She was speaking of our general arrangement. We were staring at her bed. In her red wrap-dress, gold sandals and brown bob, she looked like a something starlet from a bygone era. Her current vocation was more relevant. We were not in California. Thirty years of silence, interspersed with conventional remedies, had yielded little recovery from abuse-related dysfunction.
I had issues with desire, arousal and orgasm. Penetration was just as painful now as my first attempts at But at 46, miraculously, I married someone wonderful. Kurt supported my overcoming a universe of hurdles. In fact, all my symptoms got worse after the wedding till our union became a pendulum β nighttime crying swung, in the daylight hours, to tight-jawed pleasantries. I needed to reclaim a potential that had been stolen from me. Her name was Francesca. Or I could take off my clothes. A second later, taking control of the situation, I began removing my yoga pants.
I wanted this experience to be different. Maybe I could finally get answers to questions plaguing me since the Reagan years.
Why was there burning with intercourse? Were bad sensations the only reason I had no desire? Did I possess a capacity to climax? The one time I requested an overview of coital mechanics, my doc pointed to a poster of the female reproductive system, blinking furiously. Apparently, I was a failed fornicator. A few were more vocal, like Dr. Fay, who insisted the sexual abuse I experienced as a child had zero effect on my carnal responsiveness.
A sex therapist I consulted with β from the basement of a Panera β stopped me after three minutes. Francesca had no trouble with my barrage of Qs. Prior to entering her boudoir, we had sat in a front office, where I detailed every crevice of my history.
