B was my first college boyfriend and our relationship was a twister of confusion, heartfelt gestures, soaring emotions, and pain (to body, mind, and spirit). He was a senior and I was a freshman, with very little sexual experience, as we have seen through my previous posts. We officially became a couple on Halloween, only a few weeks after meeting. He took me on my first real dates, and while they were nothing fancy, they made me feel like a grown up, in an adult partnership. I used to love to be able to spend the night at his place, even if his room was a basement shared with another frat boy, two mattresses on the floor, a curtain between the beds, and a huge pile of clothes next to where we slept. There was many good things I still cherish about our time together.
A most perfect gift of Shakespeare plays.
His ability to hold me during a panic attack.
Moments of goofiness to make me smile.
Walking in the rain.
Being young together.
In spite of all that, our relationship, especially the sexual side of it, was very damaging to me as a growing woman. Surprisingly I barely remember the first time he kissed me, and while I’m sure I was somewhat nervous, there was nowhere near the kind of debilitating fear that had been there in high school. I was honest with him about my past sexual experience, which didn’t seem to phase him, and he never tried to convince or force me to have sex with him in a outright way. There was pressure, and lots of it as the relationship went on, but it was accomplished in a more subtle and possible unconscious way.
Even without attempting full on sex, our physical relationship was a disaster in almost every way. I felt I needed to make up for not being ready to have sex with other sexual acts, and was ashamed at my age that I wasn’t more willing to try new things. At first I was scared, but I also really wanted to try.
I allowed him to finger my vagina. This is difficult to write about, especially knowing what I know now-that I have vaginismus. It was so painful. I cringe even trying to remember. I can still see the image of the ceiling of his darkened room and hear him telling me repeatedly to “just relax.”
I would try. OR even thought that I was relaxed.
It just wasn't that simple.
Wishing it could be.
I can remember my murmurs that it hurt.
That it wasn’t working.
“Just Relax.”
Gritting my teeth.
Shutting my eyes tight.
Preparing to get through it.
My own family’s motto of “Just suck it up. Suck up the pain.”
A motto that works well at the doctor’s office, but B was not a doctor, and sexual intercourse should not need to feel like a painful procedure.
How was I supposed to know? Should someone have told me? Is that something others just realize?
Eventually he would give up in frustration, “If you would just relax, you would enjoy it.”
He was probably just embarrassed and it was easier to blame me. I can’t vocalize the pain of feeling I had failed him. Failed to be a woman. I would therefor apologize profusely, something that makes me so hurt to think on now.
How little I understood myself, my needs, and how to protect myself. I had no idea that there was such a thing as vaginismus, or that there could be such a thing. I thought I was just a freak.
For some reason he could use oral sex and that would be pleasurable. I don’t think I ever orgasmed, but I do know it didn’t hurt and I willed it to be better and a bigger deal than it was, to try and make up for my other perceived short comings.
His sexual pleasure was another matter, but one that also lacked any semblance of success. This signals the beginnings of me feeling that I “owe” something to my sexual partner, even at the expense of my own comfort and self worth. I began to feel strongly and solely responsible for the other person’s sexual pleasure. A part of me cared deeply for B and wanted therefore to be the one to provide him with yet another form of happiness, but as our relationship went on sexuality began to feel more like a duty and less like a gift.
The future of our relationship was totally dependent on me overcoming some of my worst fears. I attempted a hand job, blow job, and a combination of the two. This would have been fine, and I might have come to enjoy it, if not for the fact that he had set me up to fail. He informed me in advance that (1.) hand jobs were pointless, because after years of masturbating he would always be better at it, (2.) that he never got off from blow jobs and he wasn’t sure why. He informed me that it was pointless, but insisted that if I didn’t succeed and still wouldn’t have sex with him, that our relationship was lost.
And so I tried. I REALLY tried. My fear of losing him over took my anxiety of the unknown. I would ask him to direct me in what to do to give him pleasure, he obliged. I would attempt for hours, with both of us slowly getting more and more frustrated with the lack of success. He would enjoy it at first, but I think he wanted to orgasm, and would get so angry when it didn’t happen. It was easier to put all the blame on me, and I let him, instead of admitting to his own sexual makeup. I got over the fear with B, but grew to dread the attempt and the aftermath. Anger, sadness, hopelessness.
I would leave the bed after it was all over. I would go into the bathroom, curl up naked on the cold floor and cry. I was so lost.
He knew. There is no way he did not. But not once did he try and comfort me.
I was lucky enough to have my new college friends, and especially my best friend S (yes the same one from My Sexual History: Afraid of a Kiss, who had gone from boyfriend back to best friend after our break up years before). S would listen to me in my pain, and while he could not help directly, having someone there for me helped pull me through and calm me down. Each night I would eventually return to the bed for a timid night sleep.
B is not to be blamed for wanting a healthy sexual life. That is an important part of any relationship to me as well. He is absolutely responsible for placing the weight of his own pleasure and my own all on me. He blamed me for not providing him or myself pleasure. I don’t think it was intentional, but it was wrong, and still has repercussions on my own sexual self esteem.
During this time is when some part of me decided that dissociating was the only form of protection. I would allow my body to perform or experience these sexual acts, but everything else would be gone. I became like a machine, doing what I was told. I didn’t know at the time that this was happening, just like I didn’t know that my vagina had vaginismus. It is incredible the ways in which my brain has learned to protect me, because I refused for so long to protect myself.
The turning point of all of it, was the one time he ejaculated in front of me. He masturbated, without me knowing, and came on my back. As it happened I couldn’t figure out what it was at first. I had never seen or experienced a male ejaculation and was surprised by how long it lasted. I had thought it would be more like a short burst. It clicked somewhere midstream what exactly was going on.
I didn’t panic, I dissociated.
I didn’t feel a thing as my back stuck to the sheets on which I lay.
There was a moment where nothing moved.
It felt as if the earth spun to a halt.
I told him to carry me to the shower.
While I washed off what I did not comprehend, he washed the sheets.
I survived the night, but honestly don’t remember what it was like, due to the dissociation.
The next morning something in me had gone cold.
As I left for my mile walk back to my dorm, I asked “Are you happy now?” out of pain, but also a desire that maybe it would hold off the end of our relationship.
I called S and told him what had happened. I asked if masturbating on someone is “normal.” I inquired from my friends the same thing. Most of them said either “No,” or something along the lines of, “Only if discussed first.” B never acknowledged to me that it had happened and I was afraid to bring it up. He did manage to brag to friends and his frat brothers about it. Years later, even after he had graduated, one of his frat brothers at a party would realize, “Wait, your the one who….” Yes. Yes. That was me.
The undeserved shame I felt, was traumatizing.
Our break up was ugly. He had been telling me for weeks that he loved me and wanted to be with me, but that he also wanted to be with other people. I was not okay with an open relationship. I respect that it works for others, but I knew myself well enough to know that it would not work for me, and told him as much. Eventually I made him choose, our relationship or his sexual freedom. He chose correctly, his sexual freedom. I was not devoid of a backbone. I loved him very much and thought we had something special, but when he called to say he wanted to get back together, I told him he had to show me it would be different. He couldn’t and so we never did. I think of those final two weeks as a glorious display of my own commitment to have someone love me in the way I need and deserve.
Why did I never stand up for myself to B in our sexual life? Apart from being afraid of losing him, I also accepted that he knew better. He was older, he seemed confident, he had sexual experience with other women. I was young, inexperienced, and lacked anything resembling sexual confidence. I thought I was broken. I was broken, I had more than one disorder, but I was also fixable and still deserved respect.
This is a tough time to remember. It is hard for me to separate who to blame because of how raw it still and might always feel. B was young in reality. He probably still doesn’t know what vaginismus is, and he certainly didn’t know then and neither did I. I was also afraid to communicate, and he wouldn’t listen when I did manage it. We both wanted a healthy sexual relationship, we both blamed me for the fact that ours was everything but.
But B would not be the last man to treat me in this way. It would take many more encounters and a lot more learning about myself for me to realize the truth.
I am allowed stand up to people. I can make demands. I have not failed by being honest about my sexual self, in fact I have succeeded. If someone cannot handle or is unsatisfied with what I have to offer, that is their personal business, but they should never belittle me for it. Or blame me completely for their own failings.
I thought it was just me. Just my fault for a long time. I now know that I need to be with someone who will respect and cherish me, but I also need to respect and cherish myself. I can say no. Ending up with the right partner is a choice that I empower myself to make.
About the MY SEXUAL HISTORY SERIES: Every experience has taught me something specific, and some of these lessons I had to be taught more than once. Every individual has a unique way of dealing or not dealing with my disorder and has therefor had a direct affect on my experience of it. Because of this I will handle each individual I have had relations with separately. Some things may repeat themselves, but that is one of the realities I find most powerful.
I hope these instances will serve as case studies for my readers to understand what vaginismus looks like in practice at different ages and levels. Every sexual encounter has led me to the place I inhabit today, and in order to move forward with healing I must consider them all.
Questions, thoughts, need someone to share with, do not hesitate to reach out to me: healingvaginismus@gmail.com
A most perfect gift of Shakespeare plays.
His ability to hold me during a panic attack.
Moments of goofiness to make me smile.
Walking in the rain.
Being young together.
In spite of all that, our relationship, especially the sexual side of it, was very damaging to me as a growing woman. Surprisingly I barely remember the first time he kissed me, and while I’m sure I was somewhat nervous, there was nowhere near the kind of debilitating fear that had been there in high school. I was honest with him about my past sexual experience, which didn’t seem to phase him, and he never tried to convince or force me to have sex with him in a outright way. There was pressure, and lots of it as the relationship went on, but it was accomplished in a more subtle and possible unconscious way.
Even without attempting full on sex, our physical relationship was a disaster in almost every way. I felt I needed to make up for not being ready to have sex with other sexual acts, and was ashamed at my age that I wasn’t more willing to try new things. At first I was scared, but I also really wanted to try.
I allowed him to finger my vagina. This is difficult to write about, especially knowing what I know now-that I have vaginismus. It was so painful. I cringe even trying to remember. I can still see the image of the ceiling of his darkened room and hear him telling me repeatedly to “just relax.”
I would try. OR even thought that I was relaxed.
It just wasn't that simple.
Wishing it could be.
I can remember my murmurs that it hurt.
That it wasn’t working.
“Just Relax.”
Gritting my teeth.
Shutting my eyes tight.
Preparing to get through it.
My own family’s motto of “Just suck it up. Suck up the pain.”
A motto that works well at the doctor’s office, but B was not a doctor, and sexual intercourse should not need to feel like a painful procedure.
How was I supposed to know? Should someone have told me? Is that something others just realize?
Eventually he would give up in frustration, “If you would just relax, you would enjoy it.”
He was probably just embarrassed and it was easier to blame me. I can’t vocalize the pain of feeling I had failed him. Failed to be a woman. I would therefor apologize profusely, something that makes me so hurt to think on now.
How little I understood myself, my needs, and how to protect myself. I had no idea that there was such a thing as vaginismus, or that there could be such a thing. I thought I was just a freak.
For some reason he could use oral sex and that would be pleasurable. I don’t think I ever orgasmed, but I do know it didn’t hurt and I willed it to be better and a bigger deal than it was, to try and make up for my other perceived short comings.
His sexual pleasure was another matter, but one that also lacked any semblance of success. This signals the beginnings of me feeling that I “owe” something to my sexual partner, even at the expense of my own comfort and self worth. I began to feel strongly and solely responsible for the other person’s sexual pleasure. A part of me cared deeply for B and wanted therefore to be the one to provide him with yet another form of happiness, but as our relationship went on sexuality began to feel more like a duty and less like a gift.
The future of our relationship was totally dependent on me overcoming some of my worst fears. I attempted a hand job, blow job, and a combination of the two. This would have been fine, and I might have come to enjoy it, if not for the fact that he had set me up to fail. He informed me in advance that (1.) hand jobs were pointless, because after years of masturbating he would always be better at it, (2.) that he never got off from blow jobs and he wasn’t sure why. He informed me that it was pointless, but insisted that if I didn’t succeed and still wouldn’t have sex with him, that our relationship was lost.
And so I tried. I REALLY tried. My fear of losing him over took my anxiety of the unknown. I would ask him to direct me in what to do to give him pleasure, he obliged. I would attempt for hours, with both of us slowly getting more and more frustrated with the lack of success. He would enjoy it at first, but I think he wanted to orgasm, and would get so angry when it didn’t happen. It was easier to put all the blame on me, and I let him, instead of admitting to his own sexual makeup. I got over the fear with B, but grew to dread the attempt and the aftermath. Anger, sadness, hopelessness.
I would leave the bed after it was all over. I would go into the bathroom, curl up naked on the cold floor and cry. I was so lost.
He knew. There is no way he did not. But not once did he try and comfort me.
I was lucky enough to have my new college friends, and especially my best friend S (yes the same one from My Sexual History: Afraid of a Kiss, who had gone from boyfriend back to best friend after our break up years before). S would listen to me in my pain, and while he could not help directly, having someone there for me helped pull me through and calm me down. Each night I would eventually return to the bed for a timid night sleep.
B is not to be blamed for wanting a healthy sexual life. That is an important part of any relationship to me as well. He is absolutely responsible for placing the weight of his own pleasure and my own all on me. He blamed me for not providing him or myself pleasure. I don’t think it was intentional, but it was wrong, and still has repercussions on my own sexual self esteem.
During this time is when some part of me decided that dissociating was the only form of protection. I would allow my body to perform or experience these sexual acts, but everything else would be gone. I became like a machine, doing what I was told. I didn’t know at the time that this was happening, just like I didn’t know that my vagina had vaginismus. It is incredible the ways in which my brain has learned to protect me, because I refused for so long to protect myself.
The turning point of all of it, was the one time he ejaculated in front of me. He masturbated, without me knowing, and came on my back. As it happened I couldn’t figure out what it was at first. I had never seen or experienced a male ejaculation and was surprised by how long it lasted. I had thought it would be more like a short burst. It clicked somewhere midstream what exactly was going on.
I didn’t panic, I dissociated.
I didn’t feel a thing as my back stuck to the sheets on which I lay.
There was a moment where nothing moved.
It felt as if the earth spun to a halt.
I told him to carry me to the shower.
While I washed off what I did not comprehend, he washed the sheets.
I survived the night, but honestly don’t remember what it was like, due to the dissociation.
The next morning something in me had gone cold.
As I left for my mile walk back to my dorm, I asked “Are you happy now?” out of pain, but also a desire that maybe it would hold off the end of our relationship.
I called S and told him what had happened. I asked if masturbating on someone is “normal.” I inquired from my friends the same thing. Most of them said either “No,” or something along the lines of, “Only if discussed first.” B never acknowledged to me that it had happened and I was afraid to bring it up. He did manage to brag to friends and his frat brothers about it. Years later, even after he had graduated, one of his frat brothers at a party would realize, “Wait, your the one who….” Yes. Yes. That was me.
The undeserved shame I felt, was traumatizing.
Our break up was ugly. He had been telling me for weeks that he loved me and wanted to be with me, but that he also wanted to be with other people. I was not okay with an open relationship. I respect that it works for others, but I knew myself well enough to know that it would not work for me, and told him as much. Eventually I made him choose, our relationship or his sexual freedom. He chose correctly, his sexual freedom. I was not devoid of a backbone. I loved him very much and thought we had something special, but when he called to say he wanted to get back together, I told him he had to show me it would be different. He couldn’t and so we never did. I think of those final two weeks as a glorious display of my own commitment to have someone love me in the way I need and deserve.
Why did I never stand up for myself to B in our sexual life? Apart from being afraid of losing him, I also accepted that he knew better. He was older, he seemed confident, he had sexual experience with other women. I was young, inexperienced, and lacked anything resembling sexual confidence. I thought I was broken. I was broken, I had more than one disorder, but I was also fixable and still deserved respect.
This is a tough time to remember. It is hard for me to separate who to blame because of how raw it still and might always feel. B was young in reality. He probably still doesn’t know what vaginismus is, and he certainly didn’t know then and neither did I. I was also afraid to communicate, and he wouldn’t listen when I did manage it. We both wanted a healthy sexual relationship, we both blamed me for the fact that ours was everything but.
But B would not be the last man to treat me in this way. It would take many more encounters and a lot more learning about myself for me to realize the truth.
I am allowed stand up to people. I can make demands. I have not failed by being honest about my sexual self, in fact I have succeeded. If someone cannot handle or is unsatisfied with what I have to offer, that is their personal business, but they should never belittle me for it. Or blame me completely for their own failings.
I thought it was just me. Just my fault for a long time. I now know that I need to be with someone who will respect and cherish me, but I also need to respect and cherish myself. I can say no. Ending up with the right partner is a choice that I empower myself to make.
About the MY SEXUAL HISTORY SERIES: Every experience has taught me something specific, and some of these lessons I had to be taught more than once. Every individual has a unique way of dealing or not dealing with my disorder and has therefor had a direct affect on my experience of it. Because of this I will handle each individual I have had relations with separately. Some things may repeat themselves, but that is one of the realities I find most powerful.
I hope these instances will serve as case studies for my readers to understand what vaginismus looks like in practice at different ages and levels. Every sexual encounter has led me to the place I inhabit today, and in order to move forward with healing I must consider them all.
Questions, thoughts, need someone to share with, do not hesitate to reach out to me: healingvaginismus@gmail.com