Not in a “I’m getting all the sexy sex I could possibly imagine and I know I’m not missing out on anything, therefore have zero FOMO” kind of way.

More in a “The missing-out part is pretty accurate but the fear-of part does not exist” kind of way.

Because, yeah.  Le vag?  Le meh.

Discomfited and Uncomfortable

I told my husband recently that I was pretty sure my vagina was sprained.

“It’s…y’know…just like, limping along,” I said.  “And you know how when your ankle is sprained, it’s uncomfortable to have any pressure on it?”

He looked at me (sort of — he was driving at the time, so in actuality it was more like he squinted at me quickly out of the corner of his eye) somewhat befuddled-ly, so I attempted to elaborate.

“Or you know how my lower back was all like ‘OUCH’ at me and then I went to massage therapy and it was ouchier but then it was better?”

He cleared his throat.  (Possibly because he was remembering his own recent…um…massage therapy.)

Taking this as acknowledgment/understanding/listening-in-the-way-that-only-a-longtime-married-man-can, I continued.

“So basically, my vagina is like that. It’s sprained and generally uncomfortable and I think it needs massage therapy so you should put your fingers to good use sometime soon, m’kay?”

Rapid blinking ensued.  (His, of course.)  Followed by a somewhat meandering just-the-facts-ma’am conversation about the Joy of Aging, in which we both pretty much said, “We’re old now, and this is just part of it, and we’ll figure it out.”

Figuring it Out

Well, the ‘figure it out’ bit has yet to happen, really.  At least in terms of What the fuck is causing this?  (Although, realistically, I *know* that what’s ‘causing’ it is [peri-]menopause and stress and the aforementioned joy of aging.)

On the other hand (quite literally — his hands were involved), we have been trying to figure out – in a practical manner – What To Do.

We attempted an oral sex cure.  Which was… NO.

It was a reasonable thing to try, considering that it’s gotten us over a less intense version of this hump (or lack of humping 😛 ) in the past.  But this time…

Hmmm…  How can I explain this?

.

.

.

Have you ever been licked by a cat’s tongue?

Imagine that barely-damp sort of sandpaper-ish texture.

Now imagine having that roughness dragged over a piece of slightly sore, sensitive flesh.

Basically that was what it felt like.

On my clit, of all places.  Which is frequently un-awake right now, but when it is, is extremely uncooperative.  Like, I’ve pretty much always favored direct contact (pressure, not friction!) and gentle-but-firm persistent tongue movement there – combined with penetration from his finger{s} – to orgasm.  And my husband has always been very good at reading my signals and knows exactly how to get me to where I want to go (which is Orgasmland, of course; just over the hill from Almostthere and below the insanely steep mile-high cliffs of Don’t Stop), except this time all that knowledge and skill made me go:

Errrrk…!

STOP.

Which, y’know, is kind of mood-ruining.  And whatnot.

SO.

Fast forward about a week, and we tried again.

Take Two

“So I was thinking,” I told him as we crossed paths in the hall on our way to/from our respective showers, “we should attempt some sexual congress.”

Considering the way I’d shrieked (and not the pleasant “I’m coming!” kind of shriek – quite the opposite in fact) the last time he’d attempted to negotiate a peace accord with my disgruntled lady bits, I half expected him to shrivel in horror at the prospect.

Fortunately for us both, he’s a much better person than I am (at least he is when it comes to patience with said lady bits), and did NOT run screaming in terror at my suggestion.  Instead, he bounded enthusiastically into my bedroom to give ‘er the old college try.

And so with:

• lube
• more lube
• I mean, LOTS & LOTS OF LUBE, people!
• a towel
• my purple mini vibrator, and
• his finger{s}

I managed to have an orgasm.

It was a bit reluctant (and my slathered-with-lube insides still felt the persistent dry-drag of his knuckle – one knuckle because I could only manage one finger – even though all the moving parts were more than sufficiently lubricated), but it came.

Or *I* came, as it were.

He, of course, wanted to come too.  But I said no.  (I’ve been known to do this.)

And then, later that same day, we repeated the process.  (“Do you want to play with my vagina again?” I asked.  Of course he wanted to.  Of course.)

SO:  Same lube, same vibe.  New towel.  Same finger, plus one.

Yes, I managed two (barely, and I made him switch back to one because even though it was more ‘stretch’ than ‘ouch’ I just didn’t feel like I could take two digits for very long) the second time.  🙂

And the combination of…

my less-anxious (I managed one orgasm, didn’t I?  I can do it again!) mental state allowing my muscles to relax,

the soft buzz of my purple vibe against the underside of my clitoral hood in a gentle pressing wrist-roll circling up and down, and

his wrist-facing-upward slow stroke of unforceful penetration and barely-there come-along persuasion

…gave me a second orgasm.

He, of course, wanted an orgasm too.
He was smart enough not to ask for one though.
(Which is why – to his relieved delight – I gave him one.)

So, to recap:

• FOMO is a thing.  Just not for me.  And most definitely not for my sprained vagina.
• Peri-menopause is a thing.  It is, quite literally, a pain in the ass vagina.
• Orgasms are also a thing.  A tetchy thing but still a thing, nonetheless.  Despite my peri-menopausal sprained vagina.
• My relationship with my husband is a Damn Good Thing.  Especially when he performs massage therapy on my vagina.