Why does getting dumped always feel like getting kicked in the face? Even if you have no long-term potential with the guy and the sex(ual experience) was kinda boring.
Guys, I’m back. Sorta. I still feel like a shell of a person after my year of medical mutilation. For those of you who don’t know me in real life, I’ve been sick, really sick for the last year. Chemo. Steroids. Colon and rectum in a medical waste bin somewhere to decompose with fetuses and emotional anguish. For a while I couldn’t feel sex. I couldn’t feel. But when you are bleeding out of your ass multiple times a day you really don’t want anything shoved in you, so the numbness is a welcome visitor. I always wondered what people fill their time with when their vagina isn’t constantly nagging them. I guess the answer is that I filled my ass with medicine. Multiple times a day. Foam. Suppositories. Enemas. Buttcream. The Long Island Iced Tea of ass accoutrements. It was a full-time job. Putting things in my butt, mouth, and under my skin at different time intervals. The logistics were enough to take precedence over having any sort of desire at all, besides the desire to not wake up in the morning. Or in the middle of the night to run to the bathroom and bleed out of my ass.
And I guess even now I don’t want sex. But my body does. And like I guess I should be well adjusted and be a person again. The part of me that wishes I wouldn’t wake up in the morning doesn’t think I deserve physical pleasure. I forgot what that felt like somewhere along the way so its absence never hurt. Neglect is stark and insidious. I became habituated to death. Became a guarded repository of needles and tubes. Desperate for any way out. Alienation is the only escape from a body that is failing you. When I was in middle/high school and was fascinated by cutting, my body became a canvas that perfectly punctuated my feelings. When your body, itself, turns away, you have nothing left to act out on. Cerebral faith is most deluded kind. Not even the doctors know if you will make it. (Not that I feared death, per se, but permanent disability or disfigurement are legit concerns and almost worse.) All they know is you will never be the same. There is something so morbid about having an autoimmune disease. Your body is literally attacking itself.
I basically became a born-again virgin afterwards. Not in the ridiculous, degrading religious way; rather, I felt like a had a new body that was innocent and remained untouched. Like I had been given a second chance. You can only tell so much by masturbating. My surgeon told me my vagina could be repositioned and a certain percentage (5%) of women experience pain with sex after the surgery. The recovery is slow and you gradually become rougher with yourself, learn to trust your own body. I orgasm and cry sometimes, in catharsis. I’m not sure if they are tears of joy or mourning. Whether I feel tainted or cleansed.
One of my biggest fears when my body was still actively falling apart was that I would start dating someone, he would commit to me, and I wouldn’t be able to perform. The guilt would paralyze me, destroying the relationship. Now I feel like I can’t date a normal person because they don’t deserve someone so broken. Everyone tells me how strong I am and that my ability to empathize with patients will be an asset to me as I become a doctor. Friends constantly use the words “wit” and “humor,” as if those aren’t contrived coping mechanisms designed to reinforce my points of weakness. At this point I don’t believe it. Everything I do feels performative, like I am a fraud going through the motions. Jokes are a cry for help. When I was a teenager I used to masturbate compulsively as if orgasms were some commodity allotted in limited quantity. Now I really feel like life is in limited quality and I want to act it all out on my body before it expires. Being an objectified fuckhole is the only thing that makes me feel like a living, breathing, functional human being. Like, it’s nice that someone still wants the rag-tag combination of body parts I have left. The ones my body didn’t reject. (When I was super sick, I used to listen to the Postal Service song “We Will Become Silhouettes” and wish that my body was still usable as a ripe fuck hole.)
When I had a boring hook up with an okcupid guy last weekend, it is the first physical contact I’ve had in over a year that didn’t involve my being a medical specimen to be poked and prodded. I didn’t like it until we became a pile of post orgasm and he apologized for cumming on my bed (and my back!!!) a little. I told him not to worry, I like cum. I don’t think he understood the extent to which I meant that statement. And I felt like a human for the first time. With a concrete desire that could be quantified in bodily fluids. I couldn’t wait until next time when I could see it come out of him. When I could escalate the situation. I feared that with him it would always be about escalation and would never be enough.
Here was the most disappointing part: I get really wet. Like REALLY wet. That was one of the things I was most scared I would lose with the surgery. I guess wetness means two things, so I should be more specific. There is like thick vaginal fluid then there is thin g-spot fluid. I have excessive amounts of both. Probably it is something I should be self-conscious about. I’ve gotten attached. It’s become a point of pride, a sexual signature. Since my surgery, I had only squirt a tiny bit twice. Vaginal repositioning was the first thing I was worried about, since the angle at which a guy enters me is integral to my enjoyment and the angle of the head of a dildo determines whether or not it will get me to squirt. Fingers are jointed and can reach my g-spot. What if my vagina was moved in my pelvic cavity so it was out of reach? The other kinda wetness, regular wetness that everyone experiences: well, I guess I haven’t gotten that wet recently because I haven’t been that aroused. It’s hard to get excited about porn when you haven’t seen a real penis in over a year. When you are totally detached from corporeal reality because physical torture and uncertainty has become commonplace. After my surgery, there was a second, unforeseen factor the freaked me out: colons reabsorb water and when you are colonless, your body tissues don’t receive as much water. I barely pee anymore. There is no excess fluid to be spared. So I wondered if non-essential, fluid-consuming functions would be diminished. Okcupid guy is the first thing that got me wet, really wet, like drippy wet, in forever. Except he couldn’t appreciate it. Because he put his mouth between my legs before his hands. Worse than clothes coming off in piles. He’s really into submission and degradation and I really wanted him to lick my cum off my fingers. Feel how much he made me cream my pants. But instead it was hard for him to cum. Because he is on psych meds. Oh, cruel world.
I know this isn’t what I need in my life now. What I really need is someone who will hold me post-orgasm if I cry, in pleasure or in mourning. He saw the physical scars and I guess he believed they bothered me because he wasn’t offered a glimpse at the emotional ones. My history is etched more than skin-deep. I wonder how weird he thought it was when I told him he was the first person who had seen me naked in over a year (besides medically). I think he knew ahead of time at least on some level. He responded with something like, “well, you look pretty good to me.” As if that were the point.
Last night, after I was pretty sure he had disposed of me and I was emotionally and physically exhausted from my reincorporation into the real world, I got super wet and fucked two toys I hadn’t played with in a while. I squirted all over my bed and came in a rumbly way that continued after I was pretty sure I was done. I couldn’t distinguish the toys’ vibrations from my pulsating pussy, my orgasm from the trembles of coming down from caffeine and settling into overdue sleep. I felt held and protected by my unbroken body, exploded all over my bed.
Too bad I’m still a broken person. I don’t think substantial healing can happen alone.