Vagina Wars: A New Hope

I’ve debated endlessly with myself about publishing this post. The truth is, this is an adult situation, and I’m going to discuss some delicate matters, so you’ve been warned. In the end, I thought that other women out there might be dealing with the same issues I’ve had and not to share would be wrong.

First some history. In 2007 I was diagnosed with early stage breast cancer. I had a lumpectomy and six weeks of radiation therapy. The lump was estrogen receptive, so I was placed on the drug tamoxifen, an estrogen inhibitor, for a period of five years. Everything went beautifully, but I continued menstruating heavily and in 2011 my doctors decided I needed to have an oophorectomy (hysterectomy plus removal of my ovaries, Fallopian tubes, the whole shebang.)

Shortly after that I realized that sexual intercourse, an act of which I was tremendously fond, had become unbearably painful. It was like one day a switch was shut off and my vagina ceased to be my friend. 

Oh, we coaxed it, and lubricated it. I sent off to Europe for a product guaranteed to make my vagina a welcoming place again. My radiologist, Dr. Sapiente, sent me home with a set of dilators in Easter egg pastels. We tried lidocaine swabs. Nothing helped.

My gynecologist at the time prescribed the topical steroid, Premarin, and for one glorious month I was on speaking terms with my vagina. Unfortunately, when my oncologist found out I was taking it she put her foot down and took it away from me, and we were back to being frenemies.

Poor Studly was, and continues to be, so patient, and I must say I’ve been a trooper, too. Wine helps, lots and lots of wine. The act still hurts, but I don’t care as much. 

When we moved to Florida I told our new family doctor about my problem and asked if there were any new treatments for women like me. He responded, “Is it still that important to you?” I wanted to slap him, but instead I began the search for another doctor. 

My new doctor is female, and she referred me to a gynecologist who uses a relatively new procedure using lasers to stimulate the vagina to create its own collagen. I saw the specialist on Wednesday, and for the first time in six years I feel hopeful that we can be friends again. 

The procedure isn’t covered by health insurance, and the initial package of three treatments can vary in price from $1,500 to $3,000 depending on the part of the country in which one resides. Annual follow up treatments run about $500. 

At my doctor’s office the procedure is known as the Mona Lisa Touch (they have a website: http://www.monalisatouch.com/), but I understand there are several other companies in the market with different monikers.

My first treatment is scheduled in early March. If I haven’t put everyone off I’ll provide updates, not to be confused with play by play. That would just be wrong. Send good thoughts. I will appreciate them.

Oh, my new gynecologist talked to me extensively about new research regarding Premarin and he’s started me on a new prescription. Things really are looking up down there.

Peace and friendship, people.

Seduction

A bottle of Cabernet
Fuels anticipation
Fragrant candles lit


Gentle kiss, just there,
Measured strokes invite delight
Touch of velvet skin


What would you offer
For one night in tender arms?
All the world’s riches

Song of the Lake 

Hear the frogs singing
Their song of the lake
Throaty and fervent
A call for a mate:

I’m strong and I’m virile
Froggy voices declare
I’ll take you by moonlight
My frog lady fair

Come croak to me, lover
I’ll capture your heart
On the still, calm waters
We’ll cavort in the dark.

Frog fortunes are made
In the conquests they make,
In the courtships brokered
On the shores of the lake.

Woman

Maker of the bed
Keeper of stolen secrets
Woman of few regrets.


In the wee small hours,
Clichèd as it might appear
Her conscience is clear.


Affairs in order
Assignations underway
She sleeps, unconcerned.

Secrets

Whispered words of love
Skipping through the universe
Reverberating.


Fingers fumbling,
Tangled in accoutrement
Hooks on lingerie.


Overwhelming heat
Lingering touch, here, just here
Words insuffcient.

Afternoon Wine

Not yet five o’clock on a holiday afternoon, but who’s counting?

Open a bottle of rich red wine, and let it breathe, as I breathe.

Deep, slow exhalations, anticipations, celebrations.

Firecrackers crackle across the lake, driving the cats under the bed.

Pour a deep glass, notes of lavender and wood smoke grace the tongue.

Lazy limbs, liquid limbed, one sip leads to a second, then third.

The sound of our beating hearts superimposed over the pop! pop! pop!

Independence day? Interdependence day.
Hold me until the sounds cease.

Summer Night

Long hot nights cruising Main, driving super slow with the windows rolled down, 

The radio cranked to a soft rock station. Witchy woman sing along; see how high 

She flies. Loose limbed, loosed tongue, necking in the backseat to Eagles’ live

Rendition. Good girl says whoa. Bad girl says go. She’s got the moon in her eyes.

Traffic slides by, wraiths on a river; heavy breathing, heavy petting. Hearts beat in

Sultry unison. Hands discover new delights. Tick tock. Curfew saves the night.

 http://youtu.be/9pzvqunZlLc

Sad, but oh so True

 
I was born in Lubbock, Texas, and lived there off and on until I was four or five, then we moved to the small town of Floydada, just 55 miles northeast of Lubbock.
So, it is with a great bit of authority that I can attest to the truth of the quote featured above. And yet, I survived, with my sanity somewhat intact.

Peace, people.

Melody

billowing within
notes of longing flow in sync
with love’s earnest needs.

  
elevate the words
they hold tightly as anchors
for melody’s lure

  
take me here softly
lay me down to the music
slowly, in good time.

  

Courting Studly

The title is deceptive. I have no intention of detailing my dating years with Studly Doright. Suffice it to say we made out a lot in parked cars, and at one point he asked, “So, you want to get married or what?”

To which I answered affirmatively, and the rest is history. Ancient and yet present history. No, this post is about Studly answering a summons to report for jury duty here in Gadsden County, Florida.  

I get all excited when I’m selected for jury duty. I’ve gotten the summons many times, but was chosen to serve just once. I think maybe my bright pink Pick Me! Pick Me! banner is a bit off-putting to attorneys. I can’t imagine why.

Studly does not share my enthusiasm for performing his civic duty. In fact, his response to the summons included a string of colorful curse words, and he seldom swears. 

After he calmed down I assured him it was unlikely he’d have to serve. “They call up tons of folks! What are the odds?” I offered to let him take my lucky pink sign. 

Apparently he should’ve taken my sign or purchased lottery tickets this week because he came home from the jury selection on Monday with the grimmest expression I’ve seen outside of a Criminal Minds episode. Another string of imaginative swear words accompanied his telling of the story. I fed him dinner and patted his hand. 

Curious, I asked him if they’d been given any idea as to what crime had been committed. He nodded, thoughtfully chewing an extra savory bite of roast that I’d lovingly prepared, but said he wasn’t able to tell me. 

Now it was my turn to say something colorful. “Son of a biscuit eater!”

So I changed my tack. I cajoled and flirted. Flashed a sexy thigh. Seductively bent over the laundry basket and wiggled my backside. But he wouldn’t spill the beans. 

This morning I sent him on his way with an admonition to be a good little juror, and a husky whisper promising all sorts of naughtiness if he’d just give me the scoop. But, still he refused. 

There’s a reason I call him Studly Doright. Dammit!

Peace, people!