Chapter 7
I saw Tristan two more times that week.
Like before, he messaged me about a third date before I even made it home. Except this time, he was wondering if I’d like to have dinner with him after work on Tuesday.
My heart thumped with joy. He didn’t want to wait until the weekend to see me.
Cassidy was her usual silly, fawning self as I prepared for my date, helping me pick an outfit and insisting on straightening my hair. The whole time, she preened on about how beautiful I looked and how she wished her hair was as thick as mine.
I used her glee over my dating life as an opportunity to ask about hers.
Specifically, about Aaron.
Cassidy froze like a statue, the flat iron steaming in her rigid grasp, and I realized I may have plucked a nerve. She and Aaron had known each other for years, but it was only within the past few months that he’d made his attraction obvious. As if some light bulb finally switched on in his brain.
“Oh, we’re just friends,” Cassidy replied in her usual cheery tone, although I could tell there was a bite to her words. A subtle warning not to push the topic further.
So I didn’t. I dressed in a flowy pink sundress, my straightened hair now cascading down to my belly button. I studied myself in the mirror, wondering if I looked better this way or with my natural curls.
But when I greeted Tristan at the restaurant, he thought it looked fantastic. Our date was wonderful, full of flirty smiles, animated conversation, and plenty of good food. I was beginning to settle into our dates, learning his mannerisms and quirks, and he no longer felt like a stranger. In fact, it felt like I had known him for years.
This time, he didn’t bring up going back to his house. The problem was that I really wanted to. I wanted to cook meals together and play video games curled up on the couch and all the other non-sexual things couples did at home. But that would always come with risks – a kiss lasting a bit too long, hands straying to places they shouldn’t go… and all of it would end with me in a half-naked panic attack, unable to explain to Tristan why I was so terrified of sex.
But I didn’t object when he pressed me against his car after our dinner date. I was in heaven, running my hands along his soft cotton t-shirt, feeling the firmness of his muscles hidden beneath his clothes. For a moment, I forgot all about my issues. I forgot all about my sexual dysfunction… until he slid his hand farther down my back. Too far.
It snapped be back to reality, reminding me what I couldn’t give him. My anxiety sped into overdrive, and I scurried back to my own car with a quick goodbye before Tristan could comprehend what was happening.
This “you’re not experienced” crap isn’t going to hold up much longer, I groaned as I butted my head against the steering wheel of my car.
Thirty minutes later, I pulled into the driveway of our townhouse with my nerves on fire, fingers trembling as I clutched the steering wheel. The whole way home, I wondered if I’d blown it… until a familiar notification lit up my screen.
Hey, want to meet me at Orange Blossom Coffee after work tomorrow? I figured we could talk about things.
Oh no.
He wants to talk.
That’s never a good sign.
Anxiety bubbled in the back of my throat the whole next day at work. I couldn’t read a single line of the manuscript I was editing without my mind drifting off. Back toward the night before, leaned up against his car, when I turned what should’ve been an amorous moment into an awkward mess.
I leapt out of my seat the instant I clocked out for the day. I was supposed to meet Tristan at six, which gave me half an hour to pile five outfits on the bed and stare blankly at all of them before deciding on something else.
I peered at my reflection in my bathroom mirror, smoothing the fabric of my baby-blue, knee-length dress. If I was going to be a nervous wreck, I at least needed to look nice.
Just like a few weeks earlier, the traffic driving to Orange Blossom Coffee was ridiculous, made worse by the horde of terrible Florida drivers that got far too much use out of their brakes and horns. But I was too nervous to care. My mind was miles away, swimming in a sea of worry and anticipation. I dreaded what awaited me as I pulled into the parking lot.
I turned off my car ignition and stepped into the cool, damp evening air. I usually enjoyed going to coffee shops, but I wondered if tonight was a good night for my favorite drink. The anxiety pulsing through my veins made me feel like I’d already overdosed on caffeine.
Tristan was already inside when I arrived. He leaped up from his seat and pulled me into a hug, and my terror slowly began to dissipate.
Clearly, he still cares about me. It can’t be that bad…can it?
“You okay?” Tristan rubbed my forearms. “You’re shaking.”
“Yeah.” I forced out the word. “I’m just… nervous, that’s all.”
“Don’t worry,” he reassured me as we took a seat at a table. He already had a coffee in front of him, but it looked like he hadn’t even taken a sip. “It’s nothing bad. I did sound kind of cryptic, didn’t I?”
I nodded sheepishly.
“I just wanted to have this conversation in person, not over text. Anyway… I really like you, Avery. I want a relationship with you. So that’s why I need to ask…”
Uh oh.
Here it comes.
His voice lowered to a near-whisper. “Are you a virgin?”
I was so paralyzed with anticipation that I couldn’t respond. He must’ve seen the ghostly-pale expression on my face, because his tone immediately softened. “It’s okay if you are. It’s not a big deal. I know it can be tough to talk about.”
He sighed, his back slouching into his chair as he raked his fingers across his scalp. “I’m sorry. You look so scared.”
“No, it’s okay,” I spoke up, extending a hand across the table. Tristan clasped it in his own, gently rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. “And you’re right, I am. I should’ve just told you. ”
It was true. I was a virgin. But it was only part of the truth, and that made it feel like lying. I feared that Tristan may not be receptive to the real reason why I’d been so flighty.
“You know, we can do this together,” Tristan continued, his words warm and gentle. “My aunt has a condo out by the coast. I could see if it’s available this weekend. I’ll get candles, wine, condoms…anything you need to be comfortable.”
He was so understanding, so willing to help, that it tore my terrified heart in half. To him, this would be a special, intimate night, one that ended with me successfully losing my virginity. A romantic getaway, in a cute little condo by the beach…it all sounded like a dream.
But that was all it was: a dream. I knew the reality would be Tristan struggling for hours while I alternated between crying and screaming in pain. Until he eventually got too frustrated and gave up on me. Walking away from his dysfunctional, broken partner, just like Tyler did.
I peered up at Tristan, then down to our interlocked hands. I studied the way his fingers trailed over mine, tracing the lines of my palm as if he needed to know every inch of me. It was a gentle, reassuring gesture, and I could feel his plea through his touch.
Please, do this with me. Let’s spend the night together.
I knew I couldn’t refuse. Not that Tristan was being pushy—he had been nothing but kind and understanding since I first met him. But he wanted a relationship, and with a relationship came the expectation of sex. If I wanted to be with him, I had to do this. I couldn’t hold off intimacy forever.
My choices were to say no and never see him again, or take this chance and pray that my body wouldn’t betray me. And amidst all the fear and pain, there was always a chance it would work. That I’d figure out a way to have sex.
And for Tristan, I would absolutely take that chance .
“Of course.” I smiled, swallowing down my fear. “That sounds great.”
“Awesome.” I could see the stress melt away from Tristan’s body as his shoulders loosened and he released a heavy breath. “Just remember, I care about you. You don’t have to hide these things from me. Anyway,” he said, as his usual warm, affectionate smile returned to his face. “now that that’s out of the way, let’s just sit and talk. About lighter stuff—gaming, work, friends…anything you want. I could talk to you all night.”
“I agree,” I smiled. Our conversation about sex was tucked away, at least for now. It felt like a massive weight off both our shoulders, but I knew it wouldn’t stay off mine for long. It never did.
You don’t have to hide these things from me.
My breath caught in my throat.
If only it were that easy, Tristan.
Tristan and I texted frequently over the next few days. He even called me on Thursday afternoon, both because “he wanted to hear my voice,” and because he had news on his aunt’s beach condo.
We were lucky. His aunt had a last-minute cancellation for Saturday night, and she said Tristan could use the condo if we paid the cleaning fee and left by 11 a.m. Sunday morning.
He sounded overjoyed, and I tried my best to sound the same. Even as the acidic burn of nausea seeped up my throat.
I stayed on the phone with him for another hour. It felt like a barrier had been broken between us, and we could freely laugh and talk and joke like a real couple. Because to him, nothing was wrong. I’d finally confessed my big secret, which to him was no big deal. He’d take me on a weekend getaway, take my virginity, and cement our newfound relationship. I knew it was a test; a sweet, romantic, exciting one, but still a test. And I was terrified of failing it.
Because an even bigger, uglier secret still hid below the surface, one that I knew he wouldn’t be as accepting of.
Once our call ended, I spent the next twenty minutes flopped on my bed like a starfish, my eyes trailing the ceiling fan as it circled lazily overhead. I didn’t know what to do with myself. The tension was fizzing inside me like a shaken soda can, and I needed to let it out.
I needed to talk to someone. I thought about knocking on Cassidy’s door. I even made it as far as the hallway before I balked. It didn’t make sense; she was my best friend, and we told each other everything. But I couldn’t tell her. As painful as it was to have this secret lurking inside me, the thought of dredging it up in conversation made me want to vomit.
If I’m going to talk about this . I reasoned. Maybe I should do it with a neutral third party. Someone I never have to see again if things go south.
So, I turned to the internet, looking up therapists on various websites. I’d never done therapy before, and I knew it was going to be both expensive and time-consuming. But what I didn’t expect was for there to be only two therapists within a reasonable drive that specialized in sexual dysfunction, and neither one took my insurance.
I huffed, about to slam my laptop shut when a question I should’ve asked myself years ago flooded my mind.
What exactly is sexual dysfunction?
I had no idea. I was terrified of seeing a gynecologist, and I didn’t know what other medical professionals could help me. My sexual issues had always been something I shoved in a box and hid in the deepest recesses of my mind, pretending they didn’t exist. But now I needed to face them, and I had no idea where to start.
I stared blankly at my web browser, and my throat tightened as I typed in sexual dysfunction .
I was immediately flooded with results, describing everything from lack of arousal to the inability to orgasm. Okay, too broad. How do I describe what’s wrong with me?
Think…
This time, I typed in painful penetration .
This brought me to a medical website with a list of causes, which I scanned through with eager eyes. Not enough lubrication. I snorted, thinking of how Tyler had drowned my pelvic region in lube when we tried five years ago. Clearly that wasn’t the problem. Rough sex, trauma, negative feelings about a partner…
I groaned in frustration. None of this was helping me. Despite my sexual dysfunction, I did have a sex drive, which made my inadequacies even more frustrating. I wanted to have sex with Tristan. More than anything. But no matter how attracted to him I was, no matter how aroused I became, my stubborn vagina had a mind of its own.
I exited the website, scrolling through more search results until I came across an intriguing term. Vaginismus . The website described it as involuntary muscle spasms that made the vagina too narrow for sexual activity.
That sounds about right. I thought back to five years ago, remembering how it felt like there was an impenetrable wall in my vagina.
I could feel the light bulb flashing in my head, the puzzle pieces finally clicking together. I scoured the website for more information, absorbing everything I could.
Ten minutes later, I finally understood my condition. And it made me want to hurl my phone across the room.
The condition requires there to be no anatomical issues and a desire for penetration.
So this is all in my head? Nothing is actually wrong with me?
The thought terrified me. Physical problems were much easier to deal with. A few trips to the doctor, maybe a small surgical procedure, and I’d be all set. The human brain was a fickle instrument, and treating mental issues was a complicated, exhausting, and often lengthy process.
My nostrils flared as I kept reading:
Factors that cause vaginismus include chronic pain conditions, a negative emotional response to sexual activity, and strict conservative moral educati—
Conservative moral education?!
Oh fucking hell.
This time I actually did hurl my phone across the room. It was undamaged, since it was in a thick case with a screen protector, but it still clattered loudly against my deck and flopped face down on the carpet like a dead bird.
I crossed my elbows in front of my body and plopped my head in the center, trying not to scream. When I decided to turn to the internet for a diagnosis, I expected some physical abnormality that could be treated. Even just being scared was an acceptable answer.
But this was my worst nightmare. My entire childhood had been entwined in religion, from home to church groups at my Catholic private school. I’d grown up thinking I needed to be a virgin, a good girl, a pure little flower for my future Christian husband. Sex before marriage was a sin; a dirty, repulsive, immoral act. Back then, even just thinking the word sex felt profane. I had fled that mindset five years ago, but maybe it still had a faint hold on me. Maybe my mind really was holding me back.
I remembered the night Tyler pressured me into having sex. Maybe that was why it hurt so much. Because my brain was screaming at me that sex before marriage was wrong, and no matter how much I wanted to believe otherwise, there was no fighting my upbringing. My subconscious wanted me to stay pure. But the sad, sick irony was that not having sex was what caused men to leave me. Being pure was ruining my life.
That night with Tyler changed everything, destroying the only world I knew.
And he got to walk away without consequences.
My hands were shaking, and tears brimmed in the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill like an overfilled water glass. I needed to punch something; take my anger out on the world around me so it didn’t consume me whole.
No. Stop it.
I lowered my trembling fists. Get ahold of yourself. Hitting your belongings isn’t going to make you feel better.
And Cassidy would hear it. She would know something was wrong.
Instead, I sat down on my bed, gripping the edges of my comforter until my knuckles turned white. I was broken. Truly, horrifically broken. I’d known this for years, but I’d always kept it at bay by avoiding relationships. But now that I wanted one, I had to face the truth. For the first time in my life, I’d been brave enough to research my condition.
So, stop the pity party, I told myself , and do something about it.
But what could I do? I had two days until my beach trip with Tristan; not nearly enough time to undo five years of sexual trauma.
I stood up and walked toward my desk, picking up my phone. I unlocked it, and the article about vaginismus flashed white on the screen, blinding my eyes and reminding me why I was so upset in the first place.
I scrolled to the bottom of the page, under treatment options. Much of it involved mental health treatment, something that wouldn’t fix me before Saturday. But another solution caught my eye.
Pelvic physical therapy.
There was one in Orlando, about thirty minutes from my townhouse. I looked up their phone number and their hours. It was 5:45 p.m. —I had fifteen minutes until they closed.
With sweaty palms and a tensed throat, I made the call.
I was tired of being broken. And I was finally going to do something about it.