Tuesday 27 November 2007 (The first in this series of posts is here)
I knew that I couldn’t avoid it. I knew it!
Damn it!
This week, my therapist returned to one of Dr Foldès’ recommendations.
He said it was fundamental, well, all of us have a tendency to exaggeration. As a result I took it on board with a major reservation. I replaced “fundamental” with “will help things along”.
I have to say that as much as there are instructions which I can apply with zeal and concentration (applying cream to my clitoris every day, for example), as for that, I couldn’t. Total block. So, wisely, I set it aside.
With a bit of luck, it wouldn’t be useful. It’s true that at times things happen without intervention. That’s called magic.
I certainly felt that I was on slippery ground when I let my therapist know my slight disappointment about my operation. Don’t be mistaken, I’m very happy with the improvement I’ve noticed in my sexuality since the operation.
I’m already much more serene in my lovemaking, the horrible and heavy shadow left by the mutilation having disappeared. Love in the horizontal had acquired a light heartedness I hadn’t imagined possible.
On the physical side too, I felt very clearly the difference between before and after. I had no more pain or discomfort from my pleasurable parts, which have become richer in sensation.
In short, bedroom sport became much more pleasurable for me and I really have no complaint.
Having said that, at the risk of seeming a naïve perfectionist, I have to admit that, all the same, I was expecting something a bit more.. … overwhelming, a bit more intense.
I imagined nirvana, the intoxication of multiple orgasms, pleasure and joy from all stages, all without any special effort. I thought that all I had to do was wait patiently until my clitoris would invite itself to all these festivities of the senses.
So I told my therapist that I found it was taking quite a time all the same.
Bam!
“What about the masturbation?” she asked my tranquilly.
What? Sorry? What?
In total collapse, on the point of being totally shocked, I restrained with great difficulty a stupid chuckle of embarrassment. And of course the question could be dismissed very quickly: I don’t masturbate.
“And why not?” she asked me, her eyes round with surprise.
Why? But… but I don’t know! I don’t masturbate, that’s all, that’s the way it is.
The subject appealed to me so little, I squirmed like a worm on my chair.
There are women for whom it is just the thing, who find it completely natural and who are totally at ease with the question. Well I’m not one of them, there it is.
No, madam, I don’t “stimulate” myself alone! I don’t want to be taken for a “frigid tight-ass” as one says (and I can’t help but think how this crude expression suits the situation we are addressing) but I said it straight: it’s not my cup of tea!
That doesn’t appeal to me at all. Even the word itself I find ugly and rather frightening. Masturbation (brrr!). That brings to my mind a man playing alone, and when it’s a woman, it seems it’s something to endure and which flirts with pornography pure and simple. You can therefore easily understand my reservation on the question. When I tried to visualise myself in full flow all alone, I am torn between dismay and ridicule.
So yes, it is well known that it’s the best way of knowing your body, of knowing what pleases you and what doesn’t, all that, all that. I know it and I don’t doubt it’s true. Well all the same I’ll happily miss my turn.
My therapist said that in the light of my newly recovered clitoris, I am like a little six-year-old who has discovered that she has a very agreeable organ which gives her some pleasant sensations. And that there is no other way to know the extent of the possibilities of this organ than masturbation. So there is luck and the magic of life, but I believe I understood that the probability of that happening was negligible as far as auto-eroticism was concerned.
“You need to take it step by step”, she said.
OK. For all that, I still wasn’t taken with the idea of fiddling with myself.
My therapist advised me to put the subject of masturbation to one side for the moment (Alleluia!) and just explore my clitoris with my fingers, as I did while I was healing. Not to find out if it was sensitive or painful but more to feel the reactions, change of shape, size, according to my state of mind.
She advised me to forget the sexual dimension, which suited me well. She also said not to force myself, to take it gently, from time to time.
Good.
Exploring, that already sounds easier than “masturbating” (brrr!). I have still not got to it, but it seems less insurmountable.
I didn’t reckon on my operation implying a change of my sexuality. I didn’t suspect that it would be necessary to be more active in my sexual life. Nevertheless, that’s what it is: becoming mistress of my sexuality and abandoning the easy passivity which it involved before the operation.
Hell, but this is going to be difficult!
[Original in French]
