How I came to LOVE lube!

Since the day I lost my virginity at the age of 19, having sex has hurt.  It’s never pleasureable, it’s downright painful. The first few times the pain was almost unbearable, but that didn’t strike me as terribly unusual; I knew that losing your virginity often hurt and, frankly, I was just grateful that I didn’t bleed, which would’ve meant sneaking into the laundry in the dead of night to scrub my sheets.  How would I explain that one to my mother?   Logic would tell you that your body is not accustom to sex and it’s probably going to hurt the first, second, or third time. To be honest, I thought maybe my boyfriend was doing it wrong.  Who actually knows the right way to have sex...but anyways…for something that’s supposedly the most natural thing two people can do, sex sure takes a lot of maneuvering, negotiating and post-game analysis. After a few tries, I thought, it would start feeling good.

I dated guys who could care less if I was being pleased, but at the same time I have found a few considerate men who would always insist that I stop them if the pain became too much, which I sometimes did. But more often than not, I gritted my teeth and waited for them to finish. Lucky for them, sex has never been “all about me”.

I was wrong. Sex—I’m talking actual penetration sex—never felt good. It often felt nice—nice to be so close to someone I loved, nice to share that kind of intimacy and trust—but it was never pleasurable the way other sex acts were. It never felt like something that could even approach orgasmic. On the contrary, it hurt like hell. It made me grip on to my boyfriend’s hips and bite into his shoulder in pain rather than in pleasure, praying that he would finish soon, longing for it to end. Sometimes I would even ask…”Are you done yet?” And when it did, I would lie there feeling raw and torn, wincing, while he came down from his orgasm grinning.  Now let’s be serious…Why can’t I have a smile on my face like that?

Was this it? Was this the sex everyone—my girl friends, my guy friends, hell, my entire culture—had been obsessing about? I felt so let down. Sex, after all the hype, had turned out to be anti-climatic, in more ways than one. I felt confused—did all women feel this way? Or was I the only one? Was there something wrong with me?

When my boyfriend and I talked about it, we decided that it was probably a case of our needing more practice. (In hindsight, I see that this solution probably appealed to him not only for altruistic reasons.) I went to the OB/GYN—something I would absolutely recommend you do, if you have similar pain—where a full STD scan and a rather unpleasant exam left my gynecologist scratching her head. My boyfriend and I had tried lube from the drugstore. We tried different positions. Nothing helped. When he was on top, it felt like he was hurting me. When I was on top, it felt like I was hurting myself. Sex was something I endured, because I loved him and I wanted him to be happy.

When that relationship ended and I started dating other people, I kept my standards for who I slept with rather stringent: I only slept with people I was in love with. This was partly because sex was, and still is, a big deal for me. But it was partly because I knew that no matter how I felt about the person, sex would be physically painful. If it was never going to be good, then I could at least ensure that it was nice, that I trusted and cared about the person, and that he cared about me. And as screwed-up as it might sound, I was only willing to let someone inflict that kind of pain on me if they loved me.  Not to mention, you didn’t think I was going to go through that much pain just to go through it right?

Even though I was committed, in theory at least, to a fair, equitable and mutually pleasurable sex life, I always dreaded telling my boyfriends about how painful sex was for me. If there was no solution, I figured, what was the point in taking away their enjoyment? There was no reason for us both to be miserable. When I did tell them about it, or when I was unable to conceal my pain or my frustration, they were disquieted, and sometimes told me how guilty they felt that something that brought them such pleasure was causing me such misery. Could they tell that I was in pain? Some of them could. But it never seemed to bother them enough for them to forgo an orgasm.

I wanted the sex everyone raved about.  I know what sex was supposed to be, but why was it not the same for me?  Sometimes I would cry because I know If anyone deserved to have good, mutually pleasurable sex, it was me—dammit. I eventually started dating someone who wasn’t content to have bearable sex with me. He could tell that I was in pain, and he couldn’t stand it. He was perfectly willing to sacrifice his own orgasm if the alternative meant knowing that I was suffering. And when I told him that I’d tried every solution imaginable, he insisted that we be more imaginative. Without knowing it, I realized I actually was dating someone who understood sex wasn’t the be-all-and-end-all of the relationship and wasn’t going to force it if I was just going to break down and cry.

A few weeks ago, the two of us headed to Lover’s Lane in Ypsilanti, where I live. For those unfamiliar with Lover’s Lane stores, they are couple friendly sex shops designed to make shopping for sex toys and related products pleasant and judgment-free, and they are staffed entirely by romance specialists. My boyfriend and I were incredibly upfront with the sales person: “Sex hurts for me.” I said. “A lot. I’m really, really sensitive.” The sales person, a woman who was very approachable, walked us through a variety of lubricants and recommended an organic silicone-water blend from the Sliquid line that contained aloe. We bought it, along with a few other lube products, and walked out of the store with high hopes. Afterall, this is what they specialize in.  Let’s give it a whirl.

That night, something amazing happened. For the first time ever, I had painless sex. For the first time ever, I wasn’t just enduring it. There wasn’t anything medically wrong with me at all—I just needed a little liquid courage, so to speak. The idea of resorting to lube for mere vaginal sex had always bothered me; using it had always felt like an admission that my body wasn’t good enough, as though it wasn’t properly performing this most basic of functions. But this time, I shelved my pride. After nine years of nice but bad sex, what choice did I have?

Finally, after nine years of pain, a breakthrough. It was as though, after all these years, I had finally lost my virginity. I wouldn’t exactly say I enjoyed it; after all, who really enjoys their first time? I was too shocked by the fact that I didn’t feel pain to actually feel any pleasure—yet. That will come later. And perhaps, if we’re very lucky, so will I.