Sarah: Back in April, I shared my story of having vaginal reconstruction. Of course, a surgery of this nature requires sex to be put on hold for quite awhile, but I promised readers that I would write again when my spouse and I finally gave the new runway a test flight. After eight weeks post-op, I was able to finally come home with the news, "It's cherry poppin' season, honey!" and we made our first attempt. The key word here is "attempt." Let me explain.
I spent many weeks during my healing, picturing the first night of sex with my husband. Wouldn't it be fun to play the part of a real virgin, after all? At thirty-seven, who gets a chance like this? I fixated on whether to wear white, or maybe a dirty schoolgirl outfit, or going with a Madonna-esque 80s look (sans hairy armpits) as I danced to her famous tribute to purity. There were so many roads to take. And only one chance to get this right ... Right?
Reflecting back on my "first time," at age 18, I certainly knew what I didn't want. I didn't want it to be on the floor of my best friend's home, after she snuck me her house key prior to their family vacation. She had given my boyfriend and I clear instructions: "Don't turn on the lights, don't stand up so neighbors can see you, and don't use the beds." After romantically elbow-crawling to our destination, and having the cliché condom debacle, we accomplished the painful act on my friend's bedroom floor. I then got dressed, re-pegged my jeans, and we crawled out, leaving my dignity and a single stud earring behind.
Anyway, the likelihood that my husband of five years would seek out that scenario was slim. So, looks like it would be the average Miss Scarlet, in the bedroom, with the candlestick routine. But I was still determined to honor the fact that I had new girl parts that needed a good breaking in. I finally went with the dirty college co-ed look, and trust me, there were no jeans to peg this time ...
So, when the moment of truth arrived, I was shocked to find (not as much as my husband) that my doc's warning of "it may take a few times to actually achieve penetration" was not a joke. I almost shot through the ceiling of our bedroom when my husband attempted to achieve full liftoff, and despite many brave attempts, we actually had to abort the mission. As I lay in my plaid school skirt and pigtails, I felt both elated and defeated. Wow, I'm really a virgin again! I thought. But do I want to be one forever? My husband's gentle encouragement and complete understanding was so amazing, and even he seemed to get a kick out of the "deflowering" process. So here we are a few weeks later, having finally succeeded, and we're both happy with the results. And now when we finish our lovemaking, I usually throw in, "Do you think my parents heard us?" Just for kicks.