Problematic Pussy: Overcoming Painful Sex

BY ELIZABETH RICH

My vagina doesn’t work, and it hasn’t from a young age. A burning sensation, itching, stabbing pain and general discomfort would keep me up at night, but I didn’t know how to tell my parents because we’re often told that talking about our genitals is dirty and embarrassing. These symptoms (which I still get) make standing up tough and walking around even tougher. Sometimes it’s like having constant thrush or a UTI. But I didn’t realise just how bad my condition was until I got older and started having sex.

Sex happened for the first time when I was seventeen. It was NOT like the movies (I’m looking at you, Fifty Shades of Grey). Although somewhat painful and uncomfortable, losing my virginity would not be the most painful sex I’d have. As my (ex) boyfriend and I began doing it regularly, it became clear that something was wrong. Penetration was extremely painful; my vagina wasn’t producing any moisture. For days after the deed it would sting and ache. I’d hear friends’ conversations about sex and how enjoyable it was and would join in with fake scenarios as I was embarrassed that my vagina didn’t work like theirs. I felt broken.

By this point I was old enough to articulate my struggles to a doctor and was introduced to the systemic issues within women’s healthcare. Despite constant reminders that I had only had one sexual partner, I was sent for multiple STD screenings. When these came back clear (obviously), I would be forgotten about and had to push for more exploration. I switched doctors and was subject to this cycle again before finally being heard and referred to a gynaecologist. Whilst undertaking this medical process, I still had a relationship to upkeep. I placed suffocating expectations on myself, fixating on the false belief that good girlfriends should sexually satisfy their boyfriends.

In September 2019 I began attending university, and my relationship became long-distance. Sex was an expectation whenever my boyfriend came to see me, and I began to dread his visits. I feared sex and the pain I would be in during and after. I couldn’t even kiss him without the muscles in my vagina contracting as subconsciously I thought that kissing would lead to sex. Sex became about him pleasuring himself and me just lying and waiting for it to be over. Don’t get me wrong, it was consensual – just not pleasurable.

Then the pandemic hit, and I couldn’t see him. I took that time to begin to heal myself mentally. At the start of the lockdown, I wasn’t the person I wanted to be. I wished to be in control of my own sexuality and no longer be passive in my sexual experiences. When my boyfriend and I finally saw each other again it was good, at least for a while. Although sex still hurt, I could better articulate when I didn’t want sex and was working on dealing with the guilt that came with such refusal

In October 2020 I had an appointment with a gynaecologist. My whole life I had been researching my symptoms and had concluded that I had vulvodynia. The gynaecologist agreed. Described by the NHS as persistent, unexplained pain in the vulva, vulvodynia is an umbrella term for something that no one knows much about. It was deflating to realise that I would never get an answer to why I was in pain. Best believe if there were a chronic condition that inhibited men from having sex, there would be more research. I was told it was incurable; I just had to live with it. A few close friends were made aware of my diagnosis. None had heard of vulvodynia, which goes to show how little women are educated on gynaecological issues

What the gynaecologist didn’t tell me was how to better my sex life. I was so overwhelmed with a diagnosis that I accepted it, no questions asked. It wasn’t until a couple of weeks after that I realised I was left with no real answer or solution to my problem with sex, which began to take its toll. I grew to despise sex. It became unbearable; I didn’t even like foreplay anymore. A voice in the back of my head urged me to continue having sex for my boyfriend’s sake, and this made me start to resent him. He knew about my diagnosis, and I’d urged him to read up about it so we could take measures to make sex more comfortable for me. He didn’t. I was in a constant battle with myself as I wanted to be a ‘good’ girlfriend, but I also wanted to respect myself and couldn’t do this whilst knowingly putting my body through trauma, so we broke up at the end of January 2021. Thus began my journey to rediscover myself sexually.

After my breakup, I feared sex and didn’t think about it for a long time. I enjoyed my freedom and spending time with friends. Looking back, I’m so grateful for this time. I didn’t actively do a lot to heal myself, so I can’t provide many tips, but what I did do was start living my life without sex looming over me. A therapist I saw discussed these issues with me, and she was a huge help in realising that sex is a two-person thing. With time, I admitted that I had always felt that I wasn’t present in my sexual experiences, and this was a very mentally damaging thing. I didn’t have sex for over a year.

When I returned to university after the summer of 2021, my mindset shifted. I felt ready to begin experimenting with sex, so a guy I had been speaking to for a couple of months came over, and we slept together. Once again, it hurt like a bitch. The saving grace of this sexual experience was that after a few minutes of discomfort, I actually listened to my body and articulated my pain. We stopped; the guy was super understanding. It was a small step, but by creating those boundaries and listening to my needs, I felt in control. And this felt good. Despite this pride, I was disheartened. I began to question whether I was destined to have painful sex for the rest of my life.

I decided to take some agency. I researched different lubes –lube would become my best friend. The guy came round again; this time, I was ready. It was like I was going into battle, with lube as my warpaint. Victory was mine! Well, it was more of a victory than I was used to. It actually felt somewhat pleasurable. We did have to stop after a little while, and it stung for a few days after, but in the moment it felt okay. Although it doesn’t sound it, this was a HUGE step forward. Confidence was something I had really struggled with in the past. I had felt SO unsexy, both in my relationship and after it. My body didn’t work as I wanted it to and although you couldn’t see this, I felt it was reflected in my appearance. This experience really helped change that.

The next guy I slept with helped me find which condoms worked for me, and the sex was significantly better. Perhaps I was actually starting to enjoy myself! With every sexual experience, my confidence kept growing, and so did my sexual appetite. For so long sex was something I dreaded, something I attached fear and self-loathing to. Now it was something I was celebrating.

Sex really has been a journey for me. And I’m still on the road. I have good days and bad days. I still have flare-ups of my vulvodynia that leave me questioning why this is happening to me, that leave me wondering what it’s like to have a ‘normal’ vagina. The only difference between now and then is that I don’t have a boyfriend to expect sex from me. During these flare-ups I can just focus on myself rather than feel guilty for refusing sex or being in pain from giving it up.

Writing this article brought back a lot of painful memories, but it also showed me how far I’ve come. There are still things I need to work on to become truly comfortable with my body and sex, and there are still things that scare me. My mind goes to dark places whenever I get a twinge of pain in my vagina, terrified of another flare-up. People’s perception of me if I have to stop sex because of the pain is something I still worry over. Many anxieties cloud me, but I am slowly making my way through the fog.

I still struggle to tell sexual partners about my vulvodynia, and by struggling, I mean that I don’t. I’m guilty of making up all sorts of excuses to get out of sex. My most recent was that I was at the end of having a UTI and it was too painful for sex, which I guess isn’t far from the truth and was probably one of my better excuses. My advice for telling sexual partners about a gynaecological condition is to write an article about it.

I’m anxious about new relationships. Don’t get me wrong, that’s not on the cards just yet, but I am known for falling hard and fast. When that happens, I’m not sure how my vagina will take it (she’s got a mind of her own). There are so many things I will do differently. I will no longer be passive during sex, I will articulate my desires, and I will verbalise when I don’t want sex. But I’m still scared. I’m scared that I will fall back into a trap of my own expectations. I’m scared that I will put my partner’s needs over my own. And I’m scared because a tiny voice in the back of my head is telling me that I won’t be enough.

These fears, although real, are premature. I now have the confidence and maturity to put how I’m feeling into words. This is my saving grace. My hope is that whoever and whenever my next relationship is, I will feel comfortable sharing these words with them, too. I’ve learned so many things about myself in the past year. That lube really is a lifesaver. That Durex thin condoms are fantastic. That certain angles hurt; I have new favourite positions. That I’m sexy as fuck, and my mind and body can’t make me feel otherwise. ✦