What Do You Do When Your Vagina Says ‘Nah-uh, Honey’?

Yup, it happened: my vagina said ‘no’. Not literally, of course – the closest my vagina has ever come to being vocal is a fanny fart and we all know how much we’d like it to pipe the fuck down in that moment – but my vagina has, undoubtedly, started to deny entry. To personify it, I’d say my vagina is less like the abrupt, rude bouncer, and more like the approachable bouncer who really *wants* to appease you and let you in but just can’t. He tried ‘avin a word’ with the owner but even that was met with a resounding ‘NO’. He likes you but he’s a man of his word. He could let you in the back-door. He doesn’t. That bouncer is my vagina.

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A quick google search (‘horny but not horny at the same time’, ‘complete lack of moisture’, ‘why is the word ‘moisture’ so gross?’, ‘vagina as dry as the sahara’, ‘I want sex but my vagina doesn’t – which one of us should win?’) diagnosed me with Vaginal Dryness. Or Atrophic Vaginitis, as I prefer to say; ’cause I really enjoy saying ‘vaginitis’. Neither the diagnosis or, indeed, the names of the affliction are desirable. Now, I realise that Google isn’t a trained doctor and I am all too aware that a quick search of ‘headache and stomach pain’ can result in you running round the house minutes later screaming “BRAIN TUMOUR! I HAVE A FUCKING BRAIN TUMOUR! I TOLD YOU, MUM! I TOLD YOU SOMETHING TERRIBLE WAS HAPPENING WITHIN ME!” before popping a few paracetamol and cancelling your appointment with the specialist once you realise all pain dissipated pretty soon after you had some water. Moral of the story: Google likes to make us shit our pants (and subsequently shit our pants about the fact we’re shitting our pants). But one quick read of the symptoms and causes of this dastardly dryness lead me to believe that it’s not as severe as it sounds. It’s pretty common and I’d be surprised if all my gals haven’t experienced it at least once. Our hoo-haa’s can dry up – for a short while or a long while – for a whole host of reasons including stress, relationship problems, lack of foreplay, douching, washing powders, diabetes… the list goes on. So, whilst it sounds scary and has the potential to send a fella running for the hills (“So… wanna fuck?” “Oh shoot, I can’t tonight! My Atrophic Vaginitis is back with a vengeance.”), it’s pretty straight-forward; you’re, basically, not getting as wet as normal. And I think I had it.

The other day my mind and my vagina were locked in a nookie battle.
Mind: “I would quite like to orgasm today.”
Vagina: “Nah-uh, honey.”
Mind: “C,mon! Stop twisting my melon, man! Why are you being such a little madam? Be fluid, dammit!”
Vagina: “Daisy, it just isn’t going to happen for you today. No amount of gentle caressing, vigorous rubbing or furious fucking is going to work. Not even Channing Tatum in Magic Mike would do the trick.”
Mind: “What about Chris Brown making sweet, sweet love to the floor in his Take You Down video?”
Vagina: “Not even Chris Brown making sweet, sweet love to the floor in his Take You Down video. Do yourself a favour: have a cuppa and watch The Office. We know how much you like The Office!”
Mind: “The Office 
is fab. But, no! No! Don’t mind-fuck me! To hell with you, I’m gonna bump uglies anyway!”

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Well, what a fucking terrible idea that was. It wouldn’t go in. Lube would’ve been great, ‘cept we were all outta stock. I’d defied my punani and it wasn’t best pleased. It was like when Abu touches the forbidden treasure in Aladdin and all hell breaks loose, except a ride on a carpet would’ve inevitably left me and my vag worse off than we already were. And where’s the bloody Genie when you need him?! “And your 3 wishes are..?” “I wish to be entered effortlessly, penetrated effortlessly and exited effortlessly.” But not even the awkwardness and discomfort of a midday sofa fuck – in a house full of people, in which our semi-nakedness was being meagrely covered by a nearby blanket – was going to stop me. I wanted to have sex. I was so up for it. My boyfriend looked great. I had a bit of a tan going on. I’d recently been waxed. I hadn’t yet devoured my lifetime allowance of chocolate in a single sitting, so my stomach was flat-ish. I felt fresh. I felt good about myself. The horn was at full effect. I was at my daily peak! Give it a couple more hours and my make-up would’ve sweat off, my IBS would’ve kicked in and my sweatpants would’ve been on lock-down. It was decided: all systems (bar the most important one) were GO! So we did it. A lot of rearranging and aggravated sighs of “No, not there. Move down a bit. Just move DOWN. Right, there. There. IT’S IN.” were followed by a semi-successful romp and an impressively speedy clean-up.

Then the aftermath struck. My pun was hella mad. It was like I was pissing fire. Toilet paper only worsened the sitch. The baby-wipes were kinder but still no walk in the park. I had Mount Doom between my legs. But no Frodo. No – no Frodo’s were gonna be allowed near Mount Doom anytime soon. I couldn’t walk, and not for all the right reasons either. I literally just couldn’t walk. Was my fanny going to drop off? Is that possible? What happens if this agony never subsides? I spent an entire two days putting pressure on the pain in a desperate bid to alleviate it. If I was sat on the sofa, you best believe I had at least three pillows between my legs. My mind was going wild: “Is this my life now? Will I have to line all my undies with untold amounts of cotton-wool? Are there any positives I can draw from this situation? Maybe my unquenchable thirst for cotton-wool will reignite the economy. But, then again, your incessant shopping habits should’ve done that a long time ago. It’s about time they awarded you for that, actually. Fuck knows how much worse the deficit would’ve been had you not been consuming clothes like a madman. Oh Jesus fucking Christ, Fenton: my vag is on FIRE.” The stinging was relentless. It was like someone had thrown nettles at my foof and then proceeded to kick it. Sore. So, so sore. And sorry. So, so sorry.
Lesson well and truly learnt, vagina. 1-0 to you.

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