Ever experience an unwelcome change in your body where seemingly overnight you go from wet as a lake during sex to dry as a week-old cake? I’m talking about the dreaded vaginal dryness. Two words I never thought I’d utter.
In fact, there was a time, when I could tell how hot the sex was by how wet it got, down there, you know, where it counts. You can fool your head with fantasies and delusions trying to convince yourself that the “frog” you’re screwing is actually a “prince,” but you can’t fool it. If it, in the words of my friend, Jane, “Ain’t dripping egg whites, it ain’t happening. The rule of thumb is,” she went, “The wetter, the better.” I nodded dutifully and made a note to myself to never ask for an omelet at her house.
Still, Jane had a point. It demands nothing less than the real thing – true lust and desire. That surge of chemistry that hits you like a bolt of lightning — and, boom, you just gotta have it. So it was a surprise to me when in my forties, with menopause newly upon me, I found myself in bed with a real “prince.” Everything was flashing green and I was ready for a humdinger of a night when shockingly, it wouldn’t drip.
Bone dry. Not even a bit of tacky wetness. Just tree bark rubbing against tree bark. Not to be outdone by my body, I ran into the kitchen naked, grabbed a bottle of olive oil from the cupboard and raced back to bed.
“What’s that?” asked the unsuspecting prince.
“Olive oil,” I said matter-of-factly. “Your tool needs oiling.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said covering himself with the sheet. “You do that and I’ll never be able to eat a salad again without getting a hard on.”
“So give up salads,” I said. “We can’t stop now!” My eyes flashed desperation.
The prince stared down at his penis. It had shrunk to the size of a giant peanut.
“Oh yes we can,” he said. “I’m going to bed.”
He rolled over and was snoring in seconds. I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling fan for hours, and asking myself over and over, Had the lubrication faucet just turned off for good?
What would you do? The only thing I could thing of was to go see my doctor. It was too embarrassing to even consider talking to anyone about it.
The next day, I found myself in a similar position to the night before, with knees splayed open and a blue sheet the size of giant paper towel covering my privates. Only this time, I was watching the top of my doctor’s head as it bobbed up and down in front of my vagina trying to place the speculum.
“Hmmmmm,” she said ominously. “What do we have here?”
“What is it?” I said trying to prop myself up on my elbows. Not so easy when your feet are in stirrups.
“Hold still,” she said. “The speculum’s falling out.”
I stared at her gray roots trying to distract myself and held steady.
“Very interesting,” she said rising from between my knees. “You have a patch of dry skin on the top, inside of your vagina.”
“A patch? Of dry skin?” I said with horror. “What the hell is that? Some kind of leprosy?” This was more serious than I realized.
My doctor’s mouth started moving quickly. I was too stunned to make out a word she said except I was sure she laughed, and I was sure I heard the words, “vaginal dryness, menopause, it could get worse.”
An image of sand dunes in the shape of labia flashed before my eyes. Without me knowing it, it was turning into a desert wasteland. I already knew olive oil wasn’t going to cut it but what help is there for a gal left high and dry? Is there sex after vaginal dryness? Please, send your thoughts to Seasoned Sex through the ASK section at www.empowher.com/ask.
© 2008 ZANTIUM LLC
BIO:
Everyone knows you only talk about sex in secret. Everyone but me that is. I’m Pamela Tames and you can hear more about my take on sex and the older woman at http://seasonsex.com.
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