The vaginista and the pea

Hello Vaginistas,

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.

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.

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:

"SHIT! I HAVE GOT SOME HORRIFIC DISEASE!
SOME WEIRD CREATURE HAS CRAWLED INTO MY VAGINA AND IS CHEWING ON IT!
IT'S COLLAPSING FROM THE OUTISDE IN!!
NNGRARAAGAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH!"
I conjectured.

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.

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.

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:

"Did you see? The receptionist recognised me. Haha, I'm in here all the time!" 

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! All the time!" I thought. It can't be so bad......

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.

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. 

"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. 

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. 

But, I don't see any horses?

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

"YESSSSSS! I TOTES FORGOT I AM GETTING A SMEAR DONE TODAY, DOUBLE HAND GRAB! POINT ME TO THE STIRRUPS!"

But vaginismus is an extra cherry on top of the whole affair.

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).

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.

"I'm so sorry" I said, feeling the full and mortifying failure of my body.

"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. 

"It's OK dear" Said the nurse cheerfully "We can try a smaller one".

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.

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.

"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!

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" the nurse pulled the curtain across to let me dress and turned to me one last time,

"If this happens again" She said kindly "Just make sure you ask for the Virgin speculum."

With that, she left the room.

Keeks gets a porno

Evening Vaginistas,

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.

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!.

"Tell me how you feel about the concept of sex." She of the fabulous coral earrings asked me.

"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.

"Good, that's good" She nodded, and wrote something on her notebook (probably something like THIS WOMAN IS A TOTAL SEX FIEND.)

"And, regarding penetration, how do you feel about that? For example, do you think it will hurt?"

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 know sex hurts, I've tried it.

"Yes." I said firmly, confident that at least I knew the answer to this one. "I think it will definitely hurt."

"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!)

"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.

The pain game - Fun for everyone!

"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."

"Really?" She said again, with that irritating lift on the first syllable that people use to make sure you know they're surprised. "Really? That's interesting." Scribble, scribble went the pad.

"REALLY?" I thought to myself "IS IT INTERESTING? OR IS IT JUST VAGINISMUS?!"

"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?......

"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. 

"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.

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."

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....

This isn't from the lovers guide, but my hairdresser has this poster on his wall.

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.

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!

If you would like to share your porno/therapy stories please do in the comments - share and share alike!

* Yes. This has actually happened. I know, HILARIOUS. I didn't correct her.

How not to cure vaginismus

Hi Vaginistas,


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. 


He was a big boy.


When I say big, I mean it was enormous people, it would easily eclipse the hubble telescope; 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, is what I'm getting at here.


Now, believe me, I am not bragging. Bigness 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!!!!" 

"There is no WAY that you are getting THAT in THERE"

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.


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 all.


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. 


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! You see, as I've explained in other sections of this blog, the muscles need to be taught that penetration shouldn't 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.


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, out. It hurt, and I felt more ashamed and freakish, and overwhelmed with panic.


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!"


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. 


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:

"It's such a shame we never actually had sex". 


You know what? I don't think it is actually. I really don't think it is. 


*are there too many references to the napoleonic war in this blog? 

Auntie flo

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.

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.

For the lady with a clamp, it can be another irritating hurdle.

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.

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.*

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.

If you are struggling to use tampons, and are wondering if you may have vaginismus, ask yourself the following:

•  Do you I feel anxious, scared or panicky when I think about, or try to, use a tampon?

•  Am I certain that I am inserting it in the right place?

•  Does it hurt when I try to insert it?

•  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.)

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. 

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.

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.****

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.


*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.


** 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.


*** I said CAN, not DO


**** Obviously make sure you properly follow all the instructions for usage etc in the tampon packet. *disclaimer face*


picture from http://2politicaljunkies.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/blog-for-sister-supplies.html

The Reluctant Frou

Hello Vaginistas,


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. In fact, I'm quite sad I didn't think to call this blog "The Reluctant Frou", but this post will have to do. 

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): 

Cockblocker
The Big Ouchy
Lady Zip
The Reluctant Frou
The Impenetrable Forest of Bwindi
A Nun’s Vagina
No Stuffin’ the Muffin
Fanny Flincher
Love Lockdown
The Uncompromising Clam
The No-Manny Fanny
Minge Cringer
The Lady is a Clamp
The Pissed Pussy
The Stubborn Drawbridge
The Gates of Mordor
Vagelina Clampbucket
Vaggy Voodoo
Pandora’s Box
Cunnot / Cun’t

Image from http://funnymadworld.blogspot.co.uk/2010/01/angry-cat.html

How does Vaginismus feel?

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.

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.

This being a *whisper it* sexual disfunction, it has to be put in terms of a sexual situation so buckle up; things are about to get steamy, yo…..

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:

1. To begin with, everything feels fine. 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.
2. You’re approaching the main event… 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.
3. It feels impossible, 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 NORMAL 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.
4. Finally comes panic – 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!
5. You don’t necessarily know what’s happening or why. 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.

Crucially with vaginismus, there is nothing physically wrong with the vagina. 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.

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?!

*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".

** 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

An interview with a man about vaginismus

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 feel 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. 

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.

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.

Hello Robert. How are you. How was your day?

It was ok. I cut my finger though (Robert proffers finger for inspection)

Sorry about that. Do you want me to kiss it better? (Robert holds his finger to his chest and pouts) No? Ok then, on with the interview! Tell me, how did you feel when I first told you about my having vaginismus?

The first thought was confusion. I didn't understand what it was...Basically, that was the first thought. 

Had you heard about vaginismus before?

No, never. 

So, when I explained what it was, how did you feel then?

Still confused! But i understood why you couldn't have sex (Robert breaks off to say - Ooh, I quite like being interviewed!) 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! (Keeks glares at him) Obviously, I didn't really think that, but it did cross my mind, when I was trying to figure it all out!

I see.... And did it put you off pursuing a relationship with me?

No, not at all. 

What did you expect sex to be like?

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.

And how is the sex, is it what you expected?

It's fun!

How have you found ways around the issue of penetrative sex?

Well, there are lots of other things we can do. Oral sex. :) (Robert looks very pleased about this)

Is it worse going out with someone with vaginismus? 

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. 

What would you say to a man who found out someone he was seeing had vaginismus? (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)

Wow, you make vaginismus sound like it's something really awful! (Er....!) 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. 

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.

Is there anything else you would like to say?

Shall I do a big feminist rant like you? (rude!) 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. 

Well done Robert. You did good. 

Can we watch the apprentice now?

.......Yes.

The little C's

Hi Vaginistas,

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.

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.

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!

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 always relieved.

“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 have to be a Mum, but it hasn’t happened yet and frankly I don’t expect it will.   

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?”

This certainty that a woman must 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 desperate 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 may 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.

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!”

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 almost 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.

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.

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.

*I don’t just listen to that one song, that would be weird.


** 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.

An ode to music....or something.

Hello vaginistas,

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.

The thing with V is that there aren’t really dramatic daily 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 is normal.

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.

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. 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. 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.

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. 


When I first started learning the piano I could sit in front of that instrument for hours. 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. 


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.


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.  

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. 

Muscle memory. 

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 promising 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.


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.

When 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.

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.*

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 never do it (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?'"**

Heaven forfend.

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.

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.

This isn't an experience limited to the church, by any means.

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.

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.

It seems that it's been decided by someone, somewhere along the line, that to be a woman is to be dissatisfied.

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.

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.

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.

Which is an awful lot.

* 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.]
** I know this anecdote makes me sound like a totally smug dick, but I need it to use it to illustrate a point, sheesh.

My first therapy session

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….

I digress.

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. 

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:

"Of course not, that'll be absolutely fine."

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 - the trainee. Excellent. 

The therapist introduced herself and the trainee who was visiting from a University in europe, 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.

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.

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

“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.”

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.”

How naiive I was.

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.

I put 8 by the way. Don’t pretend you’re not impressed.