT'S COLLAPSING FROM THE OUTISDE IN!!<br />
NNGRARAAGAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH!"<br />
I conjectured.<br />
<br />
When I had my first (failed) smear test, the well-meaning but nevertheless patronising nurse told me not to worry, as "Virgins" are at 99% less risk of any infections or diseases in their nether-regions than the sexually initiated. But there's always exceptions right? And there is still that 1% to consider, lurking balefully in the background.</div>
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Having accepted that conjecture and panic probably wasn't going to help, I decided I had to go to the drop in gum clinic, grit my teeth and put up with any sort of incredulity or - if I was really unlucky - dismissal that might be sent my way. A painful pea is not a normal thing to find on your foof, after all.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZRuaKMVX_sIAi3A2KZXl20Ksym-1qYsxbcERR1ygem922SendbCkpPPGmzp0fITctZt50mHfMv6y-mfOZ-iwpSlZk3bo-sVHeiq40fPCX8uVqn5dnRw6WqBK9dhu6jxnBY-HuwrRYWC-1/s1600/princess+and+pea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZRuaKMVX_sIAi3A2KZXl20Ksym-1qYsxbcERR1ygem922SendbCkpPPGmzp0fITctZt50mHfMv6y-mfOZ-iwpSlZk3bo-sVHeiq40fPCX8uVqn5dnRw6WqBK9dhu6jxnBY-HuwrRYWC-1/s320/princess+and+pea.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I sat in the waiting room reading, trying to push the thought of horrible, cold and cruel speculums out of my mind, and was shortly joined by two women. As they sat down on the other side of the room, one turned to the other and chuckled:</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Did you see? The receptionist recognised me. Haha, I'm in here all the time!" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Her friend duly chuckled. I mentally punched myself in the brain to stop it from unfairly judging. What a cow my brain is. It did help me to relax slightly however. "Other women do this all the time! <i>All the time</i>!" I thought. It can't be so bad......</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Eventually, my name was called and I went in to see a male Doctor. Now, I know that perhaps some women would prefer to see a female Doctor but honestly, it doesn't bother me either way - as long as they are professionals and not squeamish, then I'm happy. I'm really more worried about what the Doctor uses, than whether the Doctor is male or Female. I was mainly worried in case he turned out to be one of the Vaginismus un-initiated.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Happily, he turned out to be actually and properly amazing. I told him the problem, and he very calmy said it was probably nothing, but definitely a good idea to check it out. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"I think we should try a speculum" he said, at which point my heart did that big BOOM! Thing again, and all the blood left my face "But we will take it very slowly - I promise. If it hurts, we can stop, if you don't feel comfortable, we can stop. There is absolutely no pressure at all". I loved him. I wanted to give him a hug, but I didn't. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A Nurse took me through to a treatment room, where I was told to undress from the waist down, get on the bench and put my legs in the stirrups. </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZX5Pbq63WKd409uXWdeQT1kjsiXmkyBmkXC_4dp8ryI1FCdxzQR4DSvvrHllJSOX8TTj74Phw4ZiXqCH5Rr4WKolcXx-7tOyf91FeCBfUfZ1GD0RVT86wJqvKulQR9pQQr_wy3B_YO-2g/s1600/stirrups.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZX5Pbq63WKd409uXWdeQT1kjsiXmkyBmkXC_4dp8ryI1FCdxzQR4DSvvrHllJSOX8TTj74Phw4ZiXqCH5Rr4WKolcXx-7tOyf91FeCBfUfZ1GD0RVT86wJqvKulQR9pQQr_wy3B_YO-2g/s200/stirrups.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But, I don't see any horses?</td></tr>
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Oh, the stirrups. I'm sure you all agree that sitting like this, vulnerable and wide open to the world and it's wife (Yes, OK, so a Doctor and a Nurse, but STILL), with a light pointed directly inside you, is not a fun thing. I was already dreading the painful muscle spasming. Obviously, a smear test is not a fun thing for anyone. I doubt there are many women who look in their calendar and shout</div>
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"YESSSSSS! I TOTES FORGOT I AM GETTING A SMEAR DONE TODAY, DOUBLE HAND GRAB! POINT ME TO THE STIRRUPS!"</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But vaginismus is an extra cherry on top of the whole affair.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I sat there until the Doctor came in, with my legs in the air, gazing whistfully at my disgarded pants. I duly made small talk with the Nurse about the weather, because I am British dammit, and making small talk about the weather is my duty in ALL SITUATIONS. Even situations where I am laying spreadeagled with a stranger snapping on some natty rubber gloves. That done, the Doctor commenced with the examination. It turned out the little pea had disappeared, and was in all likelihood a gland that had become blocked, which is apparently quite normal and can happen from time to time. I am adding this to the list of things that No One Has Told Me About My Vagina (thanks a LOT Catholic education).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He decided we should try a smear test anyway. I felt all the muscles in my body clam up tight. He told me to relax, and started. I squealed. He stopped. He tried again. I squealed and started to cry. He stopped.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"I'm so sorry" I said, feeling the full and mortifying failure of my body.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"What on earth are you apologising for?" He said mildly, putting away the horrible instrument of female torture. I considered asking him to marry me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"It's OK dear" Said the nurse cheerfully "We can try a smaller one".</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">WHAT. WHAT IS THIS? A smaller speculum?! That is a thing?! WHY DID WE NOT TRY THIS FIRST?! At the time, I was too relieved to feel anything but glad that the Evil thing had gone.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The smaller speculum worked fine. I realise in hind-sight that a previous Nurse had told me about them before, and I wish I'd remembered on the way into the examination. Anyway, after that everything went fine. The actual smear samples were nothing; I could barely feel them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"All done" The doctor said cheerfully, removing his gloves, and leaving me to get dressed. I was exultant, euphoric! I was a proper, real woman, a woman who has smear tests! A woman, with a vagina, that can have SMEAR TESTS!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As I sat there, beaming at my naked ankles high in the air and thinking to myself "I AM WOMAN. I AM PROPER WOMAN. ME VAGINA HAVE SMEAR" </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">the nurse pulled the curtain across to let me dress and turned to me one last time,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"If this happens again" She said kindly "Just make sure you ask for the Virgin speculum."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">With that, she left the room. </span><br />
<br />Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-1036463613103758642012-05-31T15:38:00.003-07:002012-05-31T15:38:37.010-07:00Breaking up.....Hi Vaginistas,<br />
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I'm sorry I haven't written anything for a while for the (4? 1000? OK, 2) readers of this blog. Basically, it's been a shitty couple of weeks, including losing my job and now, this week, splitting up with my boyfriend. He is wonderful and lovely, and has done nothing wrong at all, it is just one of those things, as THEY say. THEY = WANKERS. <br />
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I'll be back on track and writing again soon, but in the mean time, sorry. I'm so happy that this blog seems to have found people that want to read it, and love getting messages and things from the ridiculous rambles I write. I didn't know what to expect what I started it, but am loving hearing from people and having an outlet for everything. I guess this is just another of my usual outpourings, just rather more melancholy than usual. <br />
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If you need me I'll be in my PJs, gin soaked and weeping at episodes of Doctors. Probably.Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-92085967247822814852012-05-15T08:52:00.000-07:002012-05-15T08:58:19.458-07:00Bras, nipples and complicated feelings<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Hi Vaginistas,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I thought I'd do a post about how vaginismus<i> feels</i> - not physically, but deep down, in your achey feeling-pit of a centre. I think in my opinion, this is one of the hardest things to overcome with the big ouchey, and also one of the most important. So here goes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Every now and again, about once a year, I thrust my feet into my very old and stinky, but still delightfully comfortable carpet boots*, grit my teeth and march out my door, with steel in my eyes and determination vibrating through my very being. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Bra shopping.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I've pretty much given up on this most feminine of consumerist activities. It's not that I'm afraid of them, or have rejected them as patriarchal strapping and shaping devices. I quite <i>like</i> bras. They're pretty, and they stop people going "OOH! NIPPLES!" at you, and at certain times of the month when your boobs are aching, they hold you up and stop them from jiggling around painfully. Amiright fellas? Yaknowwarramsaying.You see, the problem is they just don't make bras in my size.</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhESXi5AWVebZ-7wAlZk_S1ZgVFmOjsQifgiKHnshJ9eJMgSP-NkE-pjm2pEeOpeb9dT7V2fB9YNbqotvjogEXiDSJXXevQ5gCUHUrfSc28Pg-tb5JmAB7y6T_GiDflF0rd1MgSDOiKcE2Y/s1600/bras.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhESXi5AWVebZ-7wAlZk_S1ZgVFmOjsQifgiKHnshJ9eJMgSP-NkE-pjm2pEeOpeb9dT7V2fB9YNbqotvjogEXiDSJXXevQ5gCUHUrfSc28Pg-tb5JmAB7y6T_GiDflF0rd1MgSDOiKcE2Y/s320/bras.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">you mean....they meet in the middle?!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">One day when I realised it was that time of year, I wandered resignedly into a high street department store, telling myself I would leave the second the panic set in from seeing all those bras made for <i>normal </i>women, with <i>normal </i>sized boobs. To my delight and surprise I stumbled, ecstatically, incredulously, upon a whole range of bras which were all in my size!! I couldn't believe it - hail to thee, oh wondrous department store and this, thine glorious bounty of bras! I thought. Or something along those lines. I didn't notice right away the abundance of pink patterns, hearts and the like, which covered them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I picked a couple up, and noticed they had copious amounts of tags attached to them. Curious as to how a bra needed such an awful lot of reading material - maybe they were a new invention? Maybe they were some fantastic eco thingamajiggy, and as I walked they would turn my body heat into oxygen? - I opened one of the pink tags to have a look. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"If my breasts are still growing, is it OK to wear an underwired bra?" The tag questioned. It went on to answer itself, but I had already stopped reading, and replaced the bras in a hurry.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Training bras. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My boobs are SO SMALL, they are considered by this highly respected department store to be NOT QUITE FINISHED GROWING YET. I am 28. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I practically ran out of the store, feeling appalled and humiliated, a little bit giggly at the ridiculousness of it, and resolved never to try this again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Now, honestly, I am really a normal sized person. I'm quite small, sure, but not unusually so, if you saw me walking down the road I'm almost 75% sure that you wouldn't think "How strange! That woman is fully grown, and yet her breasts are still the same size as an adolescent girl! I shall put her in a cage and parade her about town with my mermaid and hairy woman, and charge tuppance a stare!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I know it is not done for one to talk about being "too small" and please believe me when I say I am not trying to show off! Really and honestly. I know that women have - and have at various points in my own life also felt - negatively about thighs which seem to be just too big, for stomachs that seem to be far too round, and of course I know that this is a whole, enormous issue. What about women whose breasts are so large to the point of being painful, of being a health issue? For women who have had masectomies and are left only with scars, or prosthetics? <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Beauty-Myth-Images-Against/dp/0099861909"></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The reason I compare this particular sentiment to vaginismus is that there is something so particular about a woman's breasts, and their importance to a woman's femininity that at ridiculous moments times like these, when I can't find a stupid bra my size because they actually don't come small enough, that I feel like a failure, like I'm not quite a proper woman at all. I feel de-feminised.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV966J4R8qiFkTWQSe5vyzY-uIPD_R7NNyol8K4gyWdH8z4rYhBD88EUZRuwVDKrQtlFbb0bkc91aH5pFa0b7kKxz3vseF_QkIJ8I3OWMVpGCchnG-kiomvB3xNficYwxaIZOpOBUgTP-m/s1600/bra-burning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV966J4R8qiFkTWQSe5vyzY-uIPD_R7NNyol8K4gyWdH8z4rYhBD88EUZRuwVDKrQtlFbb0bkc91aH5pFa0b7kKxz3vseF_QkIJ8I3OWMVpGCchnG-kiomvB3xNficYwxaIZOpOBUgTP-m/s320/bra-burning.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Burn the flipping things, and then lets go and get nachos!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">If this sounds frivolous, overblown, conceited and lacking in any sense of wider perspective, then I would say you could well be right, though I've tried to show that that isn't the case. But when it comes to one's own appearance, and certainly one's appearance put in the context of what it means to your inherent womanhood and sexuality then perhaps you might start to see why it is to a degree, important. You see how this applies to vaginismus? It's all one and the same thing - my body isn't how a woman's body <i>should </i>be and so I am a failure as a woman. I feel awful, and sad, and ashamed of myself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I don't really care about bras anymore. I've stock piled on the few that I've found that fit, and often I just jiggle about without a bra on, WILLING people to say anything to me. And vaginismus? Well, I've found peace with that too, in as much as I want to stamp the bastard out. Stamp that bastard RIGHT out, jiggling all the way.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">*if you don't have a pair of carpet boots you are a) missing out on all the excitement of static shocks and b) not as comfortable as me) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">** Side note - have you read </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Beauty_Myth" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The Beauty Myth?</a> If not, you should!</span>Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-71755877077624769022012-05-08T14:14:00.001-07:002012-05-08T14:14:04.751-07:00Keeks gets a porno<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Evening Vaginistas,</div>
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As London is resolute in its decision to be gloomy and october-esque, I thought I'd cheer us all up in Summer's absence with a little tale about porn. I know, I'm all heart. </div>
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I was at a therapy session, ensconced in the classic sepia carpet chair (found in all good treatment rooms). We'd just moved on to how things were progressing with the treatment, having talked about what had been going on in my life recently - which, incidentally is the part I love; I can talk as much as I want about ME without having to ask her anything about herself; the narcissists DREAM!. </div>
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"Tell me how you feel about the concept of sex." She of the fabulous coral earrings asked me.</div>
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"Er......It's nice? I like it?" I answered cautiously - playing it cool, obviously. I don't want the woman to think I'm a sex fiend.</div>
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"Good, that's good" She nodded, and wrote something on her notebook (probably something like THIS WOMAN IS A TOTAL SEX FIEND.) </div>
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"And, regarding penetration, how do you feel about that? For example, do you think it will hurt?" </div>
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I looked at her in some confusion at this. I mean.....Call me mad, but I thought that that was an established truth. I wondered what she thought I was there for, if not because I think that sex hurts. I mean.... I <i>know</i> sex hurts, I've tried it.</div>
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"Yes." I said firmly, confident that at least I knew the answer to this one. "I think it will definitely hurt."</div>
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"Really?" She said, apparently surprised (I started to wonder idly how many sessions I'd had and if perhaps somewhere along the line they'd replaced my original therapist without telling me. Didn't she remember why we were there? Thinking about it, they could have distracted me by handing on the fabulous coral earrings to the replacement, the clever swines!)</div>
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"On a scale of 1-10, 10 being the highest, how much would you say you feel certain about the likelihood of penetration hurting?" She glanced at me, and continued to scribble on her notepad.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The pain game - Fun for everyone!</span></td></tr>
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"Er...." I shuffled about a bit in my chair. Honestly, I was surprised that she was surprised, but decided to go along with it. "10." I said firmly "Definitely a good solid 10."</div>
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"Really?" She said again, with that irritating lift on the first syllable that people use to make sure you know they're surprised. "<b><i>Rea</i></b>lly? That's interesting." Scribble, scribble went the pad.</div>
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"REALLY?" I thought to myself "IS IT INTERESTING? OR IS IT JUST VAGINISMUS?!" </div>
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"This is something we're going to have to work on, this dependence on the certainty of pain" She said to me. I nodded in agreement. Yes it was. Remind me again, how many sessions?......</div>
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"Now......I know you're only a young girl, so I hope you won't mind my asking, but have you ever watched any porn?" She said gently. </div>
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"Er....no, not really" I said shrugging, all nonchalance. It's a times like this in our conversations that I most feel a little bit like I'm having a conversation with an unruly aunt, who out of the blue will say something dreadful without realising, like referring to the cupboard where she keeps her secret chocolate supply as her "glory hole"*. You know, a bit embarrassed, a bit flushed, and always half a muscle twitch away from histerical giggling.</div>
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She nodded again, scribbling away. "Well, perhaps it would be useful for you to spend a bit of time watching some. I know there is a lot out there, lots of it very nasty and aggressive stuff, I promise I'm not suggesting anything like that. Have you ever heard of 'the lovers guide?' " She fished out a box set of DVDs from one of her drawers and handed it to me. "I think you should take it, and spend a bit of time watching the sections specifically focussed on penetration. It might help you get this idea out of your head that it hurts."</div>
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Now, I hadn't heard of the lovers guide, but dear sweet jimminy crickets I have now. It is an 80's rose-tinted, sex-saxophone-backed vintage extravaganza, that is not in the least bit sexy. Not for me anyway, I dunno, you may be into that sort of thing....</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQfOPQv3BAL_DCeBnwb4c9tx5j2Q0Xo-RXVdMuQfqj0BzJKxBY2D3pW2QrYxYOv-D_B2n-VntP3oAFbT5ueRBJDG8_uKeKXWHRwF0U9zLIP-ftq9-3VHXVw6tLfvPKlboOpKDOkQ-lArwY/s1600/porno.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQfOPQv3BAL_DCeBnwb4c9tx5j2Q0Xo-RXVdMuQfqj0BzJKxBY2D3pW2QrYxYOv-D_B2n-VntP3oAFbT5ueRBJDG8_uKeKXWHRwF0U9zLIP-ftq9-3VHXVw6tLfvPKlboOpKDOkQ-lArwY/s320/porno.jpg" width="209" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This isn't from the lovers guide, but my hairdresser has this poster on his wall.</span></td></tr>
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I know they are all lovely, real couples who are genuinely in love and all that, but I really didn't need to see that amount of perms. Not with soft focus. It was too difficult to distinguish collar from cuffs. And I actually feared for the penises of some of those men, really I did - they were brave soldiers indeed to let such fuscia talons anywhere near their cock and balls. </div>
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That said, I'm sure it is just another facet to this interesting and often baffling process, and I'm also sure that it will help, just like the breathing exercises (which I haven't written about, but are basically yoga breathing type things, to help relax and calm you) and especially just like the dilators. That hubble telescope is not going to conquer itself. I haven't found the section on penetration yet (Honestly, there are SO MANY CDs to this thing!) but maybe it will help, seeing relaxed happy couples doing it. Maybe the perms will help? Who knows! </div>
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If you would like to share your porno/therapy stories please do in the comments - share and share alike!</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">* Yes. This has actually happened. I know, HILARIOUS. I didn't correct her.</span>Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-60375923720943512672012-05-01T14:11:00.000-07:002012-05-02T01:59:14.802-07:00How not to cure vaginismus<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hi Vaginistas,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back before I had been diagnosed with lady-zip, I was going out with a young fella who I quite liked at the time, but who in hind sight was a bit of a knob-end. Sorry, is that a bit mean? OK so he wasn't a bit of a knob-end, but he wasn't right for me (*cough* total knob-end *cough*). We'd been together for a little while, and hadn't managed to have penetrative sex, or as he liked to call it - ACTUAL sex. (I don't know what he thought all the things we did do were, but apparently they didn't count as proper sex. Really, as he was that ungrateful I should've just saved my energy and watched re-runs of Dr Who instead. Much more fun. And less sticky. And easier on the knees) ANYWAY. Obviously, we didn't know then that I had vaginismus, but we knew there was something wrong, a matter compounded by another problem. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He was a big boy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I say big, I mean it was <i>enormous</i> people, it would easily eclipse the <a href="http://lamatadorita.blogspot.co.uk/p/guide-to-vaginal-dilators.html">hubble telescope</a>; in fact it would quite possibly eclipse the moon thinking about it. It was a huge pillar of man flesh. A manaconda. It was the nelson's column of penises*. IT WAS BIG</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, is what I'm getting at here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, believe me, I am not bragging. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bigness</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> is not something that us lady with clamps are impressed by. We are scared of it. We see bigness and we run away covering our faces and screaming "DEAR GOD THE HUMANITY!!!!" </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"There is no WAY that you are getting THAT in THERE"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But on the plus size, his bigness meant that he was prepared for tricky sexual situations. It had been difficult with past girlfriends, he told me (not without a touch of pride), and that what I needed was practice with other, smaller phallicy things.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, he wasn't far wrong in some ways......but without any knowledge of vaginismus, the sort of practice he had in mind was really not what I should have been doing. Not what I should have been doing at <i>all</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I bought myself a big, plastic, pink vibrator that had 20 different speeds and rotating ballbearings, a happy face on the tip (seriously) and rabbit ears (Side note - why the bunnies, why?! The bunnies are innocents, they don't need to be a part of this! Leave the poor bunnies alone!) The thing was bloody terrifying. It was like some sort of a hellish "barbies first torture chamber" set. I proceeded to torture myself with it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I thought, in true British stiff-upper-lip style that what I needed to do was stop being so ruddy silly, and of COURSE it was going to hurt, until I just pushed through the first bit of excruciating pain and then things would be fine. But of course I was wrong! </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You see, as I've explained in other sections of this blog, the muscles need to be taught that penetration </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">shouldn't</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> be painful, and this takes time and various sized implements, a lovely therapist and patience and no qualms about dignity whatsoever. I set about proving to myself quite the opposite.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I forced that stupid thing against the shrieking and protesting of my muscles, and let me tell you it really, really hurt. Really. It also in no way helped to cure me. Please, please don't try this if you have or think you have vaginismus, it will really only reinforce the psychological conviction that penetration is painful, and won't help in the long or short run. It'll just convince your muscles that they are right and should continue to do everything they can to keep that thing out, out, <i>out</i>. It hurt, and I felt more ashamed and freakish, and overwhelmed with panic.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Having carried out this self-torture a few times, Mr (Not a) Knob-end and I decided, unsuccessfully, to attempt sex. As I lay teary, hyperventilating, shaking and humiliated, he did his best to comfort me, but couldn't resist saying "You're just not practicing enough!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It wasn't his fault of COURSE, because he had never heard of vaginismus, and didn't know how it should be treated and thought that what I was doing was the best thing. That's why we're here today, dear vaginistas, because people DO need to know these things. But if I had never been diagnosed I wonder if I would still be trying the same thing now, hurting myself because I thought it was the only way to be cured. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We split up eventually, without too much fuss on either side, and unsurprisingly we never did manage penetration through these methods. In fact, as I stood on his porch and we said our final goodbyes, he smiled ruefully, without irony and said:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />"It's such a shame we never actually had sex". </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You know what? I don't think it is actually. I really don't think it is. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">*are there too many references to the napoleonic war in this blog? </span>Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-9164550515460861552012-04-30T11:38:00.003-07:002012-04-30T11:51:41.267-07:00Thanks!<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, just a quick message to say thank you to the lovely vagenda magazine, for publishing this: <a href="http://vagendamag.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/having-vaginismus.html">http://vagendamag.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/having-vaginismus.html</a> which is a sort of snap shot of my blog; I'm so excited to have it up there on a wicked feminist website. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thank you for coming and checking out my blog and for the really lovely comments, and also to the people who sent me private emails; it is wonderful to know there are so many strong Women (and Men!) dealing with Vaginismus and other similar issues. I'm really so happy that you felt compelled to contact me in whatever way, so thank you again. Please do feel free to comment and send me messages, I love hearing from you! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Have a flower </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Proper blog soon, right now I'm eating hula hoops.....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keeks</span>Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-12042741183426099352012-04-20T00:12:00.002-07:002012-04-30T12:32:22.444-07:00Auntie flo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ugh. Don’t start with me today vaginistas, OK? DO NOT start, because I’m feeling irrationally teary and am craving a bushel of doughnuts like nobody’s business. And ouch! My stomach feels like I’m early-career Britney, and I’ve just spent the morning stomach-crunching my perfect little abs in matching tracky b’s and crop top, which I know for a FACT isn’t the case because my skinny jeans won’t do up (and did I mention the doughnuts?). UGH. Pass me the hot water bottle, would you? And the Sharpe DVD boxset. And doughnuts.<br />
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Some things about being a lady-woman just aren’t as fun as others, like this monthly ritual of aches and blood and hormones and men shuffling away looking a bit scared because I’ve mentioned aches and blood and hormones. At best, it’s an inconvenience – a messy, achey, undignified inconvenience.<br />
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For the lady with a clamp, it can be another irritating hurdle.<br />
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I refer of course to tampons. Ah, the humble tampon. They’re stored down supermarket aisles that have names like “Feminine Hygiene”, “Women’s Healthcare”, “Blood-trappers”, and “ALERT! YOU WITH THE COCK AND BALLS! THIS AISLE IS NOT FOR YOU! GET OUT, GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN!”. And then there’s using the flipping things. The suggested stance of putting one leg up on the bath, like it’s a valiant beast you’ve overcome with naught but your wit and a ruddy great gun, while fiddling about *down there* is one I’ve personally never mastered. Now I come to think of it, it’s probably a very particular form of yoga.<br />
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For women with V, tampons can be more than an inconvenience; they can be simply unusable. They sit there on the shelf in the lady-aisle, all prim and multi-coloured, and mocking the reluctant frou. I know this to be a true fact, because this was the case with me for years and years. Until 3 years ago, I genuinely thought that it was probably because I was a *whisper it* virgin, and gave up trying, but know now that it was because of that dastardly vaginismus.*<br />
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Now, I went to a Catholic all girls school, so my sex ed wasn’t exactly cutting edge. It was fine, but it wasn’t, you know, progressive. One particularly memorable class featured a video of a woman giving birth, and the message “DON’T EVER HAVE SEX OR YOU WILL GET PREGNANT AND GIVE BIRTH AND PROBABLY DIE, unless you’re married, in which case go for your life but DON’T USE CONDOMS”** Basically, I was an innocent type.<br />
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If you are struggling to use tampons, and are wondering if you may have vaginismus, ask yourself the following:<br />
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<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Do you I feel anxious, scared or panicky when I think about, or try to, use a tampon?</span></li>
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<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Am I certain that I am inserting it in the right place?</span></li>
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<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Does it hurt when I try to insert it?</span></li>
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<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Does it feel like something is physically stopping the tampon going in properly? (If you’ve got it in, but it doesn’t feel quite right - that is, you can feel the tampon - it’s not in properly.)</span></li>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If the answer to any or all of these is yes, you may well have Vaginismus - maybe have a look at my page "do I have vaginismus?" to check further. </span><br />
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Now, I know there are lovely, soft, un-intrusive sanitary towels, which obviously ladies with V can use. But that is not the point. Because honestly, tampons are amazing. They are OK? They have really and properly changed my life. I can swim! I can wear normal, not awful knickers!*** I can quietly change one in a communal toilet without that loud CSSSSSHHH! sound that lets EVERYONE in a mile radius know you are changing a sanitary towel.<br />
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They are a start. Honestly, if you are just in the process of starting to treat vaginismus, they are a good, small, manageable size. If you are struggling with using tampons, try applying the tips I’ve given on using dilators to see if they can help – it is important to say also that I’ve found applicator tampons are far, far easier to use than non-applicator types. I still can’t use these without the old familiar feelings of panic and fear. Applicators all the way.****<br />
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And now, strap on your favourite thong sister, and welcome to the club!!!!!....The…tampon club… yes, OK so I didn’t really think that sentence through....shhh.<br />
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*I don’t blame everything on vaginismus OK? I know that I only got a B in my BEST SUBJECT at school because I was a bit lazy and didn’t try hard enough, and not because my fnny doesn’t work properly. But in this case, it IS V’s fault. So there.<br />
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** Shame on me. This is incredibly reductive; I went to a brilliant school, and I’m pretty sure they never shouted this at us… Pretty sure.<br />
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*** I said CAN, not DO<br />
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**** Obviously make sure you properly follow all the instructions for usage etc in the tampon packet. *disclaimer face*</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">picture from </span><a href="http://2politicaljunkies.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/blog-for-sister-supplies.html">http://2politicaljunkies.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/blog-for-sister-supplies.html</a></div>
</div>Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-48524305721572287212012-04-02T12:28:00.004-07:002012-04-02T12:34:03.760-07:00The Reluctant Frou<ul id="yui_3_2_0_16_1333394275374129" style="background-color: white; margin-top: 0cm;" type="disc"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></ul><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hello Vaginistas,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've been thinking, it's about time we came up with another name for vaginismus. I mean, it’s not a pretty word is it? And it really doesn’t tell you anything about what it stands for; quite frankly it just sounds a bit icky.I think it’s about time we came up with something a bit more catchy/whimsical. I’m a big fan of whimsy.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> In fact, I'm quite sad I didn't think to call this blog "The Reluctant Frou", but this post will have to do. </span><br />
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</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To that end, here are my suggestions; please feel free to contribute below (a friend of mine suggested “The Lady is a Clamp”, which I am very pleased with): </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM-tSM43cwgRRL0YLJB39spcAgj5sIjI1Ooh83-HcwDUjldb3gFGBXX9O5YzRTjqhMUbTYTCq_-9VhkZ8nWqhLmn4h8F6qIcLk8FVc44JTUKQFeXLQmSSnBwqf_fAvBXwyuHXSolDQgmum/s1600/angrycat.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM-tSM43cwgRRL0YLJB39spcAgj5sIjI1Ooh83-HcwDUjldb3gFGBXX9O5YzRTjqhMUbTYTCq_-9VhkZ8nWqhLmn4h8F6qIcLk8FVc44JTUKQFeXLQmSSnBwqf_fAvBXwyuHXSolDQgmum/s320/angrycat.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cockblocker <br />
The Big Ouchy <br />
Lady Zip <br />
The Reluctant Frou <br />
The Impenetrable Forest of Bwindi <br />
A Nun’s Vagina <br />
No Stuffin’ the Muffin <br />
Fanny Flincher <br />
Love Lockdown <br />
The Uncompromising Clam <br />
The No-Manny Fanny <br />
Minge Cringer <br />
The Lady is a Clamp <br />
The Pissed Pussy <br />
The Stubborn Drawbridge <br />
The Gates of Mordor <br />
Vagelina Clampbucket <br />
Vaggy Voodoo <br />
Pandora’s Box <br />
Cunnot / Cun’t <br />
</span><br />
<div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Image from </span><a href="http://funnymadworld.blogspot.co.uk/2010/01/angry-cat.html">http://funnymadworld.blogspot.co.uk/2010/01/angry-cat.html</a></span></div></div></div>Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-32802733143325851862012-03-31T01:47:00.000-07:002012-03-31T01:47:32.582-07:00How does Vaginismus feel?<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;">Well hi there! Come and pull up a chair, join me on the porch why doncha? Have some lemonade; it’s made with real lemons you know. Come on; settle down, that’s it. How’s your Dennis these days? Still got that dodgy ticker?... Well, as I’ve been sat here, I’ve just been thinking. It’s a funny thing, memory, isn’t it? When I first started trying to figure out what was wrong with me way back when, I hadn’t heard of vaginismus and had no idea what was going on with my body. Now, having got so far on the journey to “recovery”, I sometimes forget what it felt like not to know what in the heckins was happening to me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;">If you find yourself where I was then, experiencing difficulties and not knowing what’s going on or why, you might want to know how vaginismus feels to see if it is something that resonates with you. Today then, I present to you my guide to how V feels. I’m not saying this is exactly how V is to everyone, but just personally how I have experienced it*, there will of course be variations from woman to woman.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;">This being a *<b>whisper it</b>* <i>sexual </i>disfunction, it has to be put in terms of a sexual situation so buckle up; things are about to get steamy, yo…..<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;">Picture the scene: You’ve managed to insinuate yourself into the solo company of some delightful creature who likes Murakami novels and rides an up-cycled bike to the local farmers market for his weekly shop. He’s got a delightfully mischievous smile and come-to-bed-eyes and is most DEFINITELY looking at you in a very promising way indeed. Together you’ve polished off a very good bottle of wine from Tesco (when I say very good, I mean drinkable for under a fiver) and finished discussing that TOTES EMOTIVE film you just watched together at the local picture house before popping into his for a night cap. His housemates are all out. Things are getting interesting. You both DEFINITELY want it. Then, this happens:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><br />
</div><ol start="1" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 0px !important; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;">To begin with, everything feels fine.</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;"> Good, even, if Mr up-cycle knows what he’s about. Vaginismus itself doesn’t prevent you being turned on, and the physical process of the body becoming aroused is the same, so for this part things are pretty exciting. V doesn’t prevent orgasm either.<o:p></o:p></span></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;">You’re approaching the main event… </span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;">but when any sort of penetration is attempted, things start to go wrong. First off, it hurts. You try to breathe through it. Then it really, really hurts. It feels a bit like you’re being ripped in half, right down the middle. This is due partly to the psychological side of V kicking in (of which, more later), but it’s primarily because the muscles physically clamp themselves closed. They are not keen on that weird looking thing coming towards them and trying to force its way in, in what is - quite frankly – a very pushy manner. The muscles, instead of relaxing and widening, start to spasm, which forms a sort of physical barrier. It’s the pushing against this wall of muscle that hurts, along with the actual spasms themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;">It feels impossible,</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;"> like there’s no physical way on earth anything is going in there, let alone anything THAT size, you horrible brute! That can’t even be <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">NORMAL</st1:city></st1:place> can it?! That thing is like a missile or something! The pain makes sense, you think, because obviously it’s going to hurt if you’re trying to push something fairly sizeable through an impossible barrier.<o:p></o:p></span></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;">Finally comes panic</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;"> – waves of butterflies and sometimes frantic tears, and then the indisputable need to be right out of that situation. RIGHT out. At this point, it is the gentleman’s duty to cuddle and reassure. You hear me gents? PUT THAT THING AWAY AND CUDDLE AND REASSURE!<o:p></o:p></span></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;">You don’t necessarily know what’s happening or why</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;">. Before I started therapy I didn’t know that the muscles were spasming, all I was aware of was the pain and the feeling of physical impossibility. I thought that perhaps there was something physically wrong with my anatomy, that perhaps I didn’t have a fully formed vagina, or maybe I had an intersex condition I wasn’t aware of. I didn’t know why it was happening or what to do about it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></li>
</ol><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;">Crucially with vaginismus, there is nothing physically wrong with the vagina</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;">. Everything anatomically is the same** Vaginismus is, at heart, a psychological issue. Something - of which you may or may not be conscious – is telling your body that whatever is going on down there is very wrong and needs to be blocked, so your body reacts as above to prevent it. This could be due to an experienced trauma such as sexual violence, or there could be absolutely no obvious reason for it at all, as in my case. Sometimes shit just happens.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;">Through therapy and the use of vaginal dilators, you can train your body to stop reacting in this way. It is a totally treatable condition, and not one to be ashamed of or to be blamed for. If Mr up-cycle is worth his salt, and realises how flipping well amazing you are he will be there on the journey with you, but if not then obviously he is a massive dick and can cram his pretentious art house films right up his a-hole. And who does their weekly shop at a farmers market it anyway?!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;">*Please see my disclaimer page - I am not a medical doctor, my understanding of vaginismus is personal and not something I have been medically trained in. Also, I am straight, so I’m going to be talking about this from a straight woman’s perspective, but v obviously affects lesbian as well as straight and naturally therefore can affect someone who enjoys penetrative sex, whether that be with a man or with "sex aids".<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;">** There may of course be other conditions which accompany vaginismus, and also of course there is the possibility that the vagina may in some way be slightly different. I'm literally at this point just describing vaginismus</span></span></div>Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-22408643838534101042012-03-23T01:20:00.000-07:002012-03-23T01:20:32.325-07:00An interview with a man about vaginismus<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">The other day, a thought penetrated my usually water-tight bubble of narcissism, and the thought was this: Here I am writing all about Vaginismus and how it affects me, and how it makes me<i> feel</i> and maa maa maa, isn’t my vagina RUBBISH, and I haven’t once written about how it affects my boyfriend. My attention was drawn to this by a friend of mine who also has v, who asked me “but…..how does he cope with it?!”. I’ve said it before that I’ve been really lucky in general in not encountering arseholes who freak out when they hear about Vaginismus, but I know that this is by no means the norm. </span></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;">My boyfriend and I obviously talk about it together, but I thought it might be nice to do an interview with him, to show vaginismus from a man’s point of view. I know some people may be surprised that a woman with primary vaginismus can enter into a relationship (I've not discussed primary and secondary vaginismus yet, I'll do so soon...) but it is really not as surprising as you might think.</span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">So, that being the case, here he is. He has requested that I call him “The Cure”, demonstrating that his levels of narcissism equal, if not exceed, mine (not to mention his optimism!), but this is asking a little too much, so I will call him “Robert” instead. Fnar.</span></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB"><b>Hello Robert. How are you. How was your day?</b></span></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">It was ok. I cut my finger though (<i>Robert proffers finger for inspection)</i></span></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB"><b>Sorry about that. Do you want me to kiss it better? <i>(Robert holds his finger to his chest and pouts</i>) No? Ok then, on with the interview! Tell me, how did you feel when I first told you about my having vaginismus?</b></span></span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">The first thought was confusion. I didn't understand what it was...Basically, that was the first thought. </span></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><b>Had you heard about vaginismus before?</b></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;">No, never. </span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><b>So, when I explained what it was, how did you feel then?</b></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;">Still confused! But i understood why you couldn't have sex (<i>Robert breaks off to say - Ooh, I quite like being interviewed!</i>) and for a brief flash I thought you were just using it as an excuse to make me think you were a virgin, because "apparently" men like virgins! (<i>Keeks glares at him</i>) Obviously, I didn't really think that, but it did cross my mind, when I was trying to figure it all out!</span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB"><b>I see.... And did it put you off pursuing a relationship with me?</b></span></span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">No, not at all. </span></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB"><b>What did you expect sex to be like?</b></span></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a;"><span lang="EN-GB">I thought it might be painful for you, and obviously you don't want to have sex with someone who it feels painful for. I didn't know really, I wasn't sure where the limitations were and I didn't want to get carried away and end up hurting you. I guess I was a bit nervous about it.</span></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB"><b>And how is the sex, is it what you expected?</b></span></span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">It's fun!</span></span></div><br />
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a;"><span lang="EN-GB"><b>How have you found ways around the issue of penetrative sex?</b></span></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a;"><span lang="EN-GB">Well, there are lots of other things we can do. Oral sex. :) <i>(Robert looks very pleased about this)</i></span></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><b>Is it worse going out with someone with vaginismus? </b></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;">It doesn't feel any different really, it's just a normal relationship with the normal feelings, there's no difference whatsoever. In some ways it's more exciting, because trying to find different ways to have sex is a whole new game! But sex isn't the be all and end all of a relationship at all. </span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><b>What would you say to a man who found out someone he was seeing had vaginismus? (<i>Robert needs this further explained, because he hadn't realised that most women - unlike Keeks - don't tell men on the first date about their sexual conditions)</i></b></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;">Wow, you make vaginismus sound like it's something really awful! (<i>Er....!) </i>Hmmm....So I would say to that person, to go for it, see how things goes, if they can't handle the vaginismus then they are too immature to deal with an adult relationship really, and it's their loss. Relationships aren't all about sex anyway. It is sad when men are obsessed with sex, it's a bit stupid. </span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;">I've since found out that people can have preconceived ideas about vaginismus and think that the girls should just power through it, which is so bad. To those people, I'd say how wrong you are! If the person you are going out with has vaginismus you need to do your research and support them. Trying to make them "push through" the pain barrier is only going to make things worse, and is a pretty shitty thing to do.</span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><b>Is there anything else you would like to say?</b></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;">Shall I do a big feminist rant like you? (<i>rude!</i>) At the end of the day, a relationship is not all about sex, it's about you and your partner and how you get on. If your partner is only in it for the sex then you know what you should do! Plus, sex is still good, because there is more to sex than just the "p in the v", and you're lacking in imagination if you think that's all it is. </span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><b>Well done Robert. You did good. </b></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;">Can we watch the apprentice now?</span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><b>.......Yes.</b></span></div>Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-2818669633599881212012-03-19T13:09:00.002-07:002012-03-19T13:18:38.045-07:00The little C's<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">Hi Vaginistas,</span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">The desire to become a mother is obviously a significant contributing factor to women who seek treatment for Vaginismus. When I first saw the gyno she kindly reassured me that V is a very treatable condition, and told me about a cousin of hers who had been diagnosed with it a few years before. She had been successfully treated, and had even recently become a mum. This is a wonderful story, and another example of how very treatable a condition vaginismus is. It also demonstrates the way that to lots of women vaginismus can seem a big barrier to conception, which can naturally be very traumatic for women who want to start a family. It is naturally for many women one of their primary reasons for wanting to be treated, and understandably so. For me however, this isn’t the case.</span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">I’ve reached that age when you look around at your friends and realise with a shock that they have grown up. Ten minutes ago it felt like everyone was happily juvenile, then you turned your back and by the time you’d whipped back around, “what’s the time Mr Wolf” style, everyone had become “uh adult”. Lots of them are married or as good as, and a lot of them are even now……*gulp* starting families. This is a horrible betrayal, and I am angry with them all. Obviously I’m actually happy and excited for them; becoming a parent fills people with love and joy and fulfilment (so I’m told), and no doubt all of my friends will make wonderful parents – they’re already wonderful people, so it seems a logical step. I’ve recently met a friend’s baby who was beautiful and her parent’s couldn’t be happier and I’m super excited for them, it’s an amazing thing, it really is.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">But now I’ve given the proper disclaimers, I can say that on a purely selfish level I also feel horror and dismay. I mean, come ON now, my friends want to make children! Actual, real-life, screaming, snotting, poo-making children!</span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">When I (very occasionally) have dreams that I’m pregnant, they usually start with me looking down in horror at my poor swollen belly, wondering how in the jiminy-crickets it happened and who the wanker was that did it to me, and end in me crying loudly and unattractively, snot and tears streaming from various orifices, grabbing the nearest person to scream at them “But I CAN’T give birth, I CAN’T! YOU DO IT FOR ME!! WHERE ARE THE DRUGS??!!!!” while I shake them with all my might. When I wake up I am <i>always</i> relieved.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">“Ah” people who are usually perfectly reasonable will say to me when I tell them that I don't particularly want children. They’ll half-close their eyes, flash a small, smug smile and nod sagely “You say that now, but you just wait. You wait for those hormones to kick in. Then you’ll change your tune!” I’m not sure exactly what these new hormones I’m waiting for are, and why they weren’t gifted to me at puberty with the other confusing nonsense, the hair and the irrational periods of rage, and the blood, DEAR GOD THE BLOOD. Maybe it’s something new, something that’s been developed by proctor and gamble? Mumstrogen perhaps? (Fnar). But then, people have been saying these sorts of things to me since I was 16 and starting to look slightly less like a scarecrow made of toothpicks and a little more like a confused teenager. To them I say, I still love “Smooth” by Santana, which I had on single (tape, natch) and played on repeat all day way back then, and I have it on my ipod now. Quite literally, I have not changed my tune.* In a less literal way, I have no plans to change my biological tune either. Maybe these people are right, maybe I will suddenly wake up one day and realise that I just <i>have</i> to be a Mum, but it hasn’t happened yet and frankly I don’t expect it will. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">Some people who know about my condition have asked why it matters for me to have treatment for V if I don't want children. After all, it’s not a particularly fun process, and all told quite a lot of effort for what some people would think is not necessarily that crucial an issue. It's not as if sex can't be fun unless penetration is involved. Further, it’s not a condition that puts my health at risk, in fact it’s quite the opposite – a sweet widdle virgin is far less likely to be at risk of cervical cancer for one, not to mention the many sexually transmitted diseases floating around out there. I understand why they are asking, because what after all is sex for, if not procreation?** Really though, a lot of the time what people are really asking is: “How can you say you don’t want children?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">This certainty that a woman <i>must</i> want to reproduce seems to be something that people like to bring up a lot. There’s something about being a woman in your 20s that makes people assume you are simply <i>desperate</i> to reproduce, in a way that isn’t assumed of men. Perhaps it’s presumed that women have an inherent need to nurture, and men <i>may</i> have this need, but it’s by no means a given that they will. Well then. I DO have a nurturing side, absolutely, but it manifests itself in other ways. Rabbits, for example. I particularly love rabbits. Little, sweet, happy bunny rabbits with fluffy ears reduce me to a wobbling mass of squeaking joy. Rabbits are BRILLIANT. Rabbits don’t scream, and cry, and when they wee on you it means LOVE. Their poo isn’t a stinky goopy mess, but neat little pellets, which don’t smell because they’re mainly made of grass, and which they clean up themselves anyway by eating. Efficient! If they’re scared because there’s a cat in the garden in the middle of the night, they will stamp their feet until you wake up and scare the cat away, and then they stop stamping because you have rescued them. Rabbits are sensible. Babies don’t do these things, because babies are humans.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">Now, I obviously don’t expect babies to be like pets. It’s just that babies don’t have the effect on me that it’s assumed they should have. When a rabbit stamps it's feet because it’s scared I want to bundle it up and cuddle it until it’s happy again. When a baby starts crying I want to cover my ears and run away screaming. I started writing this yesterday, and since then have seen several mothers with babies. Every one of them looked exhausted, exasperated, and all were occasionally forced to say things like “Monty! Monty, stop that! No, stop that Monty!” while little Monty blithely carried on with whatever mischief he was up to. I didn’t once look at little Monty, happily pulling the stuffing out of a bus seat and cramming it into his mouth by the fist-full, and think “OH, IF ONLY I HAD A SON!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">But really it’s more than just presumption that women must want to be mothers, it’s also a societal pressure. A judgement. There’s still this general feeling that for a woman to be truly fulfilled, she needs to be a mother. This was highlighted perfectly in the dreadful Dr Who Christmas special last year (Moffat – the guy just can NOT write a convincing/inoffensive female character. Don’t get me started on the Dominatrix in the recent Sherlock Holmes. I nearly punched my own ovaries right out of my body in disgust). In the story the little girl who stumbled upon a magical wood was <i>almost</i> right for the job of saving an entire alien race of trees from extinction, but much like a bear-sized bowl of porridge, she wasn’t quite “ready” yet. Good old Mum, that’s who they needed, a woman who had realised her full womanly potential by virtue of being a Mother. She not only accomplished the, in itself herculean task of rescuing a wood-full of alien tree spirits, but her pure maternal power also contrived to direct a foundering WWII fighter plane piloted by her husband safely home. All because she was a splendid old Mummy! Hip hip, hooray for Mummy what what! And then presumably she still had the time to get silly old Daddy’s dinner ready and put the kidlets to bed before finishing off the pile of ironing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">Of course, I'm not saying that it has to be cut and dry, that women are either desperate to be Mothers or like me really, really aren't. Personally, I think that for as many people who absolutely do want to have children, there are as many who just aren’t really sure either way. Maybe it seems like the next logical step in their life journey, after getting a steady job and stable relationship, maybe they are afraid of being lonely when they're older, maybe – like someone told me during a recent wine-fuelled Saturday night argument – they want to know they’ll have someone to look after them in their old age.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">You know what? I think it’s fantastic that people want children, I really do. I wouldn’t be here if my parents hadn’t after all. I’m just saying that I don’t understand why it is still assumed that it’s something we all want. Personally, I’m quite looking forward to being the crazy rabbit lady, with a garden and house full of bunnies with names like “Lord Wifflington the third” and no children whatsoever, and that, dear readers, should be OK. If the bunnies don't mind it, then I don't see why anyone else should.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">*I don’t just listen to that one song, that would be weird.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">** I know that this is a huge and complex debate, I'm dealing only with attitudes towards women in their 20s and children here, but I do know there's loads of implications tied up in this question.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div>Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-81654711783122322332012-03-12T13:15:00.004-07:002012-03-12T13:41:40.557-07:00An ode to music....or something.<div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">Hello vaginistas,</span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><br />
</div><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">I’ve got a bit behind with this blog, partly through general laziness (I load up the laptop to write a blog post; the next thing I know I’m an episode of “don’t tell the bride” and a kitkat down and have lost an hour of my life), partly through life having become pretty hectic of late (I mentioned "don't tell the bride", right?) and also because I haven’t really known what to write about.</span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><br />
</div><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><div style="font-family: Tahoma;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">The thing with V is that there aren’t really dramatic </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">daily</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">developments which I can squeal about; like most things in life progress is a gradual process, with all the minor victories and set-backs you’d expect, and while there may be the occasional “eureka!” moment, in general it’s just pretty….well, normal. But then, that’s why I wanted to write this blog. Because Vaginismus </span><i style="font-family: Arial;">is </i><span style="font-family: Arial;">normal.</span></div></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><br />
</div><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">Instead of any dramatic new developments for you then, I’m just going to say that things are ticking along nicely, and then I’m going to talk about muscle memory.</span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><br />
</div><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">When I was 10 I started having weekly piano lessons at school and quickly and irrevocably fell in love. I had found my soulmate. I loved the feel of the cool, smooth keys, I loved slowly learning how compressing them a tiny fraction harder or softer achieved an astonishing range of sounds, I loved learning this secret new language laid out in dancing black icons in the music books. I even loved how comfortable it was sitting upright on the stool, with my hands “just so”, fingers curled neatly, elbows down, spine straight. I loved the whole experience. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">At lunchtimes I took it in turns with the other pupils who had also signed up, to practice on the piano in the hall. I sat there as the other students filed passed me to the playground and I never felt a sense of jealously or loss, not once. Honestly. </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">I’ve never properly mastered the piano, again mainly due to my own laziness, and part of me still hopes that I’ll find the time and energy to do so, but nevertheless ours has been a love affair that has endured through my whole life.</span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><br />
</div><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">I also learned something extraordinary through playing the piano. In general, the older I’ve got the smaller my attention span has become. In the days of facebook and twitter I can’t seem to concentrate on something for longer than 7 minutes before flicking to something else, wondering what I’m missing, who’s written 140 characters or less about a "totes amaze" sandwich they had for lunch, how many new videos of cats trapped by other cats in boxes have been posted since the last time I looked (OMG! He won't let him out! LOL!!!). This shit just can't be missed, after all. Like most people of my generation, this never used to be the case. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;"><br />
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">When I first started learning the piano I could sit in front of that instrument for hours</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">. Sometimes it would be hideous and frustrating, I would find myself gritting my teeth, and when I fumbled a phrase for the nth time would slam my fist down onto the delicate, innocent keyboard in a fit of embarrassment and rage. It would bleat, sharply, loudly, protesting "why Keeks? Why?!" And I'd sob, and apologise, and stroke the poor, abused keys. I was a bit of an intense child. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">For the main though, it was bliss. I would practice a tricky phrase until it was perfect, over and over and again. If that sounds annoying, it probably was, and when I eventually got a piano at home (rescued from a bonfire by a friend of my parents, and an absolute wonky delight) my practices were usually accompanied by the rhythmic slamming of doors around the house as they tried to contain the noise. Over and over again I’d play the run of notes, memorising the finger patterns, starting slowly and building up speed, over and over again until I was sick of the sound myself. Essentially, I acted much like everyone who has fallen in love with learning to play an instrument.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">But the truly wonderful and miraculous thing that I learnt was that I really wasn’t teaching myself these phrases. I was teaching them to my fingers. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><br />
</div><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">I can sit down at a piano now and rest my fingers on the keys and know that they can conjour up a phrase from a little piece of music I first learnt over 15 years ago, all on their own. It’s really not me doing it. It’s my fingers. This is an extra treat, knowing that I am playing it with my whole body, knowing that I don't need to look at the sheet of music in front of me because it's already there, embedded in my fingers. </span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="font-family: Tahoma; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Muscle memory. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In essence, I'm doing the same thing now, when I practice with my dilators in their lady-pink bag, willing my body to let in the cold, hard, plastic phalluses, leading up to final hurdle of "the hubble". As I sit, breathing deeply and <i>promising </i>my vagina "it's OK, this is what you were built for", waiting for the odd widening sensation, and honestly feeling as perturbed as my muscles by the whole bizarre business. I'm teaching the muscles their new shape, I'm showing myself, gently and slowly - and with plenty of lube - that it can do wonderful things. I know that we all know it, but really and truly, isn't it amazing what the body can do? My fingers can remember songs that I taught them 15 years ago! My body has decided, for whatever reason, that it thinks sex is bad, but it can - and truly will - learn that it isn't really, not always. Come on now, that really is amazing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Eventually, I hope, I'll realise that it's not me doing it any more, it's the muscles themselves, they've learnt a new tune. And just like when I sit down to a piano and play the opening phrase of Bach's "Solfeggietto in C minor" a little shakily but more or less right, I'll realise, with delight, that my body has learnt how to do it all on it's own, and the rest of the tune will come naturally.</span></div>Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-90565110016564741312012-02-15T09:08:00.000-08:002012-02-15T14:58:54.792-08:00A disgustingly sentimental piece of schmaltz....<div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; right: auto;"><span class="ms__id545" id="yui_3_2_0_15_1329325601413115" lang="EN-GB" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">I haven’t mentioned my boyfriend on here as of yet, and I suppose it may come as a surprise to some people* that a woman with vaginismus would actually be able to have a “relationship”. I’m going to go into the particulars of all of that in future blog posts, but suffice it to say he is actually OK WITH IT ALL (GASP). </span><span class="ms__id546" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span class="ms__id551" lang="EN-GB" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">I’m not going to go into all that now though. Today I just wanted to share a horribly sentimental little story about him with you. I know; sick right? Sometimes I disgust myself. But you know, women with vaginismus are allowed a bit of schmaltz from time to time too…..</span><span class="ms__id552" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><div class="yiv399304422MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span class="ms__id556" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">He was already waiting for me as I arrived at the pub, finishing his cigarette and slouched against the wall, the picture of insouciance. He leant down, presenting me with a cold, darkly stubbled cheek to kiss, and smiled slightly in welcome. </span><span class="ms__id557" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span class="ms__id562" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">“Alright darling”, he said, blowing smoke over my shoulder and dropping a casual hand to my hip in welcome. In another era he would have been a film star, smouldering in black and white, simply and impeccably dressed, a trail of hopelessly lovelorn girls left weeping in his wake. The smile extended a micro-millimeter and just touched the corners of his green eyes as I grinned foolishly up at him. </span><span class="ms__id563" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span class="ms__id568" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">“You’re so short!” he said, as a way to fill the silence.</span><span class="ms__id569" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span class="ms__id574" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">We had both agreed that we would not bother with Valentine’s Day, the gifts or cards, or any of the painful trappings of love-made-commercial, but we had decided to go for a drink at our local pub after work anyway. Alcohol is alcohol after all, regardless of the day.</span><span class="ms__id575" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span class="ms__id580" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">Another second and the display of nonchalance vanished. He stepped away from the wall, suddenly a little shy, a little unsure of himself, and gestured awkwardly behind him. It was wrapped up with baby’s breath in garish, heart-covered cellophane and leaning, implausibly tall, against the pub wall. Drawing deeply on the cigarette and hunching his shoulders against the sentiment behind the gesture, he said with a wry smile in his South London accent:</span><span class="ms__id581" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span class="ms__id586" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">“It’s from a proper florist and everything!” </span><span class="ms__id587" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span class="ms__id592" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">As I squeaked and exclaimed over the thick velvet petals, so darkly red as to be almost black, he shrugged dismissively, but accepted the hug of delight with a sheepish smile and an embarrassed toss of his soft black hair. I scolded him for breaking the pact, even as I realized that I was delighted with this show of everything I had considered gauche and tasteless about Valentines Day. He pulled an accompanying card from the pocket of his black blazer. The picture on the front may have been awash with hearts, but the subject of the scene demonstrated a candid knowledge of what he knew I would most like. Despite his protests to the contrary, he had actually put a little thought into this. </span><span class="ms__id593" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span class="ms__id598" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">I threw my arms round his waist and grinned up at him, as his teeth finally flashed in his first, full smile of the evening.</span><span class="ms__id599" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><div class="yiv399304422ecxmsonormal" id="yui_3_2_0_15_1329325601413119" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; right: auto;"><span class="ms__id601" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
“Well.” I said “It’s lucky I got you something too then, isn’t it?” </span><span class="ms__id602" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><br />
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*<span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">By some people, I mean a few, very odd people. </span>Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-61453836469353118542012-02-08T15:23:00.000-08:002012-02-11T01:47:19.900-08:00When does a problem become a problem?The lights in the auditorium were turned off and 200 odd pairs of eyes were focussed on a video screen at the front of the room. The 200 odd pairs of eyes in question belonged to 200 odd members of the Christian Union at my University; the video we were watching was all about "sexual sin". Some hearty Christian rock music bounced wholesomely out of the speakers as statistics flashed up on the screen: "X Percentage of unmarried Christians have admitted to engaging in oral sex", "X Percentage admitted to full sexual intercourse outside of wedlock". To us, these were stark and worrying facts. Sexual purity was paramount and weakness a widespread and shameful fact. Looking back on my time in the CU, I seem to recall us all banging on about little else.<br />
<br />
I've personally put my Christian days behind me, at the very least until I can think about church without wanting to scream and and punch myself in the face. In the end, I realised that every week I was sitting in a room full of people, the majority of whom I had little-to-nothing in common with and less interest in, and heck, an even greater majority of whom that I simply couldn't stand, and I decided that I probably wasn't going to do it any more.*<br />
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I couldn't tally up the Jesus I read about who went around performing life-changing miracles for an oppressed people, with this saviour of individual middle-class souls, who was apparently obsessed with sex and how we should all <i>never do it</i> (unless we were married of course, and then pretty much we could go for our lives), that I encountered at CU. Along with my friends, I became more and more interested in matters of social justice to the point where the well meaning CU leader, worried I was going off track, took me to one side and asked me earnestly "Do you really WANT to be known as 'Social Justice girl?'"**<br />
<br />
Heaven forfend.<br />
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How completely screwed had our priorities become, when not having sex was of far greater importance than looking at the bullshit in the world and wanting to do something to sort it out, which was what Jesus did? We were a group of kids who were living away from home for the first time, and instead of being rebellious and getting pissed and putting traffic cones on our heads like any DECENT student would, we were constantly telling ourselves that the thing our bodies were really most interested in doing was so far wrong that even thinking about it was an awful sin.<br />
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I know that this seems to be a massive rant against the church and not much else, and I suppose on one level it sort of is. I still feel angry by my experience, not least because I spent so much time worrying that I really just wasn't the right sort of a girl for Jesus. I could never be like all those beautiful, softly spoken, baggy-clothes wearing, totally spiritual CU girls. I was loud, and vulgar, and opinionated, and still am. The difference is that now I am happy to accept that that's the way I am, and then I hated it. I thought that Jesus hated it.<br />
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This isn't an experience limited to the church, by any means.<br />
<br />
When I was diagnosed with vaginismus I felt a similar sense of failure as a woman, but instead of the problem being that I was loud and wanted to be quiet and meek and humourless, it was that I was closed and I wanted to be accommodating and open.<br />
<br />
Women feel like this all the time, about so many different things, and how can we help it? Everywhere we look there are instructions - nay, orders - to change ourselves for the better. If we aren't constantly dissatisfied with ourselves, constantly scrabbling to stay young, constantly trying to be a super business woman, mother, slut (and always impeccably dressed) we're just not doing it right. The message is always the same "be you, just better." We become so caught up in this constant striving for an unattainable level of perfection, that we forget to do all the brilliant, exciting, ridiculous things that make life that little bit more fun, and more worthwhile. Things like drawing a fake moustache on our face to see how we'd look as a victorian strong man, like wearing big fat boots with our favourite dress because it's just so much more bloody comfortable than heels we can't even walk in. Like giving a shit about something important.<br />
<br />
It seems that it's been decided by someone, somewhere along the line, that to be a woman is to be dissatisfied.<br />
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Well, I'm not sure if my personal diagnosis of Vaginismus came as a result of pure, plain and simple, rotten old bad luck, or if there is a hidden psychological source, but if it's the latter I know what I'm putting my money on. Constant dissatisfaction with my own body and it's own desires may well have caused it to physically try and shut it out.<br />
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But I'm not putting up with this dissatisfaction any more. I am going to fight, fight my past, and fight the messages around me that tell me to not be satisfied with myself. I'm not trying to overcome vaginismus because I am dissatisfied with my body, I'm going to overcome it because these constant messages of dissatisfaction have caused my body to turn on itself.<br />
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And I am going to overcome it, for and with my body. My wonderful, dysfunctional, perfect body, in celebration of it and all it is capable of.<br />
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Which is an awful lot.<br />
<br />
* A small group of the most amazing are now my closest and dearest friends and for this I am really grateful for all the time at CU.]<br />
** I know this anecdote makes me sound like a totally smug dick, but I need it to use it to illustrate a point, sheesh.Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-32167670930813023322012-01-25T04:51:00.000-08:002012-01-25T06:19:53.091-08:00My first therapy session<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I've been having therapy sessions for a while now, and they're all quite varied. It's a bit of a trial and error affair, treating vaginismus, so my therapist (she of the fabulous coral earrings) and I have gone through different processes that may work for some women, and not others. Turning up for my first session however, I really had no idea what to expect. It was snowing and dark as I tramped up the unfamiliar road from the unfamiliar train station, to the unfamiliar clinic at the top of a hill. I walked through a door marked "out patients", having made the bold assumption that I would be allowed to leave at the end of the session, and found a friendly, round-faced security guard who pointed me in the direction of the right reception area. I'd been referred by the GP, at the recommendation of the gynaecologist, and really didn't know quite what to expect from it all. The letter I received was from the "psycho-sexual therapy clinic" which I found immensely entertaining, especially because it makes me sound like some sort of sexual demon. In fact, it sounds so much like the sort of thing some dominatrix cliché of a female character would attend I’m quite surprised it wasn’t included in a certain recent Sherlock Holmes episode….</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I digress. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I took a seat, as instructed by the indifferent receptionist, and waited for what felt like an age to be called through. It got to the point where I started to wonder if the whole thing had been a massive mistake, if I would be sitting there so long that the receptionist would question me further and then not only turn me away in disgust, but go to the pub and tell all her friends about the freak that turned up at completely the wrong centre, and everyone would be laughing at me, and I'd go home and hide under my duvet and line up my emergency fluffy toy collection, and ask them in watery tears “why sheep, why, why?”, and cry, and never leave the house again.....when my therapist bustled through a door, all silvery hair and swinging coral earrings, and called my name. Relieved, I followed her through to the treatment room and told myself to calm down and stop acting like a dick head. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">On the way to the therapy room she introduced herself, and then threw me off my game again by asking if I'd mind if a trainee sat in on our session. I very, very much did mind, quite a lot, so I firmly and decisively opened my mouth and said:</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">"Of course not, that'll be absolutely fine."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I am very much the polite British stereotype in this respect, all bumbling acquiescence on the surface, and angry self-righteous grumbling underneath. Silently seething, and wondering what sort of a therapist thinks it is OK to ask a patient, at their first ever treatment session on a sensitive subject, if a trainee can sit in, I followed her through the door to a very ordinary looking office room, with three hard-backed chairs, a clapped out looking old computer, and an extraordinarily young looking woman beaming at me. Ah, I thought to myself, bitter smile slapped across my face - <i><span style="font-style: italic;">the trainee</span></i>. Excellent. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The therapist introduced herself and the trainee who was visiting from a University in <place w:st="on">europe</place>, and explained that the first thing we needed to do was to go through questions to a questionnaire which I had been sent. Except I hadn't. Ah, she said, yes this was a bit of a set back, but no matter, I could fill the questionnaire out when I got home after the session. She started then to talk about how the therapy sessions would work, how many I would get but not to worry if I found I wasn't quite "cured" at the end of the sessions, because if we found out that was the case she could recommend some more. I cheered up a bit at this, and also at the polite interjections from the trainee, who it turns out wasn't some slack-jawed undergrad who had turned up to snigger at the freak show, but a professional who was gaining further experience in her field. Silly me.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The therapist continued to explain a bit more about vaginismus, the possible causes and the manifestations and such. She started to describe muscle spasms using her fists – which I would soon find out would be a recurring event at the sessions – at which I felt my face freeze itself into a polite mask of vague interest and my stomach start eating itself a little. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The session was interesting, and seemed to be over remarkably quickly. As I made my way out the door, feeling encouraged and looking forward to the process, the therapist called me back with these chilling words</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“If you could fill out the questionnaire we should have sent you and post it back to us when you’ve done, that would be great.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I proceeded back down to the waiting room and off home, wad of scary paper clutched in my sweaty mitt, chanting to myself “it won’t be that bad, it won’t be that bad, dear god it won’t be that bad.” </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">How naiive I was.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Now get me wrong, they were all necessary and important questions, but by eck rating your ability to orgasm on a scale of 1-10 does put some things in perspective for you. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I put 8 by the way. Don’t pretend you’re not impressed. </span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
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<div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div>Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-84391493294556104342012-01-17T12:26:00.001-08:002012-04-20T09:19:05.652-07:00Under the bridge<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hello vaginistas!<br />
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Thanks to the persistance of my new resident troll and his - ahem - "enlightened" ideas, I thought I would start a new section of the blog, entitled HILARIOUSLY "Under the Bridge". This is going to be a place where I try and unpick common misconceptions about vaginismus, perhaps as highlighted by Mr Troll, or perhaps just from my own experience. It'd also be great for people to contribute their own, this could be nonsense that they have encountered from other people, or perhaps even ideas that they had themselves, which they now know to be untrue.<br />
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Lets start with Maypaki's most recent comment. Just a quick disclaimer, I'm not going to focus on any of the religious ideas he is trying to put across because there are so many wonderful theologians out there who are doing it in their own work. If you are interested in theology, feminism and sexuality and so on, you could do a lot worse than to start with Dr Susannah Cornwall <a href="http://susannahcornwall.blogspot.com/">http://susannahcornwall.blogspot.com/</a> a supremely intelligent woman with very lovely hair (as you'll see on her blog). Secondly, this is a personal blog and so everything I write here is from my personal perspective. Please join in using the comments box.<br />
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Now that's out the way, here is what Trolly McTrollsons wrote recently:<br />
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<i>"I just had a THEOLOGICAL DISCOVERY: God is indeed a MALE. The reasons are: 1.) If God is a female, she would never inflict women with painful intercourse. She would merely inflict them with infertility. Her empathy towards women's feelings will always prevail. 2.) It is known in history that men treat women as property. Therefore, if God inflicts a woman with primary vaginismus, thick hymen or dry vagina, then her vagina is now the property of God. She's meant to control the population. God uses her as an instrument to reveal who the real rapists are, thereby upholding women's most divine right -the right NOT to be raped. This proves that God is a male, because for him, there are things more important than empathy towards females. This explains why painful intercourse is MORE COMMON among females than males.Because God is a MALE and treats some women as his property to control the population. I am now an enlightened man. If vaginismus is one of God's test to humanity, then it seems to violate his own commandment (to be fruitful and multiply). God seems to contradict himself. Claiming that it is a test makes God so unreasonable. So there are 3 possible rational conclusions: 1.) God is omnipotent, therefore Vaginismus is God's will. It's Gods natural birth control -if you believe that there's a reason for everything. 2.) Vaginismus in NOT God's will, therefore God in not omnipotent. He cannot prevent vaginismus. 3.) There is no God. Sometimes, things happen randomly and for no apparent reason -if this is your position, then I rest my case. P.S. My e-mail address is maypakialam@gmail.com"</i><br />
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All completely sane and reasonable, I'm sure you'll agree. Once we have all stopped grinding our teeth, there are a few points here that are actually quite common misconceptions about vaginismus which it would be good to iron out. You know, so we can let him get back to the more important task of ranting.<br />
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1. Women who have vaginismus cannot give birth - Not true (On a side note - Maypaki's idea that it is "kinder" for women to be infertile than to have a very treatable condition preventing penetrative sex only - BIZARRE). My therapist very kindly explained this to me in a session. She was trying to change my perception of sex (it bloody well hurts!) by telling me all about childbirth - <br />
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Her, enthusiastically and using her fist as a sort of model vagina - "It's designed so a baby's head can go through! Like THIS! *expands fingers* A whole baby's head, which is so much bigger than a penis!" <br />
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Me - "If you need me I'll be in the foetal position, hyperventilating, in the corner"<br />
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Any woman who has ever gone into labour will tell you - gleefully and with the quite justifiable elation of someone who has not only survived the battle of trafalgar, but made off with Napoleon's eagle to boot - that nature takes over and the contractions that come are far beyond your control. Yes, this is similar to vaginismus in a way, but also very different. While a woman with vaginismus may not be able to conceive through penetration, there is no reason for vaginismus to prevent her giving birth. As my lovely therapist said, beautifully succinctly: "Vaginismus is all about preventing entry. Giving birth is allowing exit." For a full and proper medical account, please go to <a href="http://www.vaginismus.com/faqs/vaginismus-pregnancy/vaginismus-complications-delivery">Vaginismus.com</a></span><br />
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2. Women with vaginismus cannot be raped. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ladies, I bet you didn't even know that we are SUPERHEROES, with our magic clampy vag muscles, sent to HUNT OUT THE RAPISTS and BLOCK THEIR COCKS RIGHT OFF! Cape me the hell up, for I am VAG HAG!<br />
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Er....No. Vaginismus does not prevent rape. The pain of the muscle spasms and the difficulty/impossibility of penetration can actually often be a result of the agony and trauma of rape however. The World Bank report on Gender and Equality 2012 which <u>everyone</u> should read, says that:<br />
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<i> "Physical, sexual, and psychological violence against women is endemic across the world. A flagrant violation of basic human rights and fundamental freedoms, violence can take many forms. International statistics are not always comparable, yet incontrovertible evidence shows that violence against women is a global concern."</i> <a href="http://siteresources.worldbank.org/INTWDR2012/Resources/7778105-1299699968583/7786210-1315936222006/chapter-2.pdf">World Bank Report on Gender and Equality</a> Chapter 2 page 83. <br />
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There is a chart (which unfortunately I am unable to post here but can be seen on the above link) which sets out different justifications for women being beaten by their husbands in different nations: "Burns food", "argues with husband" and "refuses to have sex". The marks along the chart show the percentage of respondents from each country who have agreed to each of the reasons. In guinea 65% agreed that a beating was justified to a woman who refused sex. In Lesotho, 40% agreed it was acceptable if there had been an argument. It is only when you scroll to the very bottom of the chart that you realise it is the women themselves who are giving these responses.<br />
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What is the point I am making here? Violence against women, in many different forms, is a huge and universal problem and unhelpful and incorrect ideas such as "Vaginismus prevents rape" will do nothing to help reverse and change this pattern. The idea of blame and personal fault is so engrained upon the female psyche, in terms of sexuality, as well as so many different ways, that we need to be doing our damndest to stop this. Do read the report.<br />
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Finally, he's kindly left his email address. Do send him some love. </span><br />
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</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">From Keeks</span></div></div>Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7245778308187451130.post-3226951967276404632012-01-09T12:14:00.000-08:002012-01-19T13:00:52.828-08:00My first encounter with "a vagiphobe"<div class="yiv687330349MsoNormal" id="yui_3_2_0_1_1326137807526121" style="padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Evening vaginistas,</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I thought I'd write today about my first experience with what I have termed a "vagiphobe". This is the sort of man who thinks that vaginas are always smiling and willing, happy to see them and gagging for a cock, the sort of man who, when buying sanitary towels for his girlfriend will refer to them as "female nappies" and hide them underneath a jumbo pack of loo-roll on the way to the tills (a friend of mine dated one of these, they really do exist) and who does not know what to do when presented with a vagina that is slightly less easy going and might need a bit of persuasion to let him in. At the time, I thought that vaginismus was all my fault and something to be apologetic about. Now, I know better. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I met him at a friend's work do, which I had been dragged along to as his "date" for the evening (he being worried that if left to his own devices he would get completely drunk and try and pull his, very stunning, boss). I was introduced to this chap who worked in the finance department, and was cute in a skinny indie boy kind of a way, with a hint of a northern accent and messy hair. After the briefest of chats I was surprised to receive an email from him the next day, in which he very flatteringly admitted he had hunted me down on facebook to ask me out for a drink. I happily accepted. Being the bolshy forward type, it's usually me asking the guys out, so it made a nice change, and besides, I thought, he was pretty cute. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We arranged to meet at a local museum, which had an exhibition of the Battle of Trafalgar on, which I thought was unusual and potentially fun. I love a museum I do. I was admittedly a little apprehensive, as he had studied History at University, and I was dreading some dreary one man mission to get me into bed by droning on about Napoleon, but I was pleasantly surprised at his lack of pretension, and delighted when he accidentally mispronounced a rather famous naval captain's name. We had a really great time, and went on to a pub afterwards for a drink.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At this point I am ashamed to admit that I contravened the number one rule of a first date – I proceeded to get smashed. Well and truly and horribly smashed. We had a fantastic, alcohol-fuelled conversation about everything, including him being a feminist, the price of a pint in London, and how much use we had respectively got out of our degrees.* Despite this, a rather nice drunken snog, and the alcohol boiling in my blood, I managed to politely decline his invitation to go back to his for a “coffee” (which surely by it’s over-usage as a euphemism is now just as forward as outright asking someone to go back for sex? Thinking about it, that was probably the point...)</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After the designated few days of demure and ladylike silence (which, being someone who likes being in control, and a feminist, I thoroughly resent, and never really bother with) I felt victorious to receive a text from Mr Finance asking me out for another drink.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This time, I was determined to stick to the two drink rule.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This time, as the time before, I failed, miserably and abominably.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After a fun night of constant conversation and far too much alcohol (again) he asked me back to his (again) for coffee. Apparently he really, really likes coffee. I decided that this moment was the absolutely perfect one to tell him about the vaginismus. Better he knows now, I thought through the fug of red wine, than think I'm playing some waiting game with him.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stumblingly, incoherently, I stammered out some semblance of an explanation and was greeted with -</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Utter silence. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nervously, I waited while he gathered his thoughts together. Poor man, my brain slurringly thought to itself, it is a bit of a shock to hear, after all. I gave him a few minutes, until he eventually said, quietly:</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I think it's time we left."</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dumbstruck, confused, a little lost, I quietly followed him out of the pub, said goodbye at the tube, and went home.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The next day, I woke feeling slightly hungover and very much ashamed of myself. What a dreadful way to tell the poor man, I thought to myself, and what a brilliant and effective way to ruin a date. I sent him an email apologising, and giving him a much better, rational and comprehensive explanation of the issue, assuring him that I was being treated and well on the way to recovery. I went over it a hundred times, making sure it came across as unscary and clinical as possible. A few days later, after hearing absolutely nothing, I finally received a reply. He was sorry, he wrote, for not getting back to me before, but had been really busy. In fact, his life was very busy at the moment, too busy really to be seeing anyone. He thanked me for telling him, and that was that. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I felt awful. Humiliated, and disgusted with myself for ruining a perfectly lovely evening, and so thoroughly ending what had started off as a nice little affair. If he had never heard of vaginismus before it was bound to come as a shock, and he had just met me so how could he really be expected to be understanding? After a short amount of time wallowing in this feeling of self-loathing, I stopped. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because why would I want to feel sad at scaring off someone who, so far from being a "feminist", had tossed me aside the second he realised he wasn't going to get his end away? I realised, with a little breath of relief and a smile, that what had happened was not an awful and humiliating rejection, but actually a lucky escape from a bit of an arsehole. Feminist? Bollocks was he! A feminist isn't a man who's afraid of a woman's body and it's quirks, but someone brave enough to take it all in his stride. A feminist doesn't value someone only so far as their ability to provide them with sexual gratification, and a feminist doesn't use "feminism" as a way to get someone into bed. Well, maybe they do a little bit, but to the mutual enjoyment and gratification of both.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Really, I'm lucky that I haven't encountered this sort of a reaction more. Previous boyfriends could not have been more supportive about the whole thing, and not in any sort of mimsy, patronising "there, there darling, don't you worry" sort of a way, nor in a hero-complex desire to be my cure sort of a way, but in a genuine, "if it hurts of course we won't, let's order pizza and watch Sherlock", sort of a way. There are no doubt lots of women who he would have invited back who would have been able and willing to oblige, but that's not my lot and actually not someone I would want to be. In some ways, vaginismus has made me stronger. It really separates the wheat from the chaff. I will never let a man make me feel that moment of disgust and self-loathing for something so beyond my control again.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">*1 We should all call ourselves feminists, 2 HOW MUCH?! and 3 Not a whole titting lot.</span></div><div class="yiv687330349MsoNormal" style="padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></span></div>Keekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07325049442005049945noreply@blogger.com4